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36827	----	Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/vulturemaidendie00hilluoft. COLLECTION OF GERMAN AUTHORS. VOL. 29. * * * * * THE VULTURE MAIDEN BY W. von HILLERN. IN ONE VOLUME. TAUCHNITZ EDITION. By the same Author, THE HOUR WILL COME . . . . . 2 vols. THE VULTURE MAIDEN [DIE GEIER-WALLY.] BY WILHELMINE von HILLERN. FROM THE GERMAN BY C. BELL AND E. F. POYNTER. _Authorized Edition_, LEIPZIG 1876 BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ. LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON. CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET. PARIS: C. REINWALD, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PÈRES; THE GALIGNANI LIBRARY, 224, RUE DE RIVOLI. _The Author reserves the Right of dramatizing this Tale_. TO BERTHOLD AUERBACH, Esq. Permit me to offer you the fruit that I have gathered in a field peculiarly your own. Under your powerful hand the difficult ground of German peasant-life has yielded up its wealth of poetry; and if others, with myself, now reap in the field tilled by you, it is our first duty to think of you with gratitude, and to render to you the honour that is rightly yours. _Freiburg in Brisgau_, April 1875. The Author. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I. Joseph, the Bear-hunter -- II. Unbending -- III. Outcast -- IV. Munzoll's Child -- V. Old Luckard -- VI. A Day at Home -- VII. "Hard Wood" -- VIII. The Klotz Family of Rofen -- IX. In the Wilderness -- X. The Mistress of the Sonnenplatte -- XI. At Last -- XII. In the Night -- XIII. Back to her Father -- XIV. The Message of Grace THE VULTURE-MAIDEN. A TALE OF THE TYROLESE ALPS. Far down in the depths of the Oetz valley, a traveller was passing. On the eagle heights of the giddy precipice above him, stood a maiden's form, no bigger than an Alpine rose when seen from below, yet sharply defined against the clear blue sky, the gleaming ice-peaks of the Ferner. There she stood firm and tranquil, though the mountain gusts tore and snatched at her, and looked without dizziness down into the depths where the Ache rushed roaring through the ravine, and a sunbeam slanting across its fine spray-mist painted glimmering rainbows on the rocky wall. To her, also, the traveller and his guide appeared minutely small as they crossed the narrow bridge, which thrown high over the Ache, looked from above like a mere straw. She could not hear what the two were saying, for out of those depths no sound could reach her but the thundering roar of the waters. She could not see that the guide, a trimly-attired chamois-hunter, raised his arm threateningly, and pointing her out to the stranger said: "That is certainly the Vulture-maiden standing up yonder; no other maid would trust herself on that narrow point, so near the edge of the precipice. See, one would think that the wind must blow her over, but she always does just the contrary to what other reasonable Christian folk do." Now they entered a pine-forest, dark, damp, and cold. Once more the guide paused, and sent a falcon-glance upwards to where the girl stood, and the little village spread itself out smilingly on the narrow mountain plateau in the full glow of the morning sun, which as yet could hardly steal a sidelong ray into the close, grave-like twilight of the gorge. "Thou needn't look so defiant, there's a way up as well as down," he muttered, and disappeared with the stranger. As though in scorn of the threat, the girl sent up a halloo, so shrilly repeated from every side, that a flying echo reached even the silent depth of the fir-wood with a ghostly ring, like the challenging cry of the chamois-hunter's enemy, the fairy of the Oetz valley. "Ay, thou may'st scream; I'll soon give it back to thee," he threatened again; and throwing himself stiffly back, and supporting his neck with both hands, he pealed forth, clear and shrill as a post-horn, a cry of mocking and defiance up the mountain-side. "She hears that, maybe?" "Why do you call the girl up there the Vulture-maiden?" asked the stranger down in the moist, dim, rustling forest. "Because, Sir, when she was only a child she look a vulture's nest, and fought the old bird," said the Tyrolese. "She is the strongest and handsomest girl in all the Tyrol, and terribly rich, and the lads let her drive them off, so that it's a shame to see. There's not one of them sharp enough to master her. She is as shy as a wild cat, and so strong that the boys declare no one can conquer her: if one of them comes too near, she knocks him down. Well, if ever I went up there after her, I'd conquer her, or I'd tear the chamois-tuft and feather from my hat with my own hands." "Why have you not already tried your luck with her, if she is so rich and so handsome?" asked the traveller. "Well, you see, I don't care for girls like that--girls that are half boys. It's true, she can't help herself. The old man--Stromminger is his name--is a regular wicked old fellow. In his time he was the best wrestler and fighter in the mountains, and it sticks to him still. He has often beaten the girl cruelly and brought her up like a boy. She has no mother, and never had one, for she was such a big strong child that her mother could scarcely bring her into the world, and died of it. That's how it is the girl has grown up so wild and masterful."--This was what the Tyrolese down in the ravine related to the stranger, and he had not deceived himself. The maiden who stood out yonder above the precipice was Wallburga Stromminger, daughter of the powerful "chief-peasant," also called the Vulture-maiden; and he had spoken truly, she deserved this name. Her courage and strength were boundless as though eagle's wings had borne her, her spirit rugged and inaccessible as the jagged peaks where the eagles build their nests, and where the clouds of heaven are rent asunder. Wherever anything dangerous was to be done, there from her childhood upwards, was Wally to be found, putting the lads to shame. As a child even she was wild and impetuous as her father's young bull, which she had known how to subdue. When she was scarcely fourteen years old, a peasant had descried on a rugged precipice a golden vulture's nest with one young one, but no one in the village dared venture to seize it. Then the head-peasant, scoffing at the valiant youth of the place, declared he would make his Wallburga do it. And sure enough Wally was ready for the deed, to the horror of the women and the vexation of the lads. "It is a tempting of Providence," said the men. But Stromminger must have his jest; all the world must learn by experience that the race of Stromminger down to the children's children might seek its match in vain. "You shall see that a Stromminger girl is worth ten of you lads," he said laughing to the peasants, who streamed together to witness the incredible feat. Many grieved for the beautiful and stately young life that might perhaps fall a sacrifice to the father's boasting; still, everyone wished to see. As the precipice to which the nest clung was almost perpendicular, and no human foot could tread it, a rope was fastened round Wally's waist. Four men, foremost amongst whom was her father, held it, but it was horrible to the lookers-on to see the courageous child, armed only with a knife, walk boldly to the edge of the plateau, and with a vigorous spring let herself down into the abyss. If the knot of the rope should give way, if the vulture should tear her in pieces, if in her descent she should dash out her brains against some unnoticed crag? It was a God-forsaken act of Stromminger's so to risk the life of his own child. Meanwhile Wally sailed fearlessly through the air, till midway down the precipice she exultingly greeted the young vulture, who ruffled his downy feathers, and piping, gnawed with his shapeless beak at his strange visitor. Hardly pausing to consider, she seized the bird which now raised a lamentable cry with her left hand and tucked it under her arm. There was a rushing sound in the air, and in the same instant a dark shadow came over her, a roaring filled her ears, and a storm of blows fell like hail upon her head. Her one thought was "The eyes--save the eyes," and pressing her face closely against the rock, she hit blindly with the knife in her right hand at the raging bird that threw itself upon her with its sharp beak, its claws and wings. Meanwhile the men above hastily drew in the rope. Still for a time during the ascent, the battle in the air continued; then suddenly the vulture gave way, and plunged into the abyss--Wally's knife must have wounded it. Wally however came up bleeding, her face torn by the rocks, and holding in her arms the young bird, that at no price would she have relinquished. "But, Wally," cried the assembled people, "why didn't thou let the young one go, then the vulture would have loosed its hold." "Oh," she said simply, "the poor thing can't fly yet, and if I had let him go, he'd have fallen down the precipice and been killed." This was the first and only time in her whole life that her father gave her a kiss; not because he was touched by Wally's noble compassion for the helpless creature, but because she had performed an heroic action that would reflect honour on the illustrious race of Stromminger. Such was the maiden who stood out now on the projecting rock, where the foot could hardly find room to rest, and dreamily looked down into the ravine over which she hung; for often, with all her impetuosity, a strange stillness would come over her, and she would gaze sadly before her, as though she saw something for which she longed, and which she yet might not attain. It was an image that always remained the same, whether she saw it in the grey morning twilight, or in the golden glow of noon, in the evening red, or in the pale moonlight, and for a year it had followed her wherever she went or stood, below in the valley, or above on the mountain. And when, as now, she was out and alone, and her large chamois-eyes, at once wild and shy, wandered across to the white-gleaming glaciers, or down into the shadow-filled gorge where the Ache thundered on its way, still she sought him whom the image resembled; and when now and then a traveller, minutely small in the distance, glided past below, she thought, "That may be he," and a strange joy came to her in the fancy that she had seen him, even though she could distinguish nothing but a human form, no bigger than a moving image in a peep-show. And now as those two wayfarers passed along, of whom the one enquired about her, and the other threatened her, she thought again, "It may be he." Her bosom seemed too tight for her beating heart, her lips parted, and like a lark set free, her joy soared up in a pealing song. And as the hunter in the wood below heard its dying echo, so an echo of his reply reached her, and she listened with an intoxicated ear--it might be his voice! and a blushing reflection of her warm rush of feeling spread itself over the wild, defiant face. She could not hear that the song was a song of scorn and defiance. Had she known it, she would have clenched her sinewy fist, she would have tried the strength of her arm, and over her face dark shadows would have passed, till it grew pale as the glaciers after sunset. But now she sat down on the stone that supported her, and swinging her feet as they hung over the abyss, she rested her graceful head on her hands, and gave herself up to dreaming over again all the strange things that had happened that first time that she ever saw him. CHAPTER I. Joseph, the Bear-hunter. It was at Whitsuntide, just a year before, that her father had taken her to Sölden for the confirmation; thither the bishop came every other year, because there is a high-road that leads to Sölden. She felt a little ashamed, for she was already sixteen years old, and so tall. Her father would not let her be confirmed before; he thought that with it would come at once love-makings and suitors--and time enough for that! Now she was afraid that the others would laugh at her. But no one took any notice: the whole village when they arrived was in excitement, for it was said that Joseph Hagenbach of Sölden had slain the bear that had shown itself up in Vintschgau, and for which the young men in all the country round had watched in vain. Then Joseph had set out across the mountains, and by Friday last he had already got him. The messenger from Schnalser had brought the news early, and Joseph himself was soon to follow. The peasants of Sölden, who were waiting in front of the Church, were full of pride that it should be a Söldener that had performed the dangerous deed, and talked of nothing but Joseph, who was indisputably the finest and strongest lad in all the mountains, and a shot without a rival. The girls listened admiringly to the tales of Joseph's heroic deeds, how no mountain was too steep for him, no road too long, no gulf too wide, and no danger too great; and when a pale, sickly-looking woman came towards them across the village-green, they all rushed up to her and wished her joy of the son who had won such glory. "He's a good one, thy Joseph," said the men cordially; "he's one from whom all may take example." "If only thy husband had lived to see this day, how rejoiced he would have been," said the women. "No, no one would ever believe," cried one quaintly, "that such a fine fellow was thy son--not looking at thee." The woman smiled, well-pleased. "Yes, he's a fine-grown lad, and a good son, there can't be a better. And yet, if you'll believe it, I never have an hour's peace for him; there's not a day that I don't expect to see him brought home with his limbs all broken. It's a cross to bear!" The religious procession now appeared upon the place, and put an end to the talk. The people thronged into the little church with the white-robed, gaily-wreathed children, and the sacred office began. But the whole time Wally could think of nothing but Joseph, the bear-slayer, and of all the wonderful things he must have done, and of how splendid it was to be so strong and so courageous, and to be held in such great respect by every one, so that no one could get the better of him. If only he would come now, whilst she was in Sölden, so that she also might see him; she was really quite burning to see him. At length the confirmation was over, and the children received the final blessing. Suddenly, on the green outside in front of the church, there was a sound of wild shouting and hurrahs. "He has him, he has the bear!" Scarcely had the bishop spoken the last words of the blessing when every one rushed out, and joyfully surrounded a young chamois-hunter, who, accompanied by a troop of fine and handsome lads from the Schnalser valley and from Vintschgau, was striding across the green. But handsome as his comrades might be, there was not one of them that came near him. He towered above them all, and was so beautiful--as beautiful as a picture. It seemed almost as though he shone with light from afar; he looked like the St. George in the church. Across his shoulders, he carried the bear's fell, whose grim paws dangled over his broad chest. He walked as grandly as the emperor, and never took but one step when the others took two, and yet he was always ahead of them; and they made as much ado about him as though he had been the emperor indeed, dressed in a chamois-hunter's clothes. One carried his gun, another his jacket; all was wild excitement, shouting and huzzaing--he alone remained composed and tranquil. He went modestly up to the priest, who came towards him from the church, and took off his garlanded hat. The bishop, who was a stranger, made the sign of the cross over him and said, "The Lord was mighty in thee, my son! With his help thou hast performed what none other could accomplish. Men must thank thee--but thou, thank thou the Lord!" All the women wept with emotion, and even Wally had wet eyes. It was as though the spirit of devotion that had failed her in church, first came to her now, as she saw the stately hunter bow his proud head beneath the priest's benedictory hand. Then the bishop withdrew, and now Joseph's first enquiry was, "Where is my mother? Is she not here?" "Yes, yes," she cried, "here am I," and fell into her son's arms. Joseph clasped her tightly. "See, little mother," he said, "I should have been sorry for thy sake not to come back again. Thou dear little mother, thou'd never have known how to get on without me, and I too should have been loth to die without giving thee one more kiss." Ah, it was beautiful, the way he said it! Wally had quite a strange feeling--a feeling as though she could envy the mother who rested so contentedly in the loving embrace of the son, and clung so tenderly to the powerful man. All eyes rested with delight on the pair, but an unutterable sensation filled Wally's heart. "But tell us now, tell us how it all happened." "Yes, yes, I'll tell you," he said laughing, and flung the bearskin on to the ground, so that all might see it. They made a circle round him, and the village landlord had a cask of his best ale brought out and tapped on the green; for one must drink after church, and above all on such an extra occasion as this, and the little inn-parlour could never have held such an unusual concourse of people. The men and women naturally pressed close round the speaker, and the newly-confirmed children climbed on to benches, and up into trees, that they might see over their heads. Wally was foremost of all in a fir-tree, where she could look straight down upon Joseph; but the others wanted her place; there was some noise and struggling because she would not give way, and "Saint George" looked up at them. His sparkling eyes fell upon Wally's face, and remained smilingly fixed on it for a moment. All Wally's blood rushed to her head, and she could hear her heart beating in her very ears with her intense fright. In all her life before she had never been so frightened, and she had not an idea why! She heard only the half of what Joseph was relating, there was such a singing in her ears; all the while she was thinking, "Suppose he were to look up again?" And she could not have told whether she wished it or dreaded it most. And yet, when in the course of his story it did once happen again, she turned away quickly and ashamed, as though she had been found out in something wrong. Was it wrong to have looked at him so? It might be, and yet she could not leave off, though she trembled so incessantly that she was afraid he might notice it. But he noticed nothing; what did he care for the child up there in the tree? He had looked up once or twice as he might have looked at a squirrel--nothing further. She said so to herself, and a strange sorrow stole over her. Never before had she felt as she did to-day; she was only thankful that she had drunk no wine on the road; she might have thought that it had got into her head. In her confusion she began playing with her rosary. It was a beautiful new one of red coral, with a chased cross of pure silver, that her father had given her for her confirmation. All of a sudden as she turned and twisted it, the string broke and, like drops of blood, the red beads rolled down from the tree. "That is a bad sign," an inner voice whispered to her, "old Luchard doesn't like it--that anything should break when one is thinking of something!" Of something! Of what then had she been thinking? She turned it over in her mind, but she could not discover. Precisely she had been thinking of nothing in particular. Why then should she be so troubled by the string breaking just at that moment? She felt as though the sun had suddenly paled, and a cold wind were blowing over her; but not a leaf was stirring, and the icebound horizon glittered in the radiant sunlight. The shadow of a cloud had passed--within her--or without her? How could she tell? Joseph meanwhile had finished relating his adventure, and had shown round the purse containing the forty florins paid by the Tyrolese government as the reward for shooting a bear, and there was no end to the handshakings and congratulations. Only Wally's father held sullenly aloof. It angered him that any one should accomplish a great and heroic deed; no one in the world had any right to be strong but himself and his daughter. During thirty years he had been esteemed, without dispute, the strongest man in the whole range of mountains, and he could not bear now to find himself growing old, and obliged to make way for a younger generation. When, however, someone said to Joseph that it was no wonder he should be such a strong fellow--he had it from his father who had been the best shot and the best wrestler in the whole place--then the old man could contain himself no longer, but broke in with a thundering "Oho! no need to bury a man before he's dead!" Everyone fell back at the threatening voice. "It's Stromminger!" they said, half-frightened. "Ay, it is Stromminger, who's alive still, and who never knew till this moment that Hagenbach had been the best wrestler in the place. With his tongue, if you like, but with nothing else!" Joseph turned round like a wounded wild cat, glaring at Stromminger with flaming eyes. "Who says that my father was a boaster?" "I say it, the head-peasant of the Sonnenplatte, and I know what I'm saying, for I've laid him flat a dozen times, like a sack." "It is false," cried Joseph, "and no man shall blacken my father's name." "Joseph, be quiet," the people whispered about him, "it's the head-peasant--thou mustn't make a quarrel with him." "Head-peasant here, head-peasant there! If God in Heaven were to come down to blacken my father's name, I wouldn't put up with it. I know very well, my father and Stromminger had many a wrestling-bout together, because he was the only one who could stand up with Stromminger. And he threw Stromminger just as often as Stromminger threw him." "It's not true!" shouted Stromminger, "thy father was a weak fool compared to me. If any of you old fellows have a spark of honour, you'll say so too--and thou, if thou doesn't believe it after that, I'll knock it into thee!" At the word "fool" Joseph had sprung like a madman, close up to Stromminger. "Take thy words back, or--" "Heavens above us!" shrieked the women. "Let be, Joseph," said his mother soothingly, "he's an old man, thou mustn't lay hands on him." "Oho!" cried Stromminger, purple with rage, "you'd make me out an old dotard, would you? Stromminger is none so old and weak yet but he can fight it out with a half-fledged stripling. Only come on, I'll soon show thee I've some marrow left in my bones. I'm not afraid of thee yet awhile, not if thou'd shot ten bears." And like an enraged bull the strong old man threw himself on the young hunter, who in spite of himself gave way under the sudden and heavy spring. But he only staggered for a moment; his slender form was so firmly knit, was so supple in yielding, so elastic in rising again--like the lofty pines of his native soil, that grow with roots of iron in the naked rock, buffeted by all the winds of heaven and bearing up against their mountain-load of snow. As easily might Stromminger have uprooted one of these trees, as have flung Joseph to the ground. And in fact, after a short struggle, Joseph's arms closely clasped Stromminger, tightening round and almost choking him, till a deep groan came with his shortening breath, and he could not stir a hand. And now the young giant began to shake the old man, bending first on one side, then on the other, striving steadily, slowly but surely to force first one foot and then the other from under him, and so loosen his foothold by degrees. The bystanders hardly dared to breathe as they watched the strange scene--almost as though they dared not look on at the felling of so old a tree. Now--now Stromminger has lost his footing--now he must fall--but no; Joseph held him up, bore him in his strong arms to the nearest bench and set him down on it. Then he quietly took out his handkerchief and dried the beads of sweat from Stromminger's brow. "See, Stromminger," he said, "I've got the better of thee, and I might have thrown thee; but God forbid that I should bring an old man to shame. And now we will be good friends again; we bear no malice, Stromminger?" He held out his hand, smiling goodhumouredly, but Stromminger struck it back with an angry scowl. "The devil pay thee out--thou scoundrel," he cried. "And you, all you Söldeners who have amused yourselves with seeing Stromminger made a laughing-stock for the children--you shall learn by experience who Stromminger is. I'll have nothing more to do with you, and grant no more time for payments--not if half Sölden were to starve for it." He went up to the tree, where Wally still sat as in a nightmare, and pulled her by the gown. "Come down," he said, "thou'll get no dinner there. Not a Söldener shall ever see another kreuzer of mine." But Wally, who had rather fallen than got down from the tree, stood as if spell-bound with her eyes fixed almost beseechingly on Joseph. She thought he must see how it pained her to go away; she felt as though he must take her hand in his, and say, "Only stay with me: thou belong'st to me, and I to thee, and to no other!" But he stood still in the midst of a knot of men who were whispering together in dismay, for many in the village owed money to Stromminger, whose wealth circulated in the very veins of the whole neighbourhood. "Well--wilt thou go on?" said Stromminger, giving the girl a push, and she had to obey him whether for weal or woe; but her lips trembled, her breast heaved painfully; she flung a glance of powerless anger at her father; he drove her before him like a calf. So they went on for a few steps; then they heard some one following them, and turning round, there stood Joseph with a couple of peasants behind him. "Stromminger," he said, "don't be so headstrong. You can never go, you and the girl, all that long way to the Sonnenplatte, without eating anything." He stood close to Wally; she felt his breath as he spoke, his eyes rested on her, his hand lay compassionately on her shoulder; she knew not how it happened--he was so good, so dear--and she felt as she did when, taking the vulture's nest, the rushing sound of its wings suddenly filled her ears, and sight and hearing went from her. Even so, something overwhelming to her young heart, lay in his presence, in his touch. She had not trembled when the mighty bird hovered above her, darkening the sun with his broad pinions, she had known how to defend herself calmly and bravely; but now she trembled from head to foot, and stood bewildered and confused. "Get off!" cried Stromminger, and clenched his fist at Joseph, "I'll hit thee in the face if thou doesn't let me be--I will, if it cost me my life." "Well--if you won't, you won't, and so let it be,--but you're a fool, Stromminger," said Joseph calmly, and he turned round and went back with the others. Now no one tried to detain them; they walked on unmolested, farther--at each step farther away from Joseph. Wally looked round, and still for a time she could see his head towering above the others, she could still hear the confused sound of voices and of laughter on the green before the church. She could not yet believe that she was really gone, that she should not see Joseph again--perhaps never again. Now they turned a corner of the rock and all was hidden, the village green with all the people and Joseph--and every thing, every thing was gone. Then suddenly there came upon her, as it were, a revelation of a great joy of which she had had one glimpse, and which was lost to her for ever now. She looked around as though imploring help in her soul's need, in this new, this unknown anguish. And there was none to answer her and to say, "Be patient, presently all will be well!" Dead and motionless were the rocks and cliffs all around, dead and motionless the Ferner looked down upon her. What did they care, they who had seen worlds come and worlds pass away, for this poor little trembling woman's heart? Her father walked on at her side, silent as though he were a moving rock. And he it was that was guilty of all. He was a wicked, hard, cruel man; there was not a creature in the world that took any interest in her. And while she thought all this, struggling with herself, she walked on mechanically farther and farther in advance of her father, up hill and down hill, as though she wished to walk off her heart's pain. The scorching sun glared on the blank wall of rock, she strove for breath, her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, all her veins throbbed; suddenly her strength gave way, she threw herself on the ground and broke into loud sobs. "Oho! what's all this about?" exclaimed Stromminger in the greatest astonishment, for never since her earliest infancy had he seen his daughter weep. "Art out of thy wits?" Wally made no reply; she gave herself up to the wild outbreak of her soul's suffering. "Speak, will thee? open thy mouth or--" Then from her throbbing, raging heart, like a mountain torrent from the cleft rock, she poured forth the whole truth, overwhelming the old man with the rush and ferment of her passion. She told him everything, for truthful she had always been and unaccustomed to lying. She told him that Joseph had pleased her, that she felt such a love for him as no one in the world had ever felt before, that she had been rejoicing so in the thought of talking to him, and that if Joseph had only heard how strong she was and how she had already done all sorts of strong things, he would certainly have danced with her and he would certainly have fallen in love with her too; and now her father had deprived her of it all, because he must needs fall upon Joseph like a madman; and now she was a laughing-stock and a disgrace, so that Joseph to the last day of his life would never look at her again. But that was always the way with her father, he was always hard and mad with everyone, so that everywhere he was called the wicked Stromminger--and now she must atone for it all. Then suddenly Stromminger spoke. "I've had enough of this," he cried. There was a whistling through the air, and such a blow from her father's stick crashed down upon Wally that she thought her spine was broken; she turned pale and bowed her head. It was as hail falling on the scarce opened blossom of her soul. For a moment she was in such pain that she could not stir; bitter tears forced themselves through her closed eyes, like sap from a broken stem; otherwise she lay still as death. Stromminger waited by her muttering curses, as a drover stands by a heifer that, felled by a blow, can do no more. Around them all was still and lonely, no voice of bird, no rustling of trees broke the silence. On the narrow rocky path where father and daughter stood, no tree ever bore a leaf, no bird ever built its nest. A thousand years ago the elements must have warred here in fearful conflict, and far as the eye could reach nothing could be seen but the giant wrecks of the wild tumult. But now the fires were burnt out that had rent the ground, and the waters subsided that had swept away the strong ones of the earth in their raging flood. There they lay hurled one upon another, the motionless giants; the mighty powers that had moved them lay slumbering now, and peace as of the grave lay over all as over monuments of the dead, and pure and still as heavenward aspirations the white glaciers rose high above them. Only man, ever-restless man, carried on even here his never ending strife, and with his suffering destroyed the sublime peace of nature. At last Wally opened her eyes and gathered her strength to go on; no further lamentation passed her lips, she looked at her father strangely, as though she had never seen him before; her tears were dried up. "Thou may guess now what'll come of it, if thou thinks any more of yon scoundrel that made thy father a jest for children," said he, holding her by the arm, "for thou may know this, that I'd sooner fling thee down from the Sonnenplatte than let Joseph have thee." "It is well," said Wally, with an expression that startled even Stromminger; such unflinching defiance lay in the simple words, in the tone in which they were spoken, in the glance of irreconcilable enmity which she threw at her father. "Thou's a wicked--wicked thing," muttered he between his teeth. "I have not stolen anything," she answered in the same tone. "Only wait awhile--I'll pay thee out," he snarled. "Yes, yes," she answered, nodding her head, as if to say, "only try it!" Then they said no more to each other the whole way back. When they had reached home, and Wally had gone into her room to take off her holiday finery, old Luckard who had lived with her mother and her grandmother, and who had brought Wally up from her cradle, put her head in at the door. "Wally, hast been weeping?" she whispered. "Why?" asked the girl with unwonted sharpness. "There were tears on the cards--I laid out the pack of cards for thy confirmation; thou fell between two knaves and I was frightened at it; it was all as near as if it had happened to-day and close by." "Like enough," said the girl indifferently, and laid away her mother's beautiful gown in the big wooden chest. "Does anything ail thee, child?" asked the old woman. "Thou looks so ill and thou'st come home so early. Didn't thou dance?" "Dance!" The girl laughed, a hard shrill laugh, as though one should strike a lute with a hammer till the strings ring back all jarred and jangled out of tune. "What have I to do with dancing." "Something's happened to thee, child--tell me--perhaps I can help thee." "None can help me," said Wally, and shut down the lid of the chest as if she would bury in it all that was oppressing her. It was as though she were closing down the coffin-lid over all her youthful hopes. "Go now," she said imperiously, as she had never spoken before, "I shall rest awhile." "Jesus, Maria!" shrieked Luckard, "there lies thy rosary all broken. Where are the beads?" "Lost." "Oh! Lord! Lord! what ill luck! only the cross is left and the empty string. To break thy rosary on thy confirmation day! and tears on the cards besides! Our Father in Heaven! what will come of it?" Thus lamenting, half pushed out by Wally, the old woman left the room, and Wally bolted the door after her. She threw herself on the bed and lay motionless, staring at the picture of the Holy Mother and at the crucifix which hung on the wall opposite. Should she pour out her sorrows to these? No! The Mother of God could bear her no good-will, otherwise she would not have let just her confirmation day above all others be so spoilt for her. Besides, she could not know what love-sorrows were, for she had known suffering only through her Son, and that was something quite different from what Wally felt. And the Lord Jesus Christ!--He certainly did not trouble himself about love-stories; no one might dare to approach Him with such matters as these. All that He desired was that one should be always striving after the kingdom of Heaven. Ah! And all her young, wildly-beating heart was longing and yearning with every throb for the beloved, the best-beloved one down here on earth; the kingdom of Heaven was so far away and so strange, how could she strive after it in this moment when, for the first time, all powerful nature was imperiously claiming in her its right? With bitter defiance she gazed at the images of the Mother and Son, whose pity was for quite other griefs than hers, who demanded of her only what was impossible. She vouchsafed to them no further word, she was angry with them as a child is angry with its parents when they unjustly deny it some pleasure. Long she lay thus, her eyes fixed reproachfully on the holy images; but soon she saw before her only the dear and beautiful face of Joseph, and involuntarily she grasped her shoulder with her hand where his hand had lain, as though to keep firm hold of his momentary touch. And then she saw his mother again of whom she had been so jealous, and she lay once more in Joseph's arms, and he caressed her so fondly; and then Wally pushed the mother away and lay herself instead on Joseph's heart; and he held her clasped there, and she looked down into the depths of his black flaming eyes, and she tried to imagine what he would say, but she could think of nothing but, "Thou dear little one," as he had said, "Thou dear little mother." And what could be sweeter or dearer than that? Ah! what could the kingdom of Heaven, in which those Two up yonder wanted to have her, what could it be in comparison with the blessedness that she felt in only thinking of Joseph--and how much greater must the reality be! There was a tap at her window, and she started up as if from a dream. It was the young vulture which she had taken two years before from the nest, and which was as faithfully attached to her as a dog. She could leave him quite free, he never hurt anyone, and flew after her with his clipped wings as best he could. She opened the little window, he slipped in and looked trustingly at her with his yellow eyes. She scratched his neck gently and played with his strong wings, now spreading them out, now folding them together again. A cool air blew in through the open window. The sun had already sunk low behind the mountains, the narrow casement framed the peaceful picture of the mountain tops veiled in blue mist. In herself too all grew more peaceful; the evening air revived her spirit. She took the bird on her shoulder. "Come, Hans," she said, "we are doing nothing, as though there were no work in the world." The faithful bird had brought her wonderful comfort. She had taken it for her own from the steep cliff where no one else would venture; she had fought its mother for life or death, she had tamed it and it belonged wholly to her. "And he will also one day be mine," said an inward voice, as she clasped the bird to her bosom. CHAPTER II. Unbending. This was the short story of love and sorrow, whose pain even now awoke again in the young heart as she looked down into the valley, thinking to see Joseph who so often passed along it, and never found the way up to her. She wiped her forehead, for the sun was beginning to burn, and she had already mowed the whole meadow-land from the house up to the "Sonnenplatte;" so the point on which she stood was called, because rising high above all around, it ever caught the earliest rays of the morning sun. From it the village took its name. "Wally, Wally," some one now called from behind her, "come to thy father, he's something to say to thee," and old Luckard came towards her from the house. Her father had sent for her? What could he want? Never since their adventure in Sölden had he spoken with her excepting of what concerned the day's work. Wavering between fear and reluctance she rose and followed the old woman. "What does he want?" she asked. "Great news," said Luckard, "look there!" Wally looked, and saw her father standing before the house, and with him a young peasant of the place named Vincenz, with a big nosegay in his button hole. He was a dark, robust fellow whom Wally had known from her childhood as a reserved and stubborn man. He had never bestowed a kindly word on anyone but Wally, to whom from her school-days upwards he had shown a special goodwill. A few months previously both his parents had died within a short time of each other; now he was independent, and next to Stromminger the richest peasant in the country side. The blood stood still in Wally's veins, for she already knew what was coming. "Vincenz wants to marry thee," said her father; "I've said 'yes,' and next month we'll have the wedding." Having thus spoken he turned on his heel and went into the house as if there were nothing more to be said. Wally stood silent for a moment as though thunderstruck; she must collect herself, she must consider what was to be done. Vincenz meanwhile confidently stepped up to her with the intention of putting his arm round her waist. But she sprang back with a cry of terror, and now she knew well enough what it was she had to do. "Vincenz," she said, trembling with misery, "I beg of thee to go home. I can never be thy wife--never. Thou wouldn't have my father force me to it. I tell thee once for all I cannot love thee." A look brief as lightning flashed across Vincenz's face; he bit his lips, and his black eyes were fixed with passionate eagerness on Wally. "So thou doesn't love me? But I love thee, and I'll lay my life on it that I'll have thee too. I've got thy father's consent and I'll never give it back, and I've a notion thou'll come to change thy mind yet if thy father wills it." "Vincenz," said Wally, "if thou'd been wise thou'd not have spoken like that, for thou'd have known I'll never have thee now. What I will not do, none can force me to do--that thou may know once for all. And now go home, Vincenz; we've nothing more to say to each other," and she turned short away from him and went into the house. "Oh, thou!" Vincenz called out after her in angry pain, clenching his fist. Then he checked himself. "Well," he murmured between his teeth, "I can wait--and I _will_ wait." Wally went straight to her father. He was sitting all bent together over his accounts and turned round slowly as she entered. "What is it?" he said. The sun shone through the low window and threw its full beams on Wally, so that she stood as though wrapped in glory before her father. Even he was amazed at the beauty of his child as she stood before him at that moment. "Father," she began quietly, "I only wanted to tell you that I will not marry Vincenz." "Indeed!" cried Stromminger, starting up. "Is that it? Thou won't marry him?" "No, father, I don't like him." "Indeed! and did I ask thee if thou liked him?" "No, I tell it you plainly, unasked." "And I tell thee too unasked that in four weeks thou'll marry Vincenz whether thou likes him or not. I've given him my word, and Stromminger never takes his word back. Now get thee gone." "No, father," said the girl, "things can't be settled in that way. I'm no head of cattle to let myself be sold or promised as the master pleases. It seems to me I also have a word to say when it has to do with my marriage." "No, that thou hasn't, for a child belongs to her father as much as a calf or a heifer, and must do what its father orders." "Who says that, father?" "Who says so? It's said in the Bible," and an ominous flush rose on Stromminger's face. "It says in the Bible that we are to honour and love our parents, but not that we are to marry a man when it goes against us merely because our father orders it. See, father, if it could do you any good for me to marry Vincenz, if it could save you from death or from misery--I'd do it willingly, and even if I were to break my heart over it. But you're a rich man that need ask nothing of anyone; it must be all one to you whom I marry; and you give me to Vincenz out of pure spite, that I may not marry Joseph, whom I love, and who would certainly have loved me if he could have got to know me; and it's cruel of you, father, and it says nowhere in the Bible that a child should put up with that." "Thou--thou pert thing, I'll send thee to the priest; he'll teach thee what the Bible says." "It will be no good, father; and if you sent me to ten priests, and if they all ten told me that I must obey you in this, I yet wouldn't do it." "And I tell thee thou _shall_ do it so sure as my name is Stromminger. Thou shall do it, or I'll drive thee out of house and home and disinherit thee." "That you can do, father, I'm strong enough to earn my own bread. Yes, father, give everything to Vincenz--only not me." "Foolish nonsense," said Stromminger perplexed. "Shall people say of me that Stromminger cannot even master his own child? Thou shall marry Vincenz; if I have to thrash thee into church, thou shall." "And even if you thrashed me into church I'd still say no, at the altar. You may strike me dead, but you cannot thrash that 'Yes' out of me; and even if you could, sooner would I fling myself down from the cliff, than I'd go home with a man I've no love for." "Now listen," cried Stromminger; his broad forehead was cleft as it were, with a swelling blue vein that ran across it, his whole face was suffused, his eyes bloodshot. "Now listen, thou'd better not drive me mad. Thou's already had enough of my cudgel; now give in, or between us things will come to a bad end!" "Things came to a bad end between us a year ago, father. For when you beat me so that time on my confirmation day, then I felt all was at an end between us. And see, father, since then it's been all one to me whether you are bad to me or good, whether you treat me well or strike me dead--it's all one to me. I have no heart left for you. You're no dearer to me than the Similaun-, or Vernagt-, or Murzoll-glacier." A stifled cry of rage broke from Stromminger. Half-stupified he had listened to the girl's words, but now, incapable of speech, he sprang upon her, seized her by the waist, swung her from the ground high over his head, and shook her till his own breath failed; then flinging her to the ground he set his heavy heel studded with nails upon her breast. "Unsay what thou has said," he gasped, "or I'll crush thee like a worm." "Do it," said the girl, her eyes fixed steadily on her father. She breathed hard, for her father's foot weighed on her like lead, but she did not stir; not so much as an eyelash trembled. Stromminger's power was broken. He had threatened what he could not perform, for at the thought of crushing the fair and innocent breast of his child his anger faded, he grew suddenly calm. He was conquered. Almost staggering he drew back his foot. "Nay, I'll not end my days in a prison," he said gloomily, and sank exhausted into his chair. Wally got up, she was pale as death, her eyes were tearless, lustreless, like a stone. She waited passively for what might come next. Stromminger sat for a minute in bitter reflection, then he spoke in hoarse tones. "I cannot kill thee, but since Similaun and Murzoll are dear to thee as thy father, by Similaun and Murzoll thou may remain for the future, thou may belong to them. Thou shall never more stretch thy feet under my board. Thou shall go and mind the cattle up on the Hochjoch, till thou's found out it's better to be in Vincenz's warm home, than in the snow drift of the glacier. Tie up thy bundle, for I'll see no more of thee. Go up early tomorrow, I'll let the Schnalser people know, and send the cattle after thee next week by the boy. Take bread and cheese enough to last till the beasts come; Klettenmaier will guide thee up there. Now take thyself off. These are my last words and by _these_ I'll stand." "It is well, father," said Wally softly; she bowed her head, and quitted her father's room. CHAPTER III. Outcast. "Up on the Hochjoch!" It was a fearful sentence. For in the inhospitable regions of the Hochjoch there is none of the joyous life of the lower pastures, where the sweet aromatic air resounds with the tinkle of bells, with the calls of the herdsmen and mountain girls--here are eternal winter, and the stillness of death. Sadly and gently as a mother kisses the pale forehead of her dead child, so the sun kisses these cold glaciers. Scanty meadows, the last clinging vestiges of organic life penetrate, as though lost, the wintry desert, till the last shoot perishes, the last drop of rising sap is frozen; it is the slow extinction of nature. But the frugal peasant utilises even these niggard remains; he sends his flocks up to graze on what they may find there, and the straying sheep tempted to reach after a plant which has wandered hither from a milder region, not unfrequently falls into some crevice in the ice. Here it was that the child of the proud chief peasant, whose possessions extended for miles in every direction and reached up even to the clouds, must spend her bloom in everlasting winter. While on the lower earth May-breezes were blowing, the rising sap opening every bud, the birds building their nests, and all things stirring in joyous unison, she must take the herdsman's staff and quit the spring-meadows for the desert of the glaciers above; and only when autumn winds should be sighing and winter preparing to descend into the valley, might she also return thither, as though she had been sold to winter, life and limb. No one of the peasants of the neighbourhood would send his shepherds up there, but they let out the meadows to the Schnalser people who lay nearer to the ridge on the farther side, and they sent a few half-wild, weather-beaten fellows, who clothed themselves in skins and lived miles asunder in stone cabins like hermits; and now Stromminger, who hitherto had always leased his pastures, condemned his own child to lead the life of a Schnalser herdsman. But from Wally's lips came no complaint; she prepared herself in silence for her mountain journey. Early in the morning, long before sunrise, whilst her father, the men, and the maids were still sleeping, Wally set out from her father's house for the mountain. Only old Luckard, "who had known it all beforehand from the cards" and who had passed the night with Wally helping her make up her bundle, stuck a sprig of rue in her hat as a farewell-token, and went part of the way with her. The old woman wept as if escorting the dead to the grave. Klettenmaier came behind with the pack. He was a faithful old servant, the only one that had grown grey in Stromminger's service, because he was deaf and did not hear when his master stormed and swore. This was the guide her father had selected for Wally. Luckard went with her till the road began a steep ascent. Then she took leave of them and turned back, for she had to be home in time to prepare the first meal. Wally climbed the hill and looked down upon the road along which the old woman went crying in her apron, and even her heart almost failed her. Luckard had always been good to her; though she was old and feeble, at least she had loved Wally. Presently the old woman turned once more and pointed above her head. Wally's eyes followed the direction of her finger, and behold! something floated towards the mountain heights clumsily, uncertainly through the air, like a paper kite when the wind fails, now flying on a little way, then falling, and with difficulty rising again. The vulture with his clipped wings had painfully fluttered the whole way after her; but now his strength seemed to give way and he could only scramble along, flapping his pinions. "Hansl!--oh, my Hansl!--how could I forget thee!" cried Wally, springing like a chamois from rock to rock the shortest way back to fetch the faithful bird. Luckard stood still till Wally once more reached the narrow path, then greeted her again as if after a long separation. At last Hansl too was reached, and Wally took him in her arms and pressed him to her heart like a child. Since last evening the bird was so identified in all her thoughts with Joseph, that it seemed almost as if it were a dumb medium between him and her; or as though Joseph had changed into the vulture, and in holding Hansl she clasped him in her arms. As an ardent faith creates its own visible symbols to bring near to itself the unattainable and the remote and to seize the intangible, and as to faith a wooden cross and a painted image become miraculous--so ardent love creates its own symbols, to which it clings when the beloved one is far off, unattainable. Even so Wally derived now a wonderful consolation from her bird. "Come, Hansl," she said tenderly, "thou shall go with me up to the Ferner; we two will never be parted more." "But, child," said old Luckard, "thou never can take the vulture up there, he'd die of hunger. Thou's no meat for him up there, and creatures like him eat nothing else." "That is true," said Wally sadly, "but I can't part from the bird; I must have something with me up there in the wilderness. And I can't leave him alone at home either; who'd look after him and take care of him when I'm away?" "Oh! for that thou may be easy," cried Luckard, "I'll look after him well enough." "Ay, but he'll not follow thee," said Wally; "thou'rt not used to his ways." "Nay, let me have him," said Luckard. "All this long time I've taken care of thee, surely I can take care of the bird. Give him me here, I'll carry him home," and she pulled the vulture out of Wally's arms. But it would not do; the noble bird set himself on the defensive, and pecked so angrily at Luckard that she was frightened, and let go. It was of no use for her to think of taking him home with her. "Thou sees," cried Wally joyfully, "he'll not leave me; I must keep him, come what will. I was once called the Vulture-maiden and the Vulture-maiden I must still remain. O, my Hansl, as long as we two are together, we shall want for nothing. I'll tell thee what, Luckard, I'll let his wings grow now, he'll not fly away from me, and then he can find food for himself up yonder." "God bless thee, then, take him with thee. I'll send thee up some fresh and salt meat by the boy, thou can give him that till he can fly abroad." And so it was settled. Wally took the vulture under her arm like a hen, and parted from Luckard who began to cry afresh. But Wally, without further delay, went up the mountain again after the guide, who had meanwhile gone on ahead. In two hours they reached Vent, the last village before entering the realms of ice. Wally mounted the hill above Vent; here began the path to the Hochjoch. Once more she paused, and leaning on her Alpenstock looked down on the quiet, still half-dreaming village, and over the lake beyond, and the last houses of the Oetz valley, to the farms of Rofen which, lying almost at the foot of the ever-advancing, ever-receding Hochvernagtferners, seemed defiantly to say to it, "Crush us!"--even as Wally yesterday had defied her father. And like her father the Hochvernagt each time withdrew its mighty foot, as though it could not bear to destroy the home of its brave mountain children, "the Klötze of Rofen." While she thus stood, looking down on the utmost dwellings of man before mounting to the desert beyond the clouds, there rose from the church-tower of Vent the sound of the bell for matins. Out of the door of the little parsonage, where the buds of the mountain-pink tapped the window in the morning breeze, came the priest and went with folded hands to his pious duty in the church. Here and there the wooden houses opened their sleepy eyes, and one figure after another coming out, stretched itself and took its way slowly to the church. Carefully and losing no tone by the way, the wind-winged angels bore the pious sound up the slope, and it rang in Wally's ear like the voice of a child that prays. And as a child arouses its mother by its sweet lisping, so the peal from Vent seemed to have aroused the sun. He opened his mighty eye, and the rays of his first glance shot over the mountains, an immeasurable shaft of flame that crowned the eastern heights. The dim grey of the twilight sky suddenly lighted up to a transparent blue, each moment the beam grew broader in the heavens, and at length mounted in full splendour over the cloud-veiled peaks, and turned his flaming countenance lovingly to earth. The mountains threw off their misty shrouds, and bathed their naked forms in streams of light. Deep down in the ravines the clouds heaved and rolled, as though they had sunk down thither from the pure heaven above. In the air was a rushing as of wild hymns of joy, and the earth wept tears of blissful waking, like a bride on her wedding morning; and like the tears on the eyelashes of the bride, the dewdrops quivered joyfully on each blade and spray. Joy lay everywhere,--above on the mountain tops where the dazzling rays were mirrored in the farseeing eyes of the chamois,--below in the valley where the lark soared, warbling, from amongst the springing corn. Wally gazed intoxicated on the awakening world, with eyes that could hardly take in the whole shining picture in its pure morning beauty. The vulture on her shoulder lifted its wings as though longingly to greet the sun. Below in Vent, meanwhile, all was awakening to new life. From where Wally stood she could see everything distinctly in the clear morning light. The lads kissed the maidens by the well. White smoke curled upwards from the houses, vanishing without a trace in the serene spring air, as a sorrowful thought loses itself in a happy soul. On the green in front of the church the men assembled in white Sunday shirt-sleeves, their silver-mounted pipes in their mouths. It was Whit-Monday, when all make holiday and rejoice. Oh! holy Whitsuntide! just such a day must it have been when the Spirit of the Lord fell on the disciples and enlightened them with divine illumination, that they might go forth into all the world and preach the Gospel of Love, preach it to open hearts, touched by the happy spring--for, in the spring-tide of the year appeared also the spring-tide of man--the religion of love. For her only who stood up there on the mountain was there no Whitsuntide, no revelation of love. In her no persuasive voice had quickened the gospel into life. A meaningless letter it had remained to her, a buried seed which needed the vivifying ray to make it spring up in her heart. No dew of peace fell on her from the deep blue heavens; the bird of prey on her shoulder was to her the only messenger of love. At last Wally broke away from her dreamy contemplation. She gave one farewell glance to the merry, noisy villagers, then she turned to climb the silent snow fields of the Hochjoch--in banishment. CHAPTER IV. Murzoll's Child. For five hours did Wally continue to ascend; now over whole fields of fragrant Alpine plants, now sinking ankle-deep in snow-fields, or crossing broad moraines. Last night's sleeplessness lay heavily upon her limbs, and she almost despaired of ever reaching the end of her journey. Her hands and feet trembled, for to struggle for life during five hours against so steep an ascent is hard work. Large drops stood on Wally's brow, when suddenly as by a magic stroke she stood before a dense wall of cloud. She had turned an angle of the rock which hid the sun, and now thick mists enveloped her and an icy breath dried the sweat from her forehead. Her foot slipped at every step, for the ground was like glass; she stood upon ice, she had stepped upon the Murzoll glacier, the highest ridge of the serrated Hochjoch. Nothing grew here but starveling mountain-grass between clefts in the snow; around were the blue gleaming ice-crevasses, the virgin snow-flats, untrodden this year by foot of man or beast. Mid-winter! Wally shuddered at its icy touch. This was the forecourt to Murzoll's ice-palace, of which so many tales are told in the Oetz valley, where the "phantom maidens" dwell, of whom old Luckard had related many a story to the little Wally in the long winter evenings when the snowstorms howled round the house. The air that blew on her now from those desolate walls of ice, those caves and dungeons, came to her with a ghostly thrill like a shudder out of her childhood, as though in very truth there dwelt the dark spirit of the glacier, with whom Luckard had so often frightened her to bed when she had been naughty. Silently she walked on. At last her deaf guide halted by a low cabin built of stone, with a wide overhanging roof, a strong door of rough wood, and little slits instead of windows. Within were a couple of blackened stones for a hearth, and a bed of old rotten straw. This was the hut of the Schnalser herdsman, who had formerly found shelter here, and here Wally was now to dwell. She did not change countenance however at the sight of the comfortless hut; it was neither more nor less than a bad mountain cabin, there were many such, and she was used to hard living. It was not such things as these that could quench her resolute spirit; but she was exhausted to faintness; since yesterday she had gone through more than even her unusual strength could bear. Mechanically she helped the deaf man, whom Luckard had loaded with a number of good things for Wally, to arrange a better bed, and to make the desolate hut somewhat more habitable. Mechanically she eat with him some of the food Luckard had sent. The man saw that she was pale, and said compassionately, "There, now thou's eaten something, lie down a while and sleep. Thou needs it. I'll fetch thee up some wood meanwhile to last thee a few days, then I must go back, or I shall never be home by daylight, and thy father strictly ordered me to get back to-day." He shook up a good bed of straw that he had brought with him; she sank down on it with half closed eyes and held out her hand gratefully. "I'll not wake thee," he said. "In case thou'rt still asleep when I go, I'll say goodbye to thee now. Take care of thyself and don't be frightened. I'm sorry for thee all alone up here; but, why didn't thou obey thy father?" Wally heard the last words as in a dream. The deaf man left the cabin, shaking his head compassionately; the girl was already sound asleep. Her breast heaved painfully, for even in her sleep her past sorrow weighed on her like a mountain. And she dreamed of her father; he was dragging her into church by her hair, and she thought that if only she had a knife so that she might cut off her hair she would be free. Then suddenly Joseph stood by her, and with one stroke he cut through the long plait, so that it remained in her father's hand; and while Joseph was struggling with her father she ran out and climbed to the height of the Sonnenplatte to throw herself into the torrent. But a terror came over her, and she hesitated; then again she heard her father close behind her, and urged by despair she made the leap. She fell and fell, but could never reach the bottom, and suddenly she felt as if she were met from below by a gust of wind that supported and carried her upwards. So she floated, struggling always to keep the balance she continually feared to lose, up to the very summit of Murzoll. But she could gain no footing on the rock; a terrible whirlwind had seized her, and she strove in vain to cling to the bare precipice, like a ship that cannot reach the land. Black storm-clouds gathered together around her, through which Murzoll's snowy summit rose in ghostly whiteness. Fiery snakes shot through the black mass, the mountains quaked beneath a crashing thunder-clap, and flung whirling backwards and forwards between these mighty powers, a terror came over her that the tempest might cast her head downwards into the abyss. She bowed and turned, like a little ship on the swaying waves of the wind, striving only to keep her head uppermost. But suddenly her feet were raised and she felt that the weight of her head must carry her down, through the storm and thunder and the black darkness of the clouds; she would have cried for help, but could utter no sound--terror choked her voice. Then all at once she felt herself supported, she was on firm ground, she lay in a mountain cleft, as it seemed; but no, it was no cleft, they were giant arms of stone that embraced her, and behold, out of the brightening clouds a mighty face of stone bent over her: it was the hoary countenance of Murzoll. His hair was of snow-covered fir trees, his eyes were ice, his beard was of moss and his eyebrows of edelweiss; on his brow was set as a diadem the crescent moon which shed its mild radiance over the white face; and the icy eyes shone with a ghostly light in its bluish rays. He gazed at the maiden with these cold eyes, piercing but unfathomable, and beneath their glance the drops of agony on her brow and the tears on her cheeks froze and fell down with a faint ringing sound like crystal beads. He pressed his stony lips to hers, and under the long kiss his mouth grew warm and dewy and blossomed with Alpine roses, and when Wally looked up at him again glacier streams flowed from the icy eyes down upon his mossy beard. The black clouds had cleared away and the breath of spring stirred the night. Now Murzoll moved his lips, and his voice sounded like the dull roll of a distant avalanche. "Thy father has banished thee," he said, "I will receive thee as my child, for a heart of cold stone may more easily be moved than the hardened heart of man. Thou pleasest me, thou art one of mine; there is strength in thy nature as the rocks are strong. Wilt thou be my child?" "I will," said Wally, and clung to the stony heart of her new father. "Then stay with me and go no more among men; among them there is strife, with me there is peace." "But Joseph, whom I love," said Wally, "shall I never have him?" "Let him be," replied the mountain, "thou mayest not love him; he is a chamois hunter, and to such as he my daughters have sworn destruction. Come, I will take thee to them, that they may deaden thy heart, else thou canst not live in our eternal peace." And he carried her through wide halls and endless galleries of ice till they came to a vast hall that was transparent as though of crystal; the rays of the sun shone through and broke into millions of coloured sparks, and through the walls heaven and earth gleamed in varied and mingled splendour. There white maiden-forms, glistening like snow, with waving veils of mist, were playing with a herd of chamois, and it was charming to see them sporting with the swift-footed animals, catching them and chasing them here and there. These were Murzoll's daughters, the "phantom maidens" of the Oetz valley. They crowded inquisitively round Wally as Murzoll set her down on the slippery glass of the floor. They were as beautiful as angels, and had faces like milk and blood; but as Wally observed them more closely, a slight shudder ran through her, for she saw that they had all eyes of ice, like their father, and that the rosy hue of their cheeks and lips was not that of blood, but the sap of the Alpine rose, and they were as cold as frozen snow. "Will you receive this maiden?" asked Murzoll. "I like her, she is strong and firm as the rock, she shall be your sister." "She is fair," said the maidens; "she has eyes like the chamois. But she has warm blood, and she loves a hunter--we know!" "Lay your hands on her heart that she may be frozen with all her love, and live in bliss with you," said Murzoll. The damsels hastened to her--it was like the breath of a snow storm--and laid their cold white hands on her heart; already she felt it shrink and throb more slowly. But she kept off the maidens with both arms and cried, "No, no, leave me. I want none of your bliss, I want only Joseph." "If thou goest back amongst men we will dash Joseph to pieces, and throw thee and him into the abyss," threatened the phantom maidens; "for no one may live among men who has seen us." "Throw me into the abyss, but leave me my heart to love. All, anything I will bear, but I will not part from my love," and with the strength of despair Wally seized one of the damsels round the waist and wrestled with her; and behold! the tender form was shattered in her arms, and she held in her hand only dripping snow. The daylight was extinguished; suddenly all was veiled in grey twilight. She stood on the bare rock; a sharp wind drove needles of ice in her face, and instead of the "phantom maidens" white mists whirled round her in a wild dance. High above, Murzoll's pale countenance looked darkly down upon her through the clouds, and his voice of thunder said, "Dost thou rebel against Men and Gods?--Heaven and earth will be thy enemies. Woe is thee!" And all had vanished--Wally awoke. The chill evening wind whistled through the window-slits on the girl. She rubbed her eyes; her heart still trembled at the weird dream; she thought long before she knew where she was, or could separate the images of her dream from the reality; an inexplicable sense of horror remained in her mind and mingled itself with all she saw. She rose from her bed and involuntarily called loudly for the servant. She went out of the hut to seek him; it was a clear and beautiful evening; the mists were scattered, but the sun was low and the breeze blew keenly from the heights. Wally hastened hither and thither in search of the deaf man; she found only the pile of firewood that he had made for her. Then it occurred to her that he had said he would go away while she was asleep. It was so; he had not waited for her awakening. It was not right of him to abandon her while she slept. To wake thus and find no one; it was hard! All was so silent around her, so deserted and empty. It must be six o'clock and milking time. The confiding cattle would look at the stable door, where no mistress would come in with bread and salt for them--she was sitting up here with her hands in her lap, and around her far and wide stirred no living thing. Oh! the deathly stillness and inaction--she knew not how she felt--alone, so terribly alone! She climbed higher still, on to an overhanging point, that she might look down upon the wide world. A vast unknown picture was spread before her eyes in the purple of the setting sun. There lay before her to the very verge of the horizon the great range of the Tyrol, in the distance growing fainter and fainter, close at hand crushing and overpowering her with their great silent sublimity; between them, like children in their father's arms, slept the blooming valleys. A nameless longing seized her for the beloved fields of home, that even now lay reposing peacefully before her eyes in the evening shadows. The sun had set, and on the horizon lay violet clouds shot with streaks of ruddy gold; little by little, the pale full moon began to shine, contesting the victory with the last flickering gleams of day. Down in the valleys it was already night; here and there, scarcely visible in the distance, a light glimmered from afar--a star of earth. Now they were going to rest, her weary companions down yonder. With them all was well; a friendly roof was above their heads; they rested securely in the bosom of a sheltered home--perhaps, already half-asleep, they still listened behind the coloured curtain of the little window to the beloved one's song--only she was alone, thrust forth and banished, exposed defenceless to every terror, her only shelter the inhospitable hut, where the wind whistled through the empty window-slits. "Father, father, how could thou have the heart to do it?" she cried aloud, but near and far nothing answered but the rush of the night-wind. Higher and higher rose the moon, the streaks of light in the west lost their gold, and glimmered only a pale yellow in the darkness of the evening sky. The outlines of the mountains seemed to shift and grow larger in the twilight; threatening, overpowering, her nearest neighbour, the mighty Similaun, looked down upon her. All the giant peaks around seemed to stare at her frowningly, because she had dared to spy out their nightly aspect. It was as though only since Wally's arrival, they had all become so still and quiet--as a company that confers of private affairs is suddenly dumb when a stranger enters. There she stood, the helpless human form, so lonely in the midst of this silent, motionless world of ice, so inaccessibly high above all living things, so strange in the weird company of clouds and glaciers, in the terrible, mysterious silence. "Now art thou all alone in the world!" cried an inner voice, and an unspeakable anguish, the anguish of the forsaken ones, swept over her. It seemed to her all at once as though she were doomed to go on, for ever lost, through vast immeasurable space, and as though seeking help she clung to the steep wall of rock, pressing her wildly-beating heart against the cold stone. What passed within her in that hour, she herself did not know, but it seemed as though the stone against which she pressed her young, warm, trembling heart, had exercised some mysterious power over her, for that hour left her hard and rough as if she had been in very truth Murzoll's child. CHAPTER V. Old Luckard. When about a week later the herdsman came up the mountain with the flocks, Wally almost frightened him, she looked so wasted away; but when he said to her, "Thy father bids me ask thee if thou'st had enough of being up here, and if thou'll do thy duty?"--she set her teeth and answered, "Tell my father, I'd sooner let myself be eaten piecemeal by the vultures, than do anything to please them that drove me up here!" This was for the present the last message that passed between her and her father. When Wally had her little flock around her, which consisted only of sheep and goats, for larger animals could not find sufficient food on these heights, then her old spirit revived and the mountain lost its terrors for her. In the midst of her helpless charges she was no longer alone, she had again some one to work for, something to care about. For though the vulture had been a faithful companion, yet he could not do away with the inactivity that had driven her almost to despair, and allowed dark thoughts to gain the mastery over her. So little by little she became accustomed to the solitude, and it grew dear and sweet to her. Life with its daily claims, small and great, narrows and confines every great nature: up here Wally's untameable spirit could expand without constraint; up here was freedom--no human being to gainsay her, no alien will to oppose itself to hers--and standing there, the only soul-gifted being far and wide, by degrees she felt herself a queen on her solitary, lofty throne, a sovereign in the unmeasurable, silent realm that lay beneath her eyes. And she looked down at last from her heights with a mixture of pity and scorn on the miserable race below, who, wrapped in earth-born clouds, spent their lives in longing and grasping, in haggling and hoarding, and a secret aversion took the place of her first home-sickness. There, far below, were strife and anguish and crime. Murzoll had spoken truly in her dream--up here among the pure elements of ice and snow, in the clear atmosphere, free from all smoke, or pestilential taint of death--here was peace, here was innocence; here among the mighty tranquil mountain forms, which in the beginning had terrified her, the sentiment of the sublime had flooded her soul and had raised it far above the common measure of mankind. One only of all those low earthly inhabitants remained to her dear and beautiful and great as before. It was Joseph the bear-slayer, the Saint George of her dreams. But he, like herself, dwelt more on the heights than in the valleys, he had climbed all the sky-piercing peaks on which no other foot would venture, he brought down the chamois from the steepest rocks, and for him nor height nor depth had any terror; he was the strongest, the bravest of men, as she was the strongest, the bravest of maidens. In all the Tyrol no maiden was worthy of him but herself; in all the Tyrol no man was worthy of her but he. They belonged to one another, they were the giants of the mountains; with the puny race of the valleys they had nothing in common. So, in her solitude, she lived for him only, and awaited the day when this promise should be fulfilled to her. That day must come, and being certain of this, she did not lose patience. Thus the summer passed away, and winter fell upon the valleys, and soon Wally must descend with its wild forerunners, the storm and the snow, to her estranged home. She quailed at the thought. Rather would she have crept up here into some deepest ice-cave with suspended existence like the wild bear than go down again to the noise and smoke of the low spinning-room, and be wedged, together with her morose father, her detested suitor, and the malicious servants, within the narrow compass of the house, imprisoned behind walls of snow a foot high, out of which, often for weeks at a time, no escape was possible. The nearer the time came, the heavier her heart grew, the more despondingly did she revolt against the thought of that imprisonment; but time passed on, and no one came to fetch her; it seemed as though down there she was entirely forgotten. Colder ever and more wintry grew the weather, the days ever shorter, the nights ever longer; two sheep perished in a snow-storm; soon the animals could find no more food, and the time for fetching home the flocks was gone and past. "They mean to leave us to die up here of hunger," said Wally to the vulture, as she divided her last piece of cheese with him, and a secret horror swept over her; the young healthy life rebelled within her against the terrible thought. What should she do? Forsake the flock and find the homeward track, leaving the innocent beasts to perish miserably? Nay!--that Wally would not do--she would stand or fall like a brave commander with his troops. Or should she set out together with the flocks, all ignorant of the road as she was, and wander over the snow-covered Ferner to see at last one animal after another sink amid the ice and snow, or fall into the clefts of the rock? This also was impossible; she could do nothing but wait. At last, one misty autumn morning when she could not see her hand before her face for the fog, when the little flock, trembling with frost, were all huddled together in their fold, and Wally, stiff with cold, sat over the fire on the hearth--then the boy appeared to conduct her home. And though she had shrunk with horror from the thought of slowly starving up here with her flock, yet now all her former dread of the return home came upon her again, and she knew not which seemed the greater evil--to sink here by the side of her harsh father Murzoll, or to be obliged to go back to her real father. The herd-boy broke the silence: "Thy father bids me tell thee thou's not to come into his sight unless thou'll do as he bids thee; but, if thou'll not hear reason, then thou may stay with the cow-herd in the stable--into the house thou shall not come; that he's sworn." "So much the better," said Wally, drawing a deep breath, and the boy stared at her in astonishment. Now she could go down with a light heart; now she would be spared all contact with those hated people, and could live for herself in barn and stable; what her father had devised as a punishment, was to her an act of kindness. Now she could indulge her thoughts undisturbed; and if she was in need of encouragement there was old Luckard who was always so good to her. Yes, in her solitude she had first learned to understand what was the true worth of such a faithful heart, and that her father could not take from her. She set to work almost cheerfully to prepare for her homeward journey; for now that her dread of the hateful intercourse with her father was removed, she could think with silent joy on the gladness of the old woman at the return of her foster-child. There was still some one down yonder who took pleasure in her, and that thought did her good. "Come, Hansl," she said when all was packed to the vulture, who, with ruffled feathers, sat unwilling to move on the hearth, "now we are off to see old Luckard!" "But Luckard's not at the farm any more," said the boy. "Why, where is she, then?" asked Wally startled. "The master has turned her out." "Turned her out! old Luckard!" cried Wally. "Why, what's been the matter?" "She couldn't get on with Vincenz, and he's everything with the master now," the boy explained in a tone of indifference, and, whistling, he hoisted the bundle of Wally's things. Wally had turned quite pale. "And where is she now?" she asked. "With old Annemiedel in Winterstall." "How long ago did it happen?" "Oh, about three weeks ago. She cried ever so, and could hardly walk, the fright went to her knees; Klettenmaier and the boy had to hold her or she'd have tumbled down. All the village stood round and looked on to see her go away." Wally had listened motionless, her sunburnt face had turned quite pale, and her breast heaved painfully. When the boy had ended, she seized her staff from the wall, flung the vulture on to her shoulder, and stepped out of the hut. "Go on first," she commanded in a hoarse voice. The little flock was quickly assembled, the milking gear packed together, and the procession set itself in motion. Wally spoke not a word; a fearful tension marked her features, and with lips pressed together, a threatening line that recalled her father's look between her thick brows, she led the flock onwards with long strides, her firm step leaving deep tracks in the snow. Faster and ever faster she walked, the farther down she got, till the boy with the flock could scarcely keep up with her, and where the way was steep she struck the iron point of her staff into the soil and swung herself down with a mighty spring, so that only the vulture in the air could follow her path over cliffs and crevasses. Often both herdsman and flock vanished in the mist behind her; then she stood still and waited a moment till they were in sight, and when the boy had indicated the direction of the road, on she went again without rest or pause, as if it were a matter of life and death. At last the region of perpetual snow was passed, and at Wally's feet lay Vent, as it had lain six months before when she had gone up the mountain; only not now in the glow of the May sunshine, but forlorn, autumnal, cold and dead. The boy announced that they must rest there for a while. Wally refused, but the boy declared it would be as good as killing both man and beast, not to rest for half an hour. "As thou will," said Wally, "stay--. I am going on. If they ask where I am when thou gets home, say only that I am gone to old Luckard." And she strode on, the flapping wings of the faithful Hansl rustling over her; he could fly now as he liked, for Wally no longer clipped his wings. Now she had reached the spot where on her upward journey Luckard had bid her farewell and turned homewards again. "Dear old Luckard!" Wally fancied she could see her again quite plainly, crying in her apron as she turned away, waving her one more farewell with her brown, bony arms, her silver locks that always hung from below her cap fluttering in the wind. She had grown grey in honour and fidelity in Stromminger's house, and now shame had fallen on that white head! And Wally had parted from her so lightly, and repressed her tears, and had torn herself impatiently away when the old woman in her grief would not let her go; and no foreboding had warned her of the fate to which she was sending the unprotected old servant with that brief farewell, or that Luckard for her sake would suffer hardship and disgrace. Wally ran and ran as if she could overtake Luckard going down the road as she had gone six months before; and in spite of the autumn frost, the sweat stood on her brow, the sweat of a winged haste to pay her heavy debt of gratitude; and hot tears gathered in her eyes as she seemed always to see the old woman silently walking and walking on before her. She went so slowly, poor old Luckard, and Wally so fast; and yet they remained always as far apart, and Wally could not overtake her. For one instant must Wally pause for rest and breath. She wiped the drops from her brow and the tears from her eyes; then she felt as if driven inexorably onwards again. "Wait, Luckard, only wait, I'm coming to thee," she murmured breathlessly to herself, as if for her own comfort. At last the church tower of Heiligkreuz rose up before her, and from thence a giddy path led high over the torrent to a solitary group of houses on the farther side of the ravine. This was the little spot called Winterstall, where Luckard was living. Wally passed behind the houses of Heiligkreuz, and crossed the slight bridge beneath which the wild waters of the Ache roared and foamed as though they would sprinkle with their angry froth even the defiant girl who looked carelessly down into the awful depths as though neither danger nor dizziness existed in the world. The bridge was passed, still a steep bit of road remained, and then at last it was reached, the goal for which she had striven with a beating heart; she was in Winterstall, and there just to the left of the path stood the hut of Luckard's cousin, old Annemiedel, its tiny windows deep set beneath the overhanging thatch. Behind them, no doubt, the old woman sat spinning, as was her custom in the winter-season, and Wally drew a deep breath out of a lightened heart. She had reached the cottage, and before entering she looked smiling through the low window for Luckard. But there was no one in the room; it looked empty and deserted with an unmade bed in one corner left standing in a disorderly heap. Above it, a smoke-blackened wooden Christ stretched his arms on a cross, on which were hung a piece of crape and a dusty garland of rue. It was a dreary scene, and at the sight of it all joy forsook Wally; she set down the vulture on a rail, unlatched the door and stepped into the narrow passage. At one end an open door led into the little kitchen, where a small fire of brushwood smouldered on the hearth. Some one was there busily at work; it must certainly be old Luckard, and with a beating heart Wally walked in. The cousin stood on the hearth cutting up bread for her soup. No one else was there. "Oh, my God! Wally Stromminger!" cried the old woman, and let her knife fall into the platter in her astonishment. "Oh, my God, what a pity, what a pity!" "Where is Luckard?" said Wally. "She is dead! Oh, my God, if thou'd only come three days sooner--we buried her yesterday." Wally leant silent and with closed eyes against the door post; no sign betrayed what was passing in her soul. "It's a real pity!" continued the old woman loquaciously. "Luckard said she felt as if she couldn't die without seeing thee once more, and thou was always coming on the cards, and day and night she would listen to hear if thou wasn't coming. And when she felt herself near death, 'After all, I must die,' she said, 'and I've never seen the child,' and then she would have the cards once more, and she wanted to lay them out for thee in the very death-struggle, but she couldn't do it, her hand shook on the counterpane. 'I can see no more,' she said, and lay back, and it was all over." Wally clasped her hands over her face, but still no word passed her lips. "Come into the bedroom," said the old woman goodnaturedly. "I've hardly borne to go in there since they carried Luckard out. I'm always so alone, and I was so glad when my cousin came and said now she'd stay with me. But I soon saw she couldn't live long after her disgrace. It went to her stomach, she could hardly eat anything, and every night I could hear her crying, and so she got always weaker and thinner--till she died." The old woman had opened the door of the room into which Wally had looked before, and they went in. A swarm of autumn flies buzzed up. In the corner stood Luckard's old spinning wheel silent and still, and the empty disordered bed confronted it sadly. From a panelled cupboard on which the black Virgin of Altenötting was depicted, Annemiedel took a worn pack of German cards. "There, see; I laid the pack by for thee, I was sure thee would come. It always stood so on the cards. They're true witches' cards these, and a pack that has had the touch of a dead hand on it, that is doubly good. I don't know what misfortune they're sending thee, but Luckard always shook her head and read them with a fearful heart. She never told me what she saw in them, but for sure it was no good." She gave Wally the cards; Wally took them in silence and put them in her pocket. The cousin wondered that Luckard's death should not touch her more nearly, that she should be so quiet and not even shed a tear. "I must go," the old woman said, "I've got my soup on the fire. Say, thou'll dine with me?" "Yes, yes," said Wally gloomily, "only go, cousin, and let me rest awhile. I sprang almost straight down here from the Hochjoch." Annemiedel went away shaking her head. "If Luckard had only known what a hard-hearted thing it is!" Scarcely was Wally alone when she bolted the door behind the old woman and fell on her knees by the empty bed. She drew the cards from her pocket, laid them before her, and folded her hands over them as over some holy relic. "Oh! Oh!" she cried aloud, in a sudden outburst of grief: "Thou'st had to die, and I was not with thee; and in all my life long thou's always been loving and good to me--and I--I did not pay it back. Luckard, dear old Luckard, can thou not hear me? I am here now--and now it is too late. They left me up there. There's no herdsman they'd have left so long, and it was all malice, that I might just be frozen and then give in! It had already cost me two of my flock--and now thee too, thou poor good Luckard!" Suddenly she sprang to her feet; her eyes red with crying flashed with a feverish light, she clenched her brown fists. "Only wait down yonder, you scoundrels--only wait till I come. I will teach you to drive innocent and helpless folk out of house and home. As true as God is above us, Luckard, thou shall hear even in thy grave how I will stand up for thee!" Her eyes fell on the crucifix over the dead woman's bed. "And Thou! Thou let'st everything go as it will, and Thou helps no one that cannot help himself," she murmured bitterly in her storm of grief to the silent enduring image above, whose significance she never could understand. She was terrible in her righteous anger. All that lay in her of her father's inflexible nature had developed itself unfettered up yonder in the wilds, and her great and noble heart that knew none but the purest impulses drove without suspecting it ill-seething blood through her veins. She gathered together her sacred relics, the cards, on which the dying woman's clammy fingers had traced the last message of her love; then she went out into the kitchen to Annemiedel. "I will now go on, cousin," she said calmly, "I only beg thee to tell me how things fell out between Luckard and Stromminger--" she no longer called him father. The old woman had just served the soup in a wooden bowl and she insisted on Wally's sharing it with her. "Thou must know," she said, while Wally was eating, "Vincenz there, he knows just how to come over thy father, and he's got the better of him altogether. Ever since the summer, Stromminger's had a bad foot and cannot walk. So Vincenz goes up to him every evening and passes the time for him playing cards, and always lets him win--he thinks he'll gain once for all when he wins thee. The old man can hardly live now without Vincenz, and so little by little he's given him the oversight of everything, because with his lame foot he can never get about himself. So Vincenz thinks now the house and farm half belong to him already, and bustles in and out just as he pleases. That was how the quarrel began with Luckard, for Luckard, she would always see that everything was right and fair, as she was used to do, and Vincenz took everything out of her hands and she durst never say a word. Then when he saw that Luckard was downright pining, he said to her that he'd let her manage everything just as if she'd been mistress, and that he'd take care to wink at anything she might like to do, if she'd only help him to get thee--for he knew very well that she could do anything with thee. And then Luckard grew angry; 'She'd never stolen in her life,' she said, 'and wasn't going to begin now in her old age--she wanted nothing but what she could earn honestly, and that as for the man who'd look on at cheating and say nothing, she'd never recommend him to Wally,' she said. And what does the villain do? goes straight to Stromminger and accuses Luckard. He'd convinced himself now, he said, that it was only Luckard that had set thee against him and thy father, and it was all her doing, he said, that thou was so unruly, because she was fain to hold everything under her own hand. That's how it all came about. And it just broke her heart to think that such things were believed of her, when not a word of it all was true. It grieved her such injustice should be done. Is it not true, she never said to thee that thou shouldn't obey thy father?" "Never, never; on the contrary she was always humble and discreet, and never talked about what she had nothing to do with," said Wally, and again her burning eyes were wet. She turned away her face and rose to go. "God keep thee, cousin," she said, "I'll soon come back again." She took her staff and hat, called her bird, and set out hastily towards home. CHAPTER VI. A Day at Home. As Wally went back across the bridge, she turned giddy; she felt now for the first time how the blood had mounted to her head. The milder air down here that felt heavy and oppressive after the clear, icy atmosphere of the Ferner, the bird that clung tightly to her shoulder as her rapid movements made his hold insecure--all seemed painful, almost unbearable. At last she came to the village where her home stood, but to reach it she was obliged to go the whole length of the street, to the very last house. All the villagers, who had just finished their dinners, put their heads out of window and pointed at her with their fingers. "See, there goes the Vulture-maiden. Hast ventured down at last, then? And thou's brought the vulture back with thee, thou and he were not frozen together, then? Thy father left thee to shiver up there long enough!" "Let's see, now, how thou'rt looking? As brown and lean as a Schnalser herdsman." "He! he! thou's grown tame enough up yonder; yes, yes, that's the way to serve such as will not obey their father!" A shower of spiteful comments such as these fell around Wally; she kept her eyes bent on the ground, and the burning red of shame and bitterness mounted to her brow. Insulted--scoffed at--thus the proud daughter of the chief peasant returned to her home. And all--for what? An implacable hatred rose up in her, sorer, bitterer than anger; for anger may subside, but the deep hatred that grows in an embittered, ill-treated heart strikes its roots through the whole being; it is the silent, persistent outcome of helpless revenge. Silently Wally mounted the hill behind the hamlet whence Stromminger's farm looked proudly down. No one noticed her arrival but the deaf Klettenmaier, who was splitting wood for winter-use under the wooden shed in the yard; all the others were in the field. "God be praised," he said, and took off his cap to his master's child. She set down her burden, the heavy vulture, on the ground, and gave her hand to the old man. "Thou's heard?" he said. "Old Luckard?" Wally nodded. "Ay! ay!" he continued without interrupting his work. "If Vincenz once takes a dislike to any one he never rests till he's driven them out. He'd be glad enough to see me off the place, for he knows very well I always held by Luckard, and he thinks that if no one was left at the farm to help thee, thou dursn't be so wilful. And because there's nothing else he can do to me, he leaves me always the hardest work; I've a whole waggon load of wood to cut up every day, but I can't do it for long. See, I'm nearly seventy-six years old, and this is the third day. But that's just what he wants, to be able to tell Stromminger that I'm no longer good for anything, or else for me to go away of myself when I can hold out no more. But where could I go--an old man like me? I _must_ hold out." Wally had listened with a gloomy countenance to the old man's speech. Now she went quickly into the house to fetch bread and wine for him; but the store-room was locked and so was the cellar. Wally went into the kitchen. Her heart felt a pang--here had been Luckard's peculiar domain, and she felt as if the old woman _must_ come to meet her and ask: "How is it with thee?--what does thou want?--what can I do to serve thee?" But all that was over and gone. A strange and sturdy servant girl sat on the hearth, peeling potatoes. "Where are the keys?" asked Wally. "What keys?" "The keys of the store-room and the cellar!" The girl looked insolently at Wally. "Ho, ho! what next--and who may thou be?" "That thou might guess well enough," said Wally proudly, "I am the master's daughter." "Ha, ha," laughed the girl, "then thou may just take thyself out of the kitchen. The master has forbidden that thou should come into the house. Over there in the barn--that's thy place. Dost understand me?" Wally grew pale as death. Thus, then--thus was she to be received in her father's house. Wallburga, daughter of the Strommingers, must give way to the lowest servant girl on the estate to which she was heir! Not only was she to be forbidden her father's presence--it was intended to break her spirit through degrading humiliations. She, Wally, the Vulture-maiden, of whom her father had once proudly said that a girl like her was worth ten boys! "Give me the keys!" she commanded in a firm voice. "Ha! ha! that's better still. The master has ordered us to look on thee as a stable girl--there's no question of keys there. I look after the house, and I give out nothing but what the master allows." "The keys," cried Wally in an outburst of anger, "I command thee!" "Thou's no call to command me--dost understand? I'm Stromminger's servant, and none of thine. And I am master in the kitchen, dost understand? It's Stromminger's orders. And if Stromminger holds his own daughter lower than a servant--no doubt he knows the reason why!" Wally stepped close up to the servant, her eyes flashed, her lips quivered; the girl was frightened. But only for an instant did the struggle last in Wally, then her pride conquered; with the miserable serving maid she had nothing to do. She left the house. Her pulses beat like hammers, her eyes swam, her bosom rose and fell in gasps; it was too much--all that this day had brought her. She crossed the yard, took the cleaver from the hand of the old man who was trembling with his efforts, and led him to a bench that he might rest himself. He honestly resisted, he dared not leave his task incomplete; but Wally made him understand she would do his work for him. "God bless thee, thou hast a good heart," said the man, seating himself wearily on the bench. Wally went into the shed and split the heavy logs with mighty blows. So wrathfully did she swing the axe that at each stroke she hit it through the wood deep into the block. The old man watched with astonishment how the work went on better in her hands than in a man's, and he took a pride in it--he had seen the child grow up from her birth and loved her in his own way. But Wally saw afar the hated form of Vincenz approaching, and involuntarily she discontinued her work. Vincenz did not see her. He came up from behind Klettenmaier, and suddenly stood close in front of the startled old man, whilst Wally observed him from within the shed. He seized the man by the doublet and pulled him up. "Hallo," he screamed in his ear, "dost call that working? thou lazy dawdle, thou; as often as I come by thou's sitting there doing nothing--now I've had enough of it--be off with thee," and he gave him a push with his knee, so that the trembling old man was flung to a distance on the stone pavement of the yard. "Help, master! help me up," cried the man imploringly, but Vincenz had seized a cudgel and raised his arm. "Wait a bit--thou shall see how I help up a lazy knave!" he said. At this moment such a blow fell on Vincenz's head that he uttered a loud cry and staggered backwards. "God in heaven, what is that?" he stammered and sank upon the bench. "It is the Vulture-maiden," answered a voice trembling with rage, and Wally, the hatchet in her hand, stood before him with white lips and staring eyes, struggling for breath as if the wild pulses of her heart were choking her. "Did thou feel that?" she panted out with breathless pauses. "Dost know now how it feels to get a heavy blow? I'll teach thee to oppress my faithful old servant. Thou'st already sent my Luckard underground, and now thou'll do the same by this old man? Nay, before I'll suffer such a deed, I'll set my whole inheritance in flames and smoke thee out of it as I would a fox." Meanwhile she had helped up old Klettenmaier, and led him out to the barn. "Go in, Klettenmaier," she said, "and recover thyself, _I_ order thee." Klettenmaier obeyed; he felt that at this moment she was master, but at the door he freed himself from her support and said, shaking his head, "Thou shouldn't have done it, Wally--go and look after Vincenz; I fear thou'st given him a heavy blow." She left the old man and went out again. Vincenz lay quite still. Wally looked at him with half-averted eyes; he had lost consciousness and lay stretched out on the bench, and blood dripped from his head on to the ground. With quick decision, Wally went into the kitchen and called to the girl; "Come out here; bring some vinegar and a cloth and help me." "What, thou's more orders to give already," said the girl, laughing out loud, without stirring from the spot where she sat. "It's not for me," said Wally with a dark and evil glance, as she took the vinegar flask from the shelf. "Vincenz is lying out there--I've half killed him." "Heaven and earth!" shrieked the maid; and instead of hastening to help Vincenz, she ran screaming about the house and yard. "Help, help," she cried; "Wally has struck Vincenz dead!" And from every side the alarm cry was echoed back till it reached even to the village, and every one ran to the spot. Wally had meanwhile called Klettenmaier to her assistance, and was washing the face of the senseless man with vinegar and water. She could not understand how it was the wound was so deep, for she had struck with the back of the hatchet, and not with the sharp edge; but the blow had been dealt with a force of which she herself was unconscious. Her long restrained rage had concentrated itself in that one stroke, which came crashing down as if she were still splitting the logs of wood. "What's happened here?" roared a voice in Wally's ear, and her blood stood still--her father had dragged himself out on his crutches. "What's happened here?" repeated twenty or thirty voices, and the yard was filled with people. Wally was silent. A buzzing murmur arose all round her, every one pressed forward, touching and examining the lifeless man. "Is he dead?" "Will he die?" "How came it about?" "Did Wally do it?" was asked from one to another. She stood there as though she neither heard nor saw, and laid a bandage on the wounded Vincenz. "Can thou not speak?" thundered her father. "What hast thou done, Wally?" "You can see!" was the short reply. "She owns to it," they all shrieked together. "Gracious Heaven, what insolence!" "Thou gallows-bird, thou!" cried Stromminger. "Is it so thou comes down again to thy home?" At the word "home," Wally gave a short bitter laugh and fixed a piercing glance on her father. "Laugh away," cried Stromminger; "I thought thou'd learn better up there, and now, scarce a quarter of an hour in the house, thou's already at mischief again." "He moves," cried one of the women, "he's still alive." "Carry him into the house and lay him on my bed," ordered Stromminger, making way by the kitchen door against which he was leaning. Two men raised Vincenz and carried him indoors. "If only the doctor were here," lamented the women, following the sick man into the room. "If only we had old Luckard, we should need no doctor," said some of them, "she knew what was good for everything." "Let her be fetched," cried Stromminger, "tell her to come this instant." Again Wally laughed. "Yes, truly, old Luckard," she said. "Thou'd be glad to have her back again now, Stromminger! Thou must seek her now in the churchyard!" The people looked at each other in consternation. "Is she dead?" asked Stromminger. "Yes, three days ago she died--died heartbroken because of what you did to her. See, Stromminger, it serves thee right, and if yon man dies because there is no one by who knows how to cure him, it serves him right too; so much as that he has well deserved of Luckard." Now there arose a tumult--this was too bad. "After such a deed to talk like this, and say it served him right, instead of repenting it. Why, no one's life was safe! and Stromminger to stand by and let her talk like that and never say a word! there was a fine father for you!" So they talked together, while Wally, with folded arms, stood defiantly in the kitchen door looking at Stromminger, who, in spite of himself, was hard hit by her reproaches. Now however his wrath returned with double force, and raising himself on his crutch he cried to the crowd; "I'll show you what manner of father I am! seize her and bind her." "Yes, yes," cried the people confusedly, "bind her, such a one should be under lock and bolt--before the justice she shall go, the murderess." Wally uttered a dull cry at the word "murderess," and drew back into the kitchen. "Hold," cried Stromminger. "Before a justice my daughter shall never go; do you think I'll live to see the chief peasant's child taken off to prison? Do you know Stromminger no better than that? Do _I_ need a court of justice to punish a wilful girl? Stromminger himself is man enough for that, and on my own ground and my own territory I am my own judge and justice. I'll soon show you who Stromminger is, though I am lame. Into the cellar she shall go, and there remain under lock and key, till her proud spirit is broken and she comes after me on her knees before you all. You have heard, all of you, and if I don't keep my word you may set me down a rascal." "Merciful God, hast Thou forgotten judgment?" cried Wally. "No, father no! for God's sake don't lock me up! Turn me out, send me up the Murzoll to perish in the snow--I'll die of hunger--I'll die of cold--but under the open heavens. If you lock me up, harm will come of it!" "Aha, thou'd like to be off again wandering round like a vagabond--that would please thee better? Not so; I've been too soft with thee. Thou'll stop under lock and key till thou asks pardon on thy knees of me and of Vincenz." "Father, all that is no good with me; sooner than do that, I'd rot away in the cellar--that you might know of yourself. Let me go, father, or, I tell you once more, harm will come of it." "There--enough said. Well, you--what are you all standing there for? Are you dreaming? Am I to run after her with my lame foot? Seize her, but hold her fast--she has Stromminger blood in her that'll try your teeth--hold on there!" The peasants, stung by this mockery, crowded into the kitchen. "We'll soon get hold of her!" they said scoffingly. But with one spring Wally was at the hearth, and had snatched burning brands from the fire. "The first that touches me, I'll singe him, hair and skin!" she cried, and stood like the archangel with the flaming sword. All fell back. "Shame upon you!" cried Stromminger. "All of you together might be a match for a girl! Strike the brands from her hand with a stick," he ordered, in a paroxysm of rage, for it was now a point of honour with him to master his daughter before the eyes of the whole village. Some of them ran and fetched sticks; it was like hunting a wild animal, and a wild animal Wally had in truth become. Her eyes bloodshot, the sweat of agony on her brow, her white teeth clenched, she defended herself against this pack of hounds, fought like the wild beast of the forest, without reflection, without calculation, for her freedom--her life's element. Now they struck with the sticks at the brands in her grasp, her only weapon, and she flung them into the midst of the crowd, so that they fell back on one another, shrieking; then, snatching another brand from the hearth, and yet another, she threw them like fiery shot at the heads of her assailants. The uproar grew louder. "Water here," cried Stromminger, "fetch water,--put out the fire!" This would be an end to everything; the fire once out, Wally was lost. One moment more, and the water would be brought--despair seized the girl. All at once there came a thought--a terrible, desperate thought; but there was no time for consideration; the thought was a deed before she could reflect upon it, and waving a burning log in her hand, she rushed swift as an arrow through her pursuers out into the courtyard, and hurled the brand with a mighty fling on to the hay-loft, right into the middle of the hay and straw. There was a scream of terror and amazement. "Now put the fire out," cried Wally, and flew across the courtyard through the gate, away and away, whilst all in the farm hurried shouting and storming to extinguish the flames that were already blazing upwards through the roof. With the rising pillar of smoke, as if born of the roaring flame, a dark object rose screeching from the roof, circled two or three times high overhead in the air, and then took flight in the direction in which Wally had fled. Wally heard the rushing sound behind her; she thought it was her pursuers, and ran blindly on. It was already night, but there was no darkness, clear light quivered all around her, so that she might still be seen from afar. She mounted a steep point of rock whence she could look down the road, and now she saw that her pursuer was coming through the air. She had attained her end, no one thought any more of following her. To save the farm buildings was a more pressing need, and all hands were engaged in the work. The vulture overtook her as she stood there, and bounded against her with such force as nearly to throw her down from the rock. She pressed the bird to her bosom and sank exhausted on the ground. With dazed eyes she looked up at the glare of the fire that shone afar, and lighted up the dark mountain tops around. With a glowing and angry aspect her deed looked down on her--threatening, wrathful, overpowering. From every church tower in the canton round sounded the dismal peal of warning, and the bells rang out quite distinctly, "Incendiary, incendiary." But the terrible song lulled her senses to sleep--unconsciousness dropped a kindly veil over her hunted spirit. CHAPTER VII. "Hard Wood." Deep night surrounded Wally when she once more opened her eyes. The red glow was extinguished, the bells were silent; far below her in the ravine the Ache thundered its monotone, and over her head high in the heavens, stood a star. She gazed at it as she lay motionless with upturned face on the ground, and it seemed to beam down upon her with a look of forgiveness. A wonderful sense of consolation breathed through the night. The wind caressingly cooled her burning brow, she sat up and began to collect her thoughts. It could not be late, the moon was not yet up, and the fire must have been very quickly extinguished. It must have been--for how could the conflagration spread when every one was there, and ready that moment to lend a helping hand? She knew not how it was, she searched herself to the very bottom of her soul, and she could not feel herself guilty. She had done it only from necessity, to keep off her pursuers whilst she gave them something else to do. She knew quite well that she would now be called an "incendiary," but was she one indeed? She raised her eyes to the stars over her head; it was as if now, for the first time, she held communion with the great God, and what He said to her was--forgiveness. The pure night-sky looked peacefully down on her, that open sky, for the love of which she had done the deed. Only under this high, vaulted dome of stars could she find space to breathe; to lie imprisoned in the gloomy cellar without light, without air, for weeks, for months--till, to escape, she went to the home of her hated suitor, and made herself a mockery and disgrace by open repentance on her knees before her father! It was worse than death--it was an impossibility! The girl who in utter loneliness had for six long months been the guest of the inhospitable wilderness of the Ferner, who had watched through many nights with the storm, the hail, the rain for her wild associates; whose brow the fire of heaven had kissed before it quivered to earth; round whom the thunder had warred in all its terror, whilst its power was as yet unspent by the winds; the girl who had almost daily staked her life springing over some bottomless abyss to save a straying goat--this girl could no longer bend herself to the ideas and the tyranny of small minds, could not submit to bit and bridle like an animal, must defend herself for life--unto death. Men had no longer any right over her; she had renounced them and mated herself with the elements. What wonder that she had called one of her wild companions--Fire--to her aid when warring against man? She could not understand it all, she had never learnt to reflect about her own consciousness; she knew not the "wherefore!" But she felt that God would not call her to account, that He from His supreme throne measured with a quite other standard than that of man; even to her, up on her mountain heights, everything had appeared so small that down in the valley she had thought so large--how much more to Him up there in Heaven? God alone understood her; down below they might think her a criminal--God acquitted her. She raised herself and shook the burden from her soul, and felt herself as heretofore, vigorous and confident, strong and free. "Now, Hansl, what shall we do next?" asked she of the vulture, to whom in her solitude she had accustomed herself to talk aloud. Hansl was at that moment watching some reptile of the night, then snatched at it, and killed it. "Thou'rt in the right," said Wally, "we must seek our bread. For thee, it is well, thou can find it anywhere--but I?" Suddenly the bird became uneasy, flew up and watched something in the distance. Then it occurred to Wally that as soon as the fire was out she would be searched for, and that she must get farther away as quickly as might be. But whither? Her first thought was Sölden. But the blood mounted to her face--might not Joseph think that she was running after him? And should he see her in disgrace and dishonour, poor, a runaway from home--pointed at and decried as an "incendiary." No, he at least should never see her thus, rather would she run to the very ends of the earth. And without any further consideration she took the vulture on her shoulder--the only good or chattel that troubled her--and set out in the direction whence she had come in the morning, to Heiligkreuz. She had walked for two hours, her feet were sore, she was weary to death, when the tower of Heiligkreuz rose up before her in the darkness, and, like a gleam from a lighthouse, the rising moon shone through the open belfry and showed the way to the aimless wanderer. Stumbling with fatigue, she dragged herself through the sleeping village up to the church. Now and then a dog barked, as with quiet steps she passed along. Whoever observed her now would take her for a thief; she trembled as though she really were one; to what had the proud Wally Stromminger come! Behind the church was the parsonage; near the door was a wooden bench, and from wooden boxes in the little windows bushes of withered mountain-pinks hung down. Here she would remain till daylight; the priest would at least protect her from ill-usage. She lay down on the bench, the vulture perched on the railing at her head, and in a few minutes nature asserted its rights and she was asleep. "May the Lord defend us! what foundling has He sent me here!" sounded in Wally's ears, and she opened her eyes. It was broad daylight, and there stood by her none other than the reverend curé himself. "Praised be Christ the Lord," stammered Wally in bewilderment, and put her feet down from the bench. "For ever and ever. Amen. My child, how did you come here? who are you, and what strange companion is that you have with you? it is almost enough to frighten one!" said the priest with a friendly smile. "Your reverence," said Wally simply, "I've something heavy on my conscience, and I would be glad to confess to you. My name is Wallburga, and I belong to Stromminger, the chief-peasant of the Sonnenplatte. I've run away from home; you see--Vincenz Gellner wanted to marry me, and I struck his head open with a blow, and then I set fire to my father's barn--" The priest clasped his hands together. "God help us, what tales are these! So young, and so wicked already!" "Your reverence, I am not really wicked, truly I am not--I wouldn't hurt a fly--but they made me do it!" said Wally, and she looked up at the priest with her large honest eyes, so that he was obliged to believe her whether he would or not. "Come in," he said, "and tell me all about it--but leave that monster outside;" he meant the vulture. Wally flung the bird upwards into the air, so that it flew on to the roof; then she followed the priest into the little house, and he made her come into his sitting-room. There all was still and peaceful. In the alcove stood a rough wooden bedstead with two flaming hearts painted over it, which to the curé signified the hearts of our Saviour and the Virgin Mary; over the bed was a holy-water cup in porcelain, and a shelf full of books of devotion; in the room there were more shelves with other books and an old writing desk, a brown bench behind a large heavy table, some wooden seats, a praying-stool beneath a great crucifix with a garland of edelweiss, and a few gaily coloured lithographs of the Pope and of various saints. From the ceiling hung a bird-cage with a crossbeak. An antique commode with lions'-heads holding rings in their mouths as handles to the heavy drawers, represented the luxury of the dwelling, and on this commode were all sorts of beautiful things. A little shrine with a carved saint, a glass box with a wax image of the infant Christ in a red silk cradle, a glass spinning wheel, and a bunch of tarnished artificial flowers, such as are made in convents, in a yellow vase under a glass shade; a small box with many coloured shells, a tiny model of a mine in a bottle, and, as a centre-piece, a little manger made in moss and sparkling fragments of spar, with delicately carved figures of men and beasts. A few pretty cups and mugs were not wanting amid these holy surroundings, and two small crystal salt cellars to the right and left of the nativity set off on either hand the central piece. And all was as clean as if no such thing as dirt existed in the world. This commode with the various objects upon it constituted the child-like altar which the lonely priest, six thousand feet above the sea and above modern culture, had raised to the God of beauty. Here he had stood many a time when the snow was whirling outside and the storm rocked the little wooden house, and gazed musingly at the tiny, neatly-carved world within, shaking his head with a smile and saying, "What will not men do next?" Much the same, thought Wally in passing by, as her glance fell on the marvellous trifles. Rich as her father was, such things as these had never found their way into his house; what indeed could the clumsy peasant have done with them? In her whole life she had never seen such things--she to whom, in comparison with her scythe and hay-fork, a spinning-wheel seemed the height of elegance. She felt as if in this little room she dare not move for fear of injuring something, as if here she must be particularly well-behaved. She wished to leave her iron-shod shoes at the door, so as not to spoil the smooth, white-scoured boards; but the priest would not allow it, so she trod as softly as she could and seated herself modestly at the farthest end of the bench which the curé offered her. The priest let his clear friendly eyes rest observingly upon her, and saw that she could not remove her astonished gaze from the ornaments on the commode. The old man was a student of humanity. "You would like first to look at my pretty little things? Do so, my child; besides, you are not just yet collected enough for the serious matters we must speak of." And he led Wally to the mysterious commode, and explained everything to her, and told her where each thing had come from. Wally did not venture to speak, and looked and listened full of reverence. When they had come to the manger, the last and the best, "See," said the priest, "here at the back is Jerusalem, and there are the three Wise Kings who travelled to see the Holy Child--see, there is the star that is guiding them--and there lies the child in the manger, and does not dream yet that he is born to suffer for the sins of the whole world. For as yet He cannot think, and has brought no remembrance with him of His Heavenly home; for the Son of God became in all things a real child of man, like any other--else men might have said that there was no miracle in being as good and patient as Jesus Christ was, if He was the Son of God and had the power of God, and that it was no use to strive to follow such an example, if one was only an ordinary man. They say it often enough as it is, and go on in their sins." Wally looked at the pretty naked infant with his gold paper glory lying there so patiently, and when she thought of the stern dark crucified God as a poor helpless baby born to suffering, it touched her compassion, and she was sorry that she had been "so rude" to the poor crucified Being yesterday when standing by Luckard's bed. "But why did He let it all happen to Him?" she said involuntarily more to herself than to the priest. "Because He wanted to show mankind that they should not repay evil for evil, and should not revenge themselves; for God has said, 'Vengeance is mine.'" Wally grew red, and cast down her eyes. "Now come, my child," said the wise man, "and make your confession." "That will soon be done, your reverence," said Wally. And honest as was her nature, she related to him, in low and timid tones indeed but without any attempts at palliation, how all had happened, and soon the whole circumstances were made clear to the confessor. A mighty picture of life lay unrolled before him, sketched in rude and rough outlines, and he pitied the noble young blood that had grown wild between rugged rocks and rugged men. Long after Wally had ended he sat silent, looking meditatively before him. His gaze fixed itself on an old, much-read volume on a book-stand by the wall; a stranger whom he had received hospitably had given it to him; on the back stood printed in gold letters--Das Niebelungen-Lied. "Your reverence," said Wally, who took the thoughtfulness on his features for an expression of reproof; "it was too much, all coming together. I was still full of anger about poor old Luckard, and then he must needs strike the old man also. I couldn't look on and see the old man beaten, that I could not, and if it were all to come over again, I should do just the same. An incendiary I am not--not even though they call me one. When a house is set fire to in broad daylight when everyone is about, nothing much can be burnt, that is certain. I didn't know how else to help myself, and I thought that if they had to put it out, they couldn't come after me. And if that is a sin, then I don't know what is to be done in this world where men are so wicked and do one all the harm they can." "We must do as Christ did--suffer and endure!" said the priest. "But, your reverence," said Wally, "when Jesus Christ let men do as they would with Him, He knew _why_ He did it--He wanted to teach people something. But I don't know why I should do it, for no one would learn anything of me in all the Oetz valley. And if I had let myself be locked up in the cellar ever so patiently, it would all have been for nothing, for nobody would have taken example by me, and it would very likely have cost me my life." For a moment the priest paused to reflect; then he fixed his kindly observant eyes on Wally and shook his head. "You wilful child, you. Even now you would like to begin some fresh dispute with me. They have wickedly roused and irritated you, till you imagine enmity and contradiction everywhere. Look round, recollect yourself and see where you are--you are with a servant of God, and God says 'I am Love.' And this shall be no empty word to you, I will show you that it is true. I will tell you that when all men hate and condemn you, still the good God loves you and forgives you. Such as you are, hard men, stern mountains, and wild storms have made you; and that the good God knows very well, for He can look into your heart and see that it is good and upright, however much you have been in fault. And He knows that no garden-flower can bloom in the desert, and that a rude axe never carved a fine image. But now look farther. If our Lord and Master finds a piece of rude carving in particularly good wood, so that it seems to Him worth the trouble of making something better out of it, then He Himself takes the knife and carves the bungling work of man, that under His hand it may grow into beauty. Now listen, for I say take heed not to let your heart grow harder, for when the Lord has cut once or twice at the wood, if He finds it too hard He grudges the trouble, and throws the work away. Take heed then, my child, that your heart be soft and yielding under the shaping finger of God. If its hard pressure seems to you unbearable, yield, and think you feel the hand of God that is working on you. And if pain cuts sharply into your soul, think it is the knife of God cutting away its ruggedness. Do you understand me?" Wally nodded somewhat doubtfully. "Well," said the old man, "I will make it still clearer to you. Which would you rather be, a rough stick with which men may perhaps fight and kill each other, and which when it is rotten is broken up and burnt, or a finely carved holy image like that one yonder that is set in a frame and devoutly honoured?" This time Wally understood and nodded quickly. "Why, of course--rather a holy image like that." "Well, see now. Rude hands have made a rough block out of you, but God's hand can carve you into a holy image if you will do just as He bids you." Wally looked at the speaker with wide, astonished eyes; she felt so strangely--pleased and yet ready to weep. After a long silence, she said timidly, "I don't know how it is. Sir, but with you everything is quite different to what it is anywhere else. No one ever spoke so to me before. The priest at Sölden always scolded and talked about the Devil and our sins; and I never knew what he would have, for at that time I had done nothing wrong. But you speak so that one can understand you--I mean that if I might stay with you--that would be the best for me; I'd work night and day and earn my bit of bread." The curé considered a long time; then he shook his head mournfully. "That cannot be, my poor child. Even if I myself wished it, it would not do. Though I might grant it to you in God's name, before men I dare not. For God sees the motive, men see only the deed. The priest in the confessional is one thing--the priest in common life is another. In the confessional he is the medium of Grace, in the world he is the medium of Law. He must incite men, by word and example, to honour and keep the law. Think what people would say if the priest took a notorious incendiary into his house. Would they understand why I did so? Never--they would only conclude that I had taken the sinner under my protection, and thereupon sin the more. And if afterwards we lived to see a really wicked incendiarism, I should have to reproach myself bitterly that I had given encouragement to it by my indulgence to you. Can you not understand this, and take it without murmuring as the unavoidable result of your deeds?" "Yes," said Wally gloomily; and her eyes reddened with repressed tears. Then she rose quickly and said shortly, "I thank your reverence very much then, and wish you good morning." "Hey, hey," cried the priest, "so high-flown again already? Don't you think it will be shorter to go through the wall than through the door? In your place, I would sooner go straight through the wall!" Wally stood still ashamed, and looked down at the floor. The old gentleman looked at her with a comical expression of wonder, "How much will it not cost you to subdue that hasty blood? Is that the way you mean to run off? Did I say I would leave you to your fate because I cannot keep you with me in my house? First of all, you must have breakfast with me, for man must eat, and God knows how long it is since you eat last. Then we will talk farther." He went to a sliding panel that opened into the kitchen, and called to the old maidservant to get breakfast for three; then sitting down at his simple desk, he wrote down for Wally the names of a few peasants whom he knew to be worthy people. "See, here is a whole list of honest men and women in the Oetz and Gurgler valleys," said he to Wally. "Try to find a place with one of them; over the mountain nothing will be yet known of your fault, and by the time people hear of it you can have shown yourself to be an honest girl, so that they will be willing to shut their eyes to it. You must not appeal to me, but you are as tall and as strong as a man, and they will gladly take you; you can work with a will and make yourself useful, if you choose. But you must learn to obey--must give in to custom and order, else you will do no good. I do not ask you to go back to your father, and let yourself be locked up in the cellar; that would be undue punishment, and do you more harm than good. Nor do I ask you to marry Vincenz out of obedience to your father and make yourself miserable for life. But I do ask of you that you should curb your wild spirit in the service of worthy people, in reasonable and regular activity, and so become again a useful member of human society. Will you promise me this?" "I will try," said Wally, in her unwavering honesty. "That is all I ask of you in the first instance, for I know well that you cannot with a good conscience promise more. But try to do it with an honest will, and remember always that God throws away wood that is too hard. I will go to-day to your father and speak to his conscience, that he may forgive you and be reconciled to you, or at least not pursue you any farther. Give me news soon of where you are, that I may let you know how things stand." Marianne brought the breakfast, and the pastor said the morning prayers. Wally, too, devoutly folded her hands, and from her deepest soul prayed God that he would help her to become good and useful; she was in such holy earnest--she would so gladly have been good and useful, if only she had known how. When prayers were over, all three sat down, she, and the pastor, and Marianne to breakfast. But scarcely had they begun when a shout was heard outside. "A vulture! See, up on the roof there, a vulture! shoot him down, bring guns!" "Heavens! my Hansl," cried Wally springing up, and would have run out at the door. "Stop," cried the priest, "what are you doing? Why risk yourself needlessly? You cannot go out now, when at any moment your father's people may come to take you!" "I'll not leave my Hansl in the lurch, come what may," cried Wally, and with one spring she stood outside the house. The curé followed her, shaking his head. "The vulture is tame," she cried to the people. "He belongs to me; leave him alone." "One can't leave a creature like that to fly about as it will," said the people, grumbling. "Has he taken a sheep or a child?" asked Wally defiantly. "No." "Well, then, leave me and my bird unmolested!" said the girl; and she stood there with an air so proud and threatening that the people looked at her with astonishment. "Wally, Wally," gently warned the priest, "think of the hard wood." "I do think, your reverence!" she said, and beckoned with her hand to the vulture. "Hansl, come back." The bird shot down from the roof, so that the people all shrank back frightened. She took him on her shoulder, and stepped up to the priest. "God keep your reverence," she said gently, "and thank you for all your kindness." "Will you not come in and finish breakfast?" said the old man. "No, I'll not leave the bird alone again, and besides I must go on--what have I to stay for?" "May God and all the Saints preserve thee, then!" said the pastor troubled, while Marianne was furtively thrusting some food into the pocket of her pleated gown. For a moment her foot lingered on the threshold that had grown dear to her, then she silently stepped forward between the people, who made way for her. "Who is she?" they asked each other. "She is a witch!" she heard them whisper behind her. "She is a stranger," said the priest, "who came to make her confession to me." CHAPTER VIII. The Klotz Family of Rofen. Day after day Wally wandered round the canton seeking a place, but no one would take her with her vulture, and from him she would not part. Even if she had abandoned him, he would have flown back to her again, and as to killing the faithful bird, such a thought could not enter her mind, let what might befal her. Now, in very truth, she was the Vulture-maiden, for her destiny was inseparably linked to that of the bird, and he had as much influence over it as a human being. Luckard's old cousin, to whom she once paid a passing visit, would have taken her in gladly, but she would have been too near home, and wholly in her father's power. She must go farther--as far as her feet would carry her. Every day the season grew more severe; it began to snow, and the nights, which Wally was often forced to spend in an open barn, were keenly cold. The clothes she wore grew old and shabby, she began to look like a beggar and a vagabond, and she was every day more summarily dismissed from the doors where she ventured to knock with her companion. She looked so strange that no good housewife now would let her work in the house for even a few hours, and eat at her table afterwards. They gave her a piece of bread at the door for "God's pity's sake;" and Wally, the haughty Wally, daughter of the Strommingers, sat down on the threshold and eat it. For she would not die! Life--tormented, baited, poor and naked--life was still fair to her, so long as she could hope that sooner or later Joseph might come to love her; for the sake of that hope she would bear everything--hunger, cold, weariness. But her frame, hitherto so powerful, began to fail under the constant consuming anxiety and tension, her eyes were dim, her feet refused to serve her, and as soon as she lay down quietly her thoughts whirled in her brain, and she fell into a feverish dose. With overwhelming dread she met the feeling that she might be going to fall ill. It was too much! If she were to lose consciousness in some barn or shed, she might be taken back to her father, she would find herself once more in his power. She had wandered up into the Gurgler valley, and as she had there found nothing to do, she had taken the weary road again over to the Oetz valley; she had been as far as Vent, which lying in the domain of her father Murzoll, seemed to her almost like a home. But there things had gone worse than ever with her; the ruder the place, the ruder the inhabitants, and when Wally arrived there, she found that the news of her deed had hastened to precede her, and that wherever she showed herself she was met with horror and aversion. She did not appeal to the curé of Heiligkreuz; he had desired her not, and she perceived that he had been right to do so; but for that reason she sought no more priests; not one of them would dare to take any interest in her. The last door in Vent had just been closed upon her. Before her lay nothing but the cloud-reaching wall of the Platteykogel, the Wildspitz, and the Hochvernagtferner, which closed in the valley, and over which no pathway led. Here on all sides the world was shut in like a _cul-de-sac_, and she was at the end of it; she stood still and looked up and around at the steep and towering walls. It was a grey morning; thick snow had fallen during the night and lay all over the valley, which looked like a prodigious trough of snow; every trace of a path was obliterated. She sat down and thought, "If I go to sleep, and am frozen, it is an easy death." But it was not yet cold enough for that; the snow melted under her, and she was soon shivering from the wet. Then she started up and dragged herself up the slope that leads up behind Vent to the Hochjoch; from thence she could look over all the surrounding country, and here she became aware of a sort of furrow in the snow that led behind the village along by the Thalleitspitz into the very heart of the Ferner. It might be a footpath--but whither did it lead? She went up higher to get a wider view, and a bandage seemed to fall from her eyes--that was the path that led from Vent to Rofen--Rofen, the highest inhabited spot in the whole Tyrol, the last in the Oetz valley where men, like eagles, can still dwell, and of them only two families, the Klotz family and the Gestreins; Rofen that lies silent and hidden at the foot of the terrible Vernagt-glacier, on the shore of the lake of ice where no straying foot wanders from year's end to year's end, which a venerable tradition wraps in a mysterious veil. This was the place that Wally must strive to reach, this was the last refuge where she might perhaps find help, or at least could die in peace and unseen, like the wild animal of the desert. Thither would she go--to the Klötze of Rofen; they were the most renowned guides in all the Tyrol, they were at home on the mountains as the mountain-spirits themselves; they would understand how Wally would sooner burn down a house, would sooner die, than let herself be deprived of the breath of freedom; and they could protect her against all the world, for the farms of Rofen had right of sanctuary. Duke Frederick had granted it in token of gratitude, because he once in sore distress had found refuge there from his enemies. Joseph the Second had indeed withdrawn it at the end of the last century, but the peasant clings to old usages, and the villagers of the Oetz valley willingly continued to hold it in honour. No one who sought and found asylum at Rofen could be touched; for the Rofeners--the Klötze and the Gestreins--harboured no one who did not deserve it, and were held in as great respect as their forefathers. An assault on their home-right would have been simply a sacrilege. Wally lifted her arms to Heaven in passionate thankfulness to God who had shown her this path. Her head swimming, her feet stumbling, she strove for the last goal that her strength might yet avail to reach; first, downwards to the path that led from Vent, then again steeply upwards. For an endless hour she mounted the encumbered path; there they lay before her as if sleeping in the snow, the peaceful, honoured farms of Rofen, which she had so often seen from Murzoll looking like eagles' nests clinging to the cliff. Her heart beat so that she could hear it, her knees almost failed her; if she were to be turned away, even here! A fresh storm of snow whirled silently around her, and wrapped the whole scene in a white, shifting veil. It flitted and glanced before her eyes, and the white veil waved coldly about her head, but it melted on her fevered brow and flowed in drops down her face and hair, and she trembled again with the chill. At last she stood before the door of Nicodemus Klotz, and took hold of the iron knocker; but as she put out her hand, a strange light flashed before her eyes, she fell heavily against the door, then sank down in a heap on the ground. On and on the white flakes drifted up the narrow valley and wrapped it in a shrouding veil, and heaped themselves before the well-closed door of Nicodemus Klotz over the stiffened body that lay there, till it was a peaceful white hillock. Nicodemus Klotz sat on his warm bench by the stove, smoked his pipe, and looked comfortably out of window at the snow. So the peaceful half-hours passed by, whilst his brother Leander, a fine-looking hunter, read the weekly news out of a shabby paper. "It is coming down finely," said Nicodemus, blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Yes," said Leander, looking up at the snowflakes floating and swarming before the little window. Suddenly in the midst of the white whirl a dark wing struck on the panes, something fluttered and croaked, then flew up to the roof. "There is something there," said Leander standing up. "What matter?" growled the elder brother, "whatever it may have been, thou can't go out in this storm." "Why not?" said Leander taking his rifle from the wall; the wing-stroke of the passing bird had roused his hunter's instincts; he must see what it was. He went to the door and opened it cautiously, so as not to disturb the bird by any noise. A mass of snow fell inwards, and he perceived the heap that had piled itself up on the threshold. He could not get out; he must fetch a spade to clear away the wall, and impatiently putting aside his gun, he began to shovel. "Heavens! what is this?" he cried out suddenly, "Nicodemus, come--quick--here is some one buried under the snow--help me!" His brother hastened forward; in a moment the heap was dug into, and a beautiful rounded arm appeared, and then from beneath the light covering, they drew forth a lifeless body. "Good God! a maiden--and what a maiden!" whispered Leander as the beautiful head and the finely-moulded form revealed themselves. "How can she have wandered up here?" said Nicodemus, shaking his head as he lifted, not without effort, the heavy body out of the snow. "Is she dead?" asked Leander touching her, while his eyes rested with mingled alarm and pleasure on the pale, sunburnt face. "She must instantly be rubbed," ordered Nicodemus, "inside, in the bedroom there." They carried the weighty burthen into the house and laid it on Nicodemus' bed. "She must have lain a good half-hour out there; it must be about that time since I heard a heavy blow against the door, but I thought it was a lump of snow fallen from the roof." Leander fetched a tub full of snow, and officiously tried to help in pulling off the girl's garments. "Let be," said the older and more discreet man, "that will not do--a youngster like thee; the girl'd be ashamed if she knew it. Do thou go out and see if thou can bring down one of the Gestreins, Kathrine or Marianne. Go!" Leander could not take his eyes from the lifeless form. "Such a beautiful maid!" he muttered compassionately as he went out. With gentle care the experienced man now undressed the girl, and rubbed her hard with the snow till warmth revived in her skin, and the blood began to circulate again. Then he dried her well, covered her up carefully, and poured a few drops of a strong cordial extracted from herbs down her throat. At last she recovered consciousness, turned and stretched herself, and looked once round the room; but her eyes were glazed and vacant, and muttering a few unintelligible words, she closed them again. "She is ill," said Nicodemus to Leander, who at this moment reappeared, whilst a sturdy peasant woman who stopped at the door to shake off the snow followed him. "Marianne," said Nicodemus--she was his married sister, "thou must help us here. Two men like Leander and me can't look after the girl. There is Leander making eyes at her already." He threw a dissatisfied glance at the young man, who was again standing by the head of the bed and seemed to devour with his eyes the face of the sick girl; but he turned away hastily and blushed at being found out. Marianne went up to the bed, and her first question was: "Who can she be?" "God only knows! Some vagabond," said Nicodemus. "What should make thee say that?" growled Leander, "one can see plainly enough she's no vagabond." "Ay, because she's a handsome girl and pleases thee," said Marianne; "there's many a fair face covers a blackened soul--good looks prove nothing; a decent girl doesn't wander round the country at this time of year, all alone in the snow till she falls in a heap. Likely enough she's in some scrape, and God knows what sort she may be to harbour in the house." "Well, it's all one now," said Nicodemus good-naturedly, "we can't turn a sick girl out in the cold and snow, be she what she may." "As you will," said the woman, "I'll come over here and welcome, to take care of her for you; but I won't take her into my house, and that you may know once for all." "No one asked thee; we will keep her ourselves," said Leander irritated, and as Wally again muttered some words to herself, he leaned tenderly over her and asked, "What is it? What dost thou want?" The elder brother and sister exchanged glances. "As for thee," said Nicodemus, "I have something to say to thee. Thou's willing enough and ready to open house and home before we know who this woman is. There stands the door;--now walk out and come in here no more unless thou'd like to see me turn out the girl, ill as she is. Dost understand?" "What, one mayn't even look at a girl now," grumbled Leander, "I see no reason why thee should come in before me." "Thou'st nought to do but to go out; I'll allow none of this so long as I am master of the house and eldest brother to thee." So saying Nicodemus took him by the arm and pushed him out, and remained himself alone with his sister by the sick girl. Wally did not recover consciousness, she lay in a fever; her throat was swelled, her limbs stiff and aching. The brother and sister soon saw that the stranger must have suffered terribly from cold and over-fatigue, and they tended her to the best of their powers. Leander meanwhile wandered idly and restlessly through the house, and as often as one of them came out of the sick room he was in the way to enquire how things were going on. He was full of grief and vexation; he also would so willingly have tended the beautiful girl. Towards evening it ceased snowing, and he took his rifle and went out. But he had scarcely been away a minute when he came back again and called Nicodemus from the sick room. "Look here," he said, much excited, "there is a vulture on the roof, a splendid golden vulture, and he looks at me quite quietly and confidingly, as though he belonged there." "Ah!" said Nicodemus, "that is singular." "Only come and see," said Leander, and drew his brother out, in front of the house. "There--there he sits and never moves. A state prize, and I can't shoot him! The devil take it all!" "Why can't thou shoot him?" asked Nicodemus. "How can I fire now, with the sick girl lying indoors?" said Leander, stamping his foot. "Drive him away," advised Nicodemus, "and then thou can follow him and shoot him further off where she cannot hear." "Tsch, tsch," said Leander, throwing up balls of snow to scare off the bird. The vulture ruffled his feathers, screamed, and at last rose. But he did not fly away, he floated for a minute high in the air, and then quietly let himself down on to the roof again. "That is strange, he won't go away; it's just as if he were tame." Once, twice more they tried to drive it off--always with the same result. "He's bewitched," said Leander, making the sign of the cross; but it did not seem to trouble the bird--so it was certain the devil could have nothing to do with it! "It seems to me that he's been shot already, and cannot fly," said Nicodemus, "any way let him be in peace till he comes down of himself, if thou doesn't wish to frighten the girl with the crack of the rifle." "He's half down already; I believe I might take him with my hand," said Leander. He fetched a ladder, laid it against the wall and cautiously ascended. The bird quietly let him approach; he drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and would have thrown it over the vulture's head, but the bird struck and pecked at him so violently, that he was obliged to beat a hasty retreat. Nicodemus laughed. "There, he's shown thee how to catch a vulture with the hand. I could have told thee as much as that." "I never saw such a bird in my life," said Leander grumbling, and shaking his head, "Wait a bit," he added, threatening his foe above, "only wait till I find thee somewhere else." "Thou can hunt him to-morrow if he's not perished in the night. If he can fly, he'll go farther away, and hardly come so far as this again." It was getting dark now, and Marianne came out to say she must go home and cook her husband's supper. The brothers went in, and Nicodemus also went to prepare supper, by fetching bread and cheese from the store room. While he was gone, Leander softly opened the door that led from the living room into the bedroom and peeped through the crack at Wally. She lay still now, and slept soundly. It was so long since she had lain in any bed, that it could be seen even in her sleep how comfortable she found it; she lay reclining so softly, so easily amongst the pillows. "God help thee, thou poor soul, God help thee!" whispered Leander to her through the opening, then hastily closed the door again, for he heard Nicodemus coming. He was sitting quite innocently on the bench by the stove when his brother came in with the food. "To-night," said Nicodemus, "we shall do well enough; as Benedict is not here, I can sleep upstairs in his bed, but to-morrow night, when he's back again, we three must divide the two beds between us." "Oh, I need no bed," said Leander hastily. "For the sake of her in there, I'd as soon sleep on the bench here, or in the hay-loft; it is all one to me. If any of us is to be put out for her, it shall be me, and no one else." "Well, if it pleases thee, thou can have it so. But in the hay-loft, not on the bench; that is too near the sick-room--dost understand?" "Ay, ay, I understand well enough," muttered Leander, and bit into his cheese as if it were a sour apple. The bedroom of the two younger brothers was exactly opposite that of Nicodemus, who took the bed of the absent Benedict. Two or three times in the night he got up, and went to listen at Wally's door; she talked and wandered a good deal, and once Nicodemus could clearly understand that she was speaking of a vulture. "Ah," thought he, "she too will have seen the vulture when she came up, and the fright comes back to her in her dreams." Early in the morning, before breakfast even, the restless Leander was up and out; he did not come home till nearly mid-day. "Well, how is she getting on?" he asked as he came in. "Just the same; she doesn't come to herself at all, and she's always in dread of people who, she thinks, want to take her away." Leander scratched his head behind his ear. "Then I can't shoot yet. Only think now--there's the vulture outside still sitting on the roof." "Never!" "Ay, when I went out this morning, I couldn't see him anywhere; then I thought, he's flown away, and I went after him for nearly three hours. Then when I get home, there he is, sitting quietly on the roof again." "Well," said Nicodemus, "that's a thing that might make one really uneasy, if one happened to be superstitious." "Ay, indeed. One might almost think of the phantom maidens of Murzoll, and that they meant to play me a rogue's trick." "God be praised!" said a rough deep voice, and Benedict the second brother, who had been away on a journey, now walked in. "Ay, God be praised thou'rt back again," cried his brothers together. "What's the news? What's thou been doing?" "Oh, nothing much; they've only sent me from Herod to Pilate again down in the Court-house, and crammed me with half-promises. I only know that all Oetzthal, man and beast of all three genders, may break neck and limb over the road here before we get the path." The speaker threw off his knapsack discontentedly and seated himself on the bench by the stove. "Is there anything to eat?" he said. "Directly," said Nicodemus, who did the cooking himself, and he fetched in the soup. He also brought a bowl of milk, and took it in to the sick girl; Leander's eye followed him enviously. Benedict was hungry and fell to on the soup without observing what his brother had done: Nicodemus soon returned, and silently, like all peasants, who seem to fear when performing the solemn act of eating that they will get out of time if they speak, the three spooned up the soup in a measured rhythmical movement, so that neither of them should get more nor less than his share. When they had eaten, the weary Benedict lighted his pipe and stretched himself comfortably on the bench. "What's the news in the world? Tell us all about it," said Leander, who knew his brother's habit of silence. Benedict had stuck his pipe aslant in his mouth and yawned. "I know of nought," he said. After a time, however, he went on: "Rich Stromminger of Sonnenplatte, his daughter, the Vulture-maiden, you know--she set her father's place on fire, and is running now about the country begging." "Ah, when did that happen?" asked the brothers astonished. "She must be a real bad girl that," continued Benedict. "Her father had sent her up to the Hochjoch before this, because she wouldn't do his bidding, and when she comes down, the first thing is that she half kills Gellner, and sets her father's house on fire." "Jesu Maria!" "After that she naturally ran away, and is now wandering about the neighbourhood. Yesterday she was in Vent, and trying to get a place, but who would have such a girl in the house? To add to it all, she drags the big vulture about with her that she took from the nest, and expects folk to take that in too. Naturally every one refuses." Nicodemus looked at Leander, and Leander grew crimson. "Well!--" said Nicodemus, "now I know who's lying in there!--The vulture that won't leave the roof--and all night she was raving about a vulture--that's not so bad--we've the Vulture-maiden in the house!" Benedict sprang up. "What!" he cried. "Don't cry out so loud," said Leander, "dost want the poor sick girl to hear it all?" Then Nicodemus related how Leander had found her half dead in the snow, and how they could not do otherwise than keep her in the house, at least till she was able to walk. But Benedict was a rough man, and thought the illness was only a pretence--that his brothers had been too soft and should have sent her away. He would soon have got the better of her. "For incendiaries he had no sanctuary," he cried, and his piercing eyes glanced wrathfully under his bushy brows. "If thou'd seen the maid, thou'd have taken her in too," said Leander, "It'd have been less than human to turn the poor thing out in the wind and weather." "Indeed? And in that way we should get at last every robber and murderer in the neighbourhood in asylum here, till it is said that Rofen is a hiding-place for all the rabble--that'd be a fine thing for the justices to get hold of. If you two can be taken in by a cunning chit, I at least must maintain order and decency in Rofen!" He approached the door. Nicodemus stood before it and said quietly, but firmly, "Benedict, I am the eldest, and I'm master in Rofen as much as thou, and I know as well as thou what is our duty as Rofeners. I give thee my word I will keep the girl no longer in the house than I must for human and Christian duty; but now she is sick, and I will not suffer thee to ill-use her. So long as I live at Rofen I'll have no injustice done under my roof." Then Leander broke in. "Look here," he said confidently and with flashing eyes; "only let him go in--when he sees her, he'll never send her away." "I believe thou'rt right, thou simpleton," said Nicodemus smiling, and he softly opened the door. Benedict hastily and noisily entered; this time Leander ventured to slip in also, and Nicodemus had nothing to say against it; he might help to watch over the harsh Benedict and keep him from being too rough. Marianne was sitting by the bed making new stockings for the sick girl, for she had become so ragged that she would have had none to wear when she could get up again. At Benedict's noisy entrance she made a sign that he should be quiet; but scarcely had he perceived the sick girl, when of himself he hushed his footsteps, and went slowly up to the bed. Wallburga was fast asleep. She lay on her back, and had thrown one beautiful rounded arm over her head; her abundant dark-brown hair fell loosely over the snow-white neck that no sunshine could tan through her thick peasant's bodice, and which her loose linen chemise now left partly uncovered; her mouth was half-open as though smiling, and two rows of pearly teeth shone between the arched lips; on the sleeping brow lay an unspoken expression of nobility and purity that no words can describe. Benedict had grown quite still. He gazed long at the touching and yet innocent picture as if astonished, and his brown face began gradually to redden--like Leander's, which seemed dyed in a crimson glow. Then he ground his teeth together and turned round. "Aye, she is certainly ill," he said in a voice which implied, "There is nothing to be done," and he went out of the room on tiptoe. CHAPTER IX. In the Wilderness. Once again spring-breezes blew across the land. The melting snows flowed down in rushing mountain-torrents; timidly, half-suspiciously the first Alpine plants peeped out, as though to ask the sunshine if it were indeed in earnest, and they might venture forth a little further. Here and there isolated patches of snow still lay like forgotten linen sheets. In the evergreen pine and fir-woods, the birds lifted their wings, held twittering consultations, and attuned their little throats to the universal song of rejoicing. From the Ferner mountains avalanches came thundering down into the valleys, and beneath the terrible, moving masses, walls and rafters, trees and bushes, crashed together. There was a thronging and wrestling, a thundering and rustling--there were threats and allurements, fears and hopes, in the heights and in the valleys, and man also, ever-venturesome, ever-inquisitive man, arose from his long winter's rest, stretched forth his feelers, and began to grope about the mountains with his alpenstock for some foothold in the loose and shifting snow. Only Rofen yet lay in the shadow of its narrow, heaven-high walls, hidden like a late sleeper beneath its white coverlet. Before the door of the Rofen farm stood Leander, feeding Hansl with a big mouse that he had caught for him. Hansl had been Leander's pet from the hour when it came out that he belonged to Wally, and the bird was well cared for among the Rofeners. Benedict came towards the house with his mountain pole. He had been reconnoitring the path to Murzoll, and had more than once hovered between life and death. His glance was unsteady, his whole appearance agitated and gloomy. "Well?" asked Leander in anxious suspense. "The road is passable at need. If I guide her, she can risk it." "Nay, Benedict, don't thee do that, don't let her go up there--I pray thee, don't." "What she will--she will," said Benedict gloomily. "Tell her the mountain's not safe, then she'll remain of herself." "Where's the good of lying? She'll not change her mind however long she stays here, and thou hast nothing to hope, I've told thee that often enough. An unfledged stripling like thee is not for a maid like Wally! Now keep thyself quiet." He went into the house, and the tears sprang into Leander's eyes with anger and pain. Wally came with the hayfork out of the stable towards Benedict. "Wally," he said, "if it must be so, I'll lead thee up there, I've found out the way; but it is still dangerous." "Thank thee kindly, Benedict," said Wally, "tomorrow, then, we will go." She hung up the hayfork, and went into the kitchen. Benedict stamped with his foot, and set his alpenstock in the corner. For a while he stood reflecting, then he could keep quiet no longer--he followed her. Wally had tucked up her gown and was preparing to wash the kitchen. "Wally, leave all that, I want to talk with thee." "I cannot, Benedict, I must scour the kitchen. If I go away to-morrow, I must have the whole house clean. I'll leave no dirt or disorder behind me." "Thou's always worked more by us than thou hast eaten or drunken. Let be now, the house is clean enough, and if thou goes away--all is one." He chewed at a piece of wood, then spit out the bitten splinter. Wally saw the terrible state of excitement he was in, and left off her work that she might listen to him. "Wally," he said, "consider once more whether thou'll not have one of us. See now, thou'st no need to be so proud. There's such a cry against thee, that it's through great love only, that one can take thee at all." Wally nodded her head in perfect agreement. "Now see, we Rofeners, we are people who may knock at every door, and there's not a girl but would be glad to get one of us. Thou hast the choice between two of us brothers, and refusest such a piece of luck. See, Wally, thou may some day repent of it." "Benedict, thou means well, and I care for thee and Leander as one can care for only one person, but not enough to marry you. And I'll marry no one that I can't love as a husband, and that thou may know that I mean it, I once saw one that I can never forget, and till I do forget him, I'll take no other." Benedict grew pale. "See, I tell thee that thou may be at peace, and no longer torment thyself with the thought of me. Only believe, Benedict, I know well what thou hast done, thou and all of you for me. You saved me from death, you protected me when my father'd have taken me away by force, and it was really fine how thou defended me and thy rights. I'd be a happy girl if I could love thee and forget that other. I'm right thankful to thee, and if it could help thee, I'd give thee my life--but tell thyself, what would thee do with a wife who loves some one else? That were truly a bad return to a man like thee." "Yes," said Benedict hoarsely, and wiped his forehead. "And thou sees now, that I must go away, that things can't go on as they are?" "Yes," he said again, and left the kitchen. Wally looked after him as, full of emotion, he strode away, the brave and proud man who had offered her all, all that--as he himself had said in his uncouth fashion--would have made the happiness of any other girl. And she herself could not understand how it was that she could not care more for this man, who had done so much for her, than for the stranger who had never once given her a thought. And yet so it was! There was not one who could be compared with Joseph for power and excellence; she saw him always before her as when he had flung the bloody bear's skin from his shoulder and related how he had wrestled with the monster, whilst all stood around and admired him, the mighty, the beautiful, the only one! And then how he had conquered her father, the strong man who had always appeared to her hitherto so unconquerable and terrible! And with what goodness and kindness he had spoken to him afterwards, in spite of her father's hostility! No, there was not one that could rise up and stand comparison with Joseph. She went back to her work. "If only Joseph knew all that I am giving up for his sake," she thought as she looked out, and saw how in front of the window Benedict with a red face was talking to Leander, and how Leander wept. Old Stromminger had at first stormed against and cursed his unruly child, and not even the good pastor of Heiligkreuz had succeeded in pacifying him. When it was at length rumoured that Wally kept herself hidden at Rofen, he sent people to fetch her away. But on their own ground and territory it was easy for no one to move the "Klötze of Rofen," and they defended like knights the sacred rights and freedom of the Rofeners. When Wally however perceived that a passion for her had taken possession of the brothers, then she made a confidant of the quiet and prudent Nicodemus, and he understood what was needful to be done. He went to Stromminger, and his wise eloquence was so far successful that the old man at last gave up the idea of imprisoning Wally, and contented himself with banishing her for ever from his sight. In the summer she should tend the flocks again upon Murzoll, "because that is the only way in which one can make any use of her." In the winter she might seek service wherever she liked--only she was not to venture to come back to her home. When Nicodemus returned with this answer, Wally insisted upon going that moment to await the flocks upon the Ferner, and only Nicodemus' firm decision prevailed upon her to wait at least till Benedict should have examined whether the mountain road were passable. So the hour came when Wally must once more fly before the winds of spring on to the mountains, into the desert. It was hard to part with the brothers, and with good Marianne. They had become dear to her, these worthy people, who had come so readily to her help. Benedict went up the mountain with her; he would not let himself be deprived of that. "Thou'st been entrusted to us, we will at least hand thee back again with a whole skin. Whatever may happen to thee then, we can, alas! do nought to hinder." It was a fearful road up which they had to make their way in the midst of the wild confusion wrought by the spring, and Benedict, acknowledged far and wide to be the best and surest of guides, said himself he had never seen so bad a mountain-path. They spoke little, for they were engaged in a constant, breathless struggle for life, and could look neither to the right nor to the left. It was hard work. At length, after fighting half the day with snow and ice and crevasses, they found themselves on the summit. The old hut still stood there, somewhat more ruinous than before, and a heavy weight of snow lay on the roof and all around it. "There thou means to house thyself--there! Sooner than become an honoured wife and lead with us down yonder a respected and home-sheltered life as a peasant of Rofen?" "I can do no other, Benedict," said Wally gently, and looked with sad eyes at the snow-covered inhospitable hut. "I believe the mountain spirits have thrown a spell upon me, so that I must needs come back to them, and never more feel myself at home in the valleys." "One might almost believe it! There's something strange about thee. Thou's quite different from other maids, so that one loves thee in quite a different way--much, much more dearly, and yet as if thou didn't belong to us, as if an evil spirit drove thee round." He threw down the bundle of provisions that he had brought up with him for Wally, and began removing the snow from the door of the hut that she might be able to get into it. "Benedict," said Wally softly, as though she could be overheard, "dost thou believe in the phantom maidens?" Benedict looked down meditatively and shrugged his shoulders. "What can one say? I've never seen any myself--but there are people who'd hold to it to their last breath." "I'd never believed in them--but when I came up here last year, I had a dream so lifelike, I could almost believe it was no dream, and since then, whatever happens to me, I can't help thinking of the phantom-maidens. "What sort of a dream?" "Thou must know that him whom I love is a chamois-hunter, and it was because of him my father sent me up last year, and the first hour I was here I dreamt that the phantom-maidens and Murzoll threatened me that if I wouldn't leave off thinking of the lad, they'd fling me down into the abyss!" And she related her whole dream in detail to Benedict. He shook his head, and became quite melancholy. "Wally, in thy place, I should be afraid." She threw her head back. "Ah well. Thou goes on shooting the chamois, in spite of the phantom-maidens. One has only got not to be afraid. I've sprung over many a chasm since then, and I've felt well enough that there was somewhat that wished to pull me down, but I held myself firm, and kept the upper hand." She raised her strong brown arm defiantly. "So long as I've got two arms, I've no need to fear whatever it may be." This did not please Benedict. In his solitary wanderings over the terrible Similaun and the wild glacier peaks, he had acquired a taste for subtle meditations and reflected more deeply on many things than other people. "Take care, Wally! He who sets himself too high thrusts his head up easily enough, but that's what those up yonder won't endure, and they thrust him down again." She was silent. "It's too early for thee to be up here--" he began again, "no one could stand it." "Oh, it was worse still when I was up here last autumn," said Wally, as she went into the hut. "Who won't be advised, can't be helped. But if _he_ doesn't some time recompense thee for all thou'rt going through for him, he deserves to be dragged round by the collar." "If he knew of it, for sure he'd recompense me," said Wally reddening and looking down. "He doesn't know of it?" asked Benedict astonished. "No, he scarcely knows me." "Now may God forgive thee that thou should so set thy heart on a strange man, and them, them who love thee, and have cherished thee and tended thee, them thou pushes from thee. That is no love--that is mere obstinacy." Wally was silent, and Benedict also said no more. He did now as old Klettenmaier had done the year before. He set the hut in order as well as he could for Wally, and brought her a store of wood. Then he held out his hand to her in farewell. "May God guard thee up here! And if I might say one more word to thee, it would be this: Watch over thyself, and pray that no evil powers may get the better of thee!" Wally's heart contracted as his eyes full of deep sadness rested on her. It seemed to her as though in truth she felt the evil powers hovering round her, and almost unconsciously she held the hand of her protector who had watched over her so faithfully, and accompanied him part of the way back, as though she feared to remain alone. "Now then--here the path becomes bad; I thank thee for coming so far," said Benedict, and parted from her. "Farewell, and a safe journey home," cried Wally after him. He looked round no more. She turned back to the hut, and was once more alone with her vulture and her mountain spirits. But the spirits seemed appeased. Murzoll smiled kindly in the glow of the spring sunshine upon the returned child, and Wally no longer felt herself a stranger in the midst of her mighty and sublime surroundings. Each fold on Murzoll's brow was familiar to her now; she knew his smile and his frown, and it no longer frightened her when sullen clouds beset his brow, or when he rolled down avalanches into the abyss. She felt herself secure on his harsh breast, and the breath of his storms blew away from her heart the weight that she had brought up with her again from the valley. For a healing power lies in the storm; it cools the blood, it bears the soul on its rushing wings far away over the stones and thorns amongst which it would flutter, painfully entangled. As when a child has hurt itself and cries, we breathe on the place, saying, "It will soon be well," and the child smiles back to us again, so Father Murzoll blew away from the heart of his returned child the dull pain that oppressed it, and she looked with shining eyes and an uplifted heart out into the wide world--and hoped and waited. So weeks and months passed by. The July sun shone with such power that the mountain was already completely "ausgeapert"; that is to say, the lighter winter snow was all melted away to the limits of the eternal snows where Wally dwelt. Now and then one of the Rofener brothers came up to enquire whether she had not yet changed her mind. But they came but seldom, and interrupted Wally's solitude by a few short half-hours only. One day the sun's rays "pricked" with such sharp, unusual heat, that Wally felt as though she were passing between glowing needles. When the sun "pricks," it draws the clouds together, and soon, somewhere about midday, it had gathered about itself a thick tent of clouds behind which it disappeared, and a leaden twilight was spread heavily over the earth. A strange disquietude seized the little flock; now and then a quivering brightness shuddered through the grey cloud-chaos, as a sleeper's eyelashes quiver in dreams, and gigantic black mourning clouds waved about Murzoll's head. Now and again they were rent asunder, affording faint glimpses into the clear distance, but instantly across these thin places new veils were woven till all was closed, and no empty space, as it seemed, left between earth and Heaven. Wally well knew what all this foreboded; she had already experienced plenty of bad weather up here on the mountains, and she drove the flock together under a projecting rock, where she had herself arranged a fold in case of need. But a young goat had wandered out of sight, and she was obliged to go and seek it. No storm had ever yet come on with such rapidity. Already hollow mutterings could be heard amongst the mountains, whilst the gusts of wind swept roaring onwards, flinging down isolated hailstones. Now it was a question of minutes only, and the kid was nowhere to be seen. Wally extinguished her hearth fire and stepped out into the conflict of the elements, like an heroic queen amongst the hosts of her rebellious subjects. And queen-like indeed she looked, without knowing or caring anything about it. She had set a little copper milk-can upside down upon her head as a helmet to protect her from the hailstones, and a thick horse-cloth hung down like a mantle from her shoulders. Thus equipped, and a shepherd's staff with its iron hook in her hand in the place of a lance, she threw herself out into the storm, and fought her way through it till she reached a point of rock from whence she could look out after the lost animal. But It was impossible through the mists to distinguish anything. Wally ascended higher and higher, till she had reached the path that leads over the Hochjoch into the Schnalser valley; and there, deep below in the ravine, the kid was clinging to the side of the steep precipice, trembling with fear and crouching beneath the blows of the heavy hailstones. The helpless animal moved her to pity--she must have compassion on it. The hail rattled down thicker and thicker around her, the wind and rain struck her like whips across the face, there was a heaving and swelling on every side like the thundering waves of an approaching deluge, but she paid no heed to it; the mute supplications of the distressed animal rose above the raging of the storm, and without a moment's hesitation she let herself down into the misty depths. With infinite trouble she got far enough down the slippery path to lay hold of the animal with her crook and draw it towards her, then throwing it over her shoulder, she climbed upwards again with hands and feet. Then, all at once, a stream of fire seemed to shoot from the zenith down into the gulf, a shivered fir-tree crashed beneath her in the depths, and in one universal roar of heaven and earth together there came a crackling from above, a rushing, a thundering of hurling streams and masses below, till to the solitary pilgrim clinging to the quaking rock it seemed as though the whole world were whirling round her in wild dissolution. Half-stunned, she swung herself up at last on to the firm edge of the pathway, then stood a moment to recover breath and wipe the moisture from her eyes, for she could hardly see, and the kid too struggled on her shoulder, so that she was obliged to bind it before carrying it any further. Meanwhile, thunder-clap after thunder-clap crashed above her, beneath her, and as though heaven had been a leaking cask filled with fire, the lightning struck downwards in fiery streams. Hark!--what was that?--a human voice! A cry for help sounded clearly above the rushing and roaring. Wally who had not trembled at the fury of the thunder and the hurricane, trembled now. A human voice--now!--up here with her in this fearful tumult of nature, in this chaos! It terrified her more than the raging of the elements. She listened with suspended breath to hear whence the voice came, and whether she had not deceived herself. Again she heard the cry, and close behind her. "Hi, thou yonder--help me, then!" And out of the mists and rain emerged a figure that seemed to drag along a second form. Wally stood as though suddenly stiffened--what face was that? The burning eyes, the black moustache, the finely aquiline nose, she looked and looked and could not stir a limb for the sweet terror that had come upon her--it was indeed St. George, it was Joseph the bear-hunter. He himself was scarcely less startled than Wally when she turned round, but from another cause. "Jesu Maria--it's a girl," he said almost timidly, and looked at Wally with astonishment. Seeing her from behind, he had thought from her height that she was a shepherd--now he saw a maiden before him. And as she stood there, her long mantle falling around her in stiff folds, her head protected by its warlike helmet against the hail, her dark hair, loosened and dripping, hanging about her face, the crook in her hand and the kid on her broad shoulders, her great eyes flaming and fastened upon him, he had a weird feeling for a moment, as though something supernatural stood before him. In his whole life before he had never seen so powerful a woman, and he had to pause for a minute before he could clearly make her out. "Ah," he said, "thou'rt only old Stromminger's Vulture-Wally?" "Yes, that am I," answered the girl breathlessly. "So--well, precisely then with thee I have nothing to do." "Why not?" asked Wally, turning pale, and a flash of lightning quivered just over her, so that her copper helmet flashed red in the glare. Joseph was obliged to pause, so crashing was the thunder-clap that followed, and with new fury a shower of hail came rattling down. Joseph looked at the girl in perplexity as she stood there immovable, whilst lumps of ice struck against the slight metal can on her head. Then he bent down over the lifeless form that he was carrying. "See here, ever since that affair in Sölden I've been in disgrace with thy father, and people say that thou also art not one to have dealings with. But this poor maid can go no further; a flash of lightning struck close by her and threw her down, and she's quite out of her senses. Go, lead us to thy hut, that the girl may rest till the storm is over--then we'll leave again at once; and for certain, such a thing shall never happen again." Wally looked strangely at him during this speech--half in defiance, half in pain. Her lips trembled as though she would have made some vehement answer, but she controlled herself, and after a short and silent struggle, "Come," she said, and strode onwards before him. Presently she paused and asked, "Who is the maid?" "She's a poor girl out of Vintschgau on her way to the Lamb in Zwieselstein. My mother is dead, and I've had to go over to Vintschgau, where her home was, to look after the inheritance, and as our roads lay together, I've brought the girl across the mountains with me," answered Joseph evasively. "Thy mother is dead? Oh, thou poor Joseph--" cried Wally full of sympathy. "Yes--it was a hard blow," said Joseph in deep sadness, "the good little mother." Wally saw that it pained him to speak of her, and was silent. They said no more till they reached the hut. "Here's a horrible hole," said Joseph stooping and yet knocking his head as he entered. "It's not for nothing that a man sends his child off to live in a dog-kennel like this. Well, certainly thou'st done enough to deserve it." "Ah!--thou's sure of that?" said Wally, breaking out bitterly now as she untied the kid and set it down in a corner. Then she shook up her bed and helped Joseph to lay the stranger on it. Her hands trembled as she did so. "Well," said Joseph indifferently, "everyone knows how wild thou's been with thy father, and how thou nearly killed Vincenz Gellner dead, and set fire to thy father's barn in a rage. It seems to me, that with such a beginning thou may go still further." "Dost know why I struck Vincenz, and fired the barn?" asked Wally with a trembling voice, "Dost know _why_ I am up here in this dog-kennel as thou calls it? Dost know?" And with her two hands she broke a strong branch in pieces across her knee, so that the wood cracked and splintered, and Joseph involuntarily admired her strength. "No," he said, "how should I know?" "Well then, if thou doesn't know, thou needn't speak of it," she said low and angrily as she made up the fire that she might warm some milk for the sick girl. "Tell me, then, if thou thinks I'm doing thee a wrong." Wally broke out again suddenly into the shrill, bitter laugh peculiar to her when her heart was secretly bleeding. "Thee I'm to tell--thee?" she cried, "Yes, truly; thou'rt a fitting person for me to tell!" And she rinsed out a kettle with feverish haste, poured the milk into it, and hung it up over the crackling fire. Joseph did not discover the pain that lay hidden in this scorn--he only felt the scorn, and turned away from her offended: "With thee there's nothing to be said; people are right enough there," he answered, and thenceforward occupied himself only with the sick girl. Wally also was silent, and only now and then as she moved about her work cast a stolen glance to where Joseph, with the red light of the fire upon him, sat on a stool not far from the bed. His eyes glowed like two coals in the reflection of the flames, which shining now brightly, now faintly, lighted up the strong and handsome face of the hunter with strange changes, so that it appeared sometimes friendly, sometimes full of gloom. All at once Wally remembered her dream on the first night of her arrival on the Hochjoch. "If the phantom-maidens could see him now, they would melt away before him like snow before the fire." Something of this she thought, and it seemed to her as if only with tears of blood--as it is said of a heart that it bleeds--could she tear her glance away from him. Two scalding drops did in truth fall from her eyes, and though they were not drops of blood, they gave her no less pain. The stranger now recovered consciousness. "What has happened?" she asked in astonishment. "Thou must keep thyself quiet, Afra," said Joseph, "the lightning nearly struck thee dead, and so Wally Stromminger has brought us to her hut." "Jesu Maria, are we with the Vulture-Wally?" said the girl terrified. "Keep thyself still," said Joseph, comforting her, "as soon as thou's recovered, we'll go on our way again." "So over in Vintschgau even thou's heard talk of me? There, take something to drink against the fright," said Wally quietly and with a touch of good-humoured sarcasm, as she reached her the warm milk mixed with some brandy. Joseph had stood up to allow Wally to come to the bed with the drink. Afra tried to sit up but she could not manage it, and Wally coming quickly to her aid raised her and held her in her arms like a child, whilst she gave her the milk with the other hand. Afra took a thirsty draught out of the wooden bowl, but she was so weak that her head sank upon Wally's shoulder when she had done drinking, and Wally, beckoning to Joseph to take the bowl from her hand, remained sitting patiently so as not to disturb the sick girl. Joseph looked at her meditatively, as she sat there on the edge of the bed with the girl in her arms. "Thou'rt a handsome maid," he said honestly, "it's a pity only thou should be so bad." A slight colour passed over Wally's face at these words. "How thy heart beats all at once!" said Afra. "I can feel it on thy shoulder." And a little stronger now, she raised her head and gazed at the beautiful tanned face, and the large eyes. Wally also now studied the girl more attentively. She saw that she had charming features, blue eyes full of expression, fair hair that looked like floss silk, and a strange, uneasy feeling of aversion stole over her. She looked at Joseph, stood up, and began to bustle round again. "Is that really the Vulture-Wally?" asked Afra of her guide, as though she could not understand how the decried Vulture-maiden could be so kind. "One wouldn't suppose it, but she says herself that it's she," answered Joseph half-aloud. "And I'll soon prove to thee that I am," cried Wally proudly, and opening the door, she cried "Hansl--Hansl, where art thou?" A shrill scream answered her, and forthwith Hansl came rushing down from the roof, and in at the door. "Heavens, what is that?" screamed Afra, crossing herself; but Joseph placed himself before her, as a protector. "That is the vulture that I took as a child out of its nest--away yonder on the Burgsteinwand. It is from him I got my name--the Vulture-maiden!" and her eyes rested proudly on the bird, as a soldier's eyes rest on the conquered colours. "See, I've tamed him so that I can let him fly where he likes now--he never flies away from me." She set him on her shoulder and unfolded his wings, so that Joseph might see they were not cut. "That fellow's a state-prize," said Joseph, his eyes resting with both longing and hostility on the splendid booty which no hunter will yield to another, least of all to a girl! There must have been something in the look that irritated the vulture, for he uttered a peculiar whistle, bristled up his feathers, and bent his neck forward towards Joseph. Wally felt the unwonted agitation on her shoulder and tried to quiet the bird with caresses. "Nay, Hansl, what's come to thee? Thou wert never so before." "Aha!--thou knows the hunter, my fine fellow," said Joseph with a challenging laugh and snatching violently at the vulture as though to tear him from Wally's shoulder. Suddenly the irritated bird put forth all its might, spread out its wings, rose to the ceiling, and thence swooped with its whole strength down upon the enemy below. A shriek of terror rang from Wally's lips, Afra saved herself in a corner, the narrow hut was almost filled with the rushing monster who no longer heard his mistress's voice, but dashed again and again at Joseph with his terrible beak striving to strike his talons into the man's side. It was one wild confusion of fighting fists and wings, in which feathers flew about, and the walls grew red where Joseph's bleeding hands touched them. "My knife, if I could only get at my knife," he cried. Wally tore the door open. "Out, Joseph, out into the open air; in this narrow hole thou can do nothing with him." But Joseph the bear-slayer had no idea of running away from a vulture. "The devil take me if I stir from the spot," he said with a groan. For one moment longer the battle wavered. Then Joseph, his face pressed against the wall, managed with his iron fists to seize the vulture by the claws, and with giant strength forced down the struggling animal as in a trap whilst it hacked at his hands and arms with its beak. "Now my knife, draw out my knife--I have no hand free," he cried to Wally. But Wally used the moment otherwise; she sprang by, and threw a thick cloth over the vulture's head. It was easy for her now to tie its feet together with a cord, so as to render it helpless, and Joseph flung it on the ground. Trembling and without strength the proud animal exhausted itself in struggles in the cloth on the floor, and Joseph taking up his gun, began to load it. "What art thou doing there?" asked Wally astonished. "Loading my gun," he said, setting his teeth with the pain of his torn hands. When it was loaded, he took the captive bird up from the floor, and flung it out of the hut into the open air. Then placing himself at a little distance, he took aim, and said low and imperiously to Wally, "Now let him loose." "_What_ am I to do?" said Wally, who could not believe she had heard aright. "Let him fly!" "What for?" "That I may shoot him. Doesn't thee know that no true hunter shoots his game excepting on the spring or on the wing?" "For God's sake," cried Wally, "thou wouldn't shoot me my Hansl?" Joseph, in his turn, looked at her wonderingly. "Thou'd have me let the rabid brute live, perhaps?" he said. "Joseph," said Wally, stepping resolutely up to him, "leave me my Hansl untouched. I fought with the old one for the bird at the risk of my life, I've brought him up from the nest, no one loves me as he does--he's my only one, all that I have in the world--thou shall do nothing to my Hansl." "Indeed," said Joseph sharply and bitterly, "the devil nearly tore out my eyes, and I shall do nothing to him?" "He didn't know thee. How can a bird help it that he has no more sense? Thou'll never revenge thyself on a beast without understanding?" Joseph stamped his foot. "Unbind him that he may fly," he said, "or I'll shoot him in a heap, as he is." He took aim again with his rifle. All the hot blood flew to Wally's head, and she forgot everything but her favourite. "That we will see," she cried in flaming anger, "whether thou'll dare to lay hands on my property. Put down the gun. The bird is mine! Dost hear? _Mine_. And none shall hurt or harm him when I am by, come what will. Away with the gun, or thou shall learn to know who _I_ am!" And she struck the gun out of his hand with a swift blow, so that the charge went off, rattling against the wall of rock. There was something in her demeanour that subdued the strong young fellow, the mighty bear-hunter, for he picked up his gun with apparent composure, saying with bitter scorn, "Please thyself for all I care; I'll not touch thy hook-beaked sweetheart; he's like enough the only one thou'll ever have in thy life! Thou--thou's nothing but the Vulture-Wally." And without deigning even to look at her again he tore his pocket-handkerchief into strips, and tried to bind up his torn hands with it. Wally sprung forward and would have helped him; now for the first time she saw how severe the wounds were, and it was as if her own heart were bleeding at the sight. "O Heavens, lad, what hands thou'st got!" she cried out. "Come, and I'll wash them and dress them for thee." But Joseph shoved her aside. "Let be--Afra can do it," he said. He went into the hut. An anguish as of death came over Wally; she suddenly understood that she had made Joseph her enemy, perhaps for ever, and she felt as if she must die at the thought. As though suddenly crushed, she followed him in, and her eye watched the stranger as she bound up Joseph's hands, with jealous hatred. "Joseph," said she in a stifled voice, "thee mustn't think that I don't care for thy wounds, because I wouldn't let thee shoot my Hansl. If it could have made thy hands whole, thou might have shot Hansl first, and me after him; but it would have done thee no good." "It's no matter, there's no need to excuse thyself," said Joseph, turning away. "Afra," he continued to the girl, "can thou go on now?" "Yes," she said. "Make thyself ready then, we'll go." Wally turned pale. "Joseph, thou must rest thyself a little longer. I've given thee nothing yet to eat; I will cook thee something at once, or would thou sooner have a draught of milk?" "I thank thee kindly; but we must go so as to be home before nightfall. It no longer rains, and Afra can walk again now." And with these words he helped the girl to get ready, slung his gun over his shoulder, and took his alpenstock in his hand. Wally picked up one of the feathers which had fallen from Hansl in the struggle, and stuck it in Joseph's hat. "Thou must wear the feather, Joseph. Thou ought to wear it, for thou conquered the vulture, and he'd have been thy booty if thou'd not given him to me." But Joseph took the feather out of his hat. "Thou may mean well," he said, "but the feather I'll not wear. I'm not accustomed to share my booty with girls." "Then take the vulture altogether, I'll give him to thee; only I pray thee, let him live," urged Wally breathlessly. Joseph looked at her in wonder. "What has come to thee?" he said, "I'll take nothing from thee on which thy heart is so set; one day perhaps I may take a live bear, and if so I'll bring it up to thee that the party may be complete. But till then, thou'll see no more of me; I might happen to shoot the bird yet if I came across him anywhere, so I'd better keep away from his haunts! God be with thee, and thanks for the shelter thou's given us." So saying he walked proudly and quietly out of the hut. Afra stooped down and picked up the feather that Joseph had thrown away. "Give me the feather," she said; "I'll lay it in my prayer-book, and so often as I see it I will say a Pater Noster for thee."' "As thou will," said Wally gloomily; she had scarcely heard what Afra had said. Her bosom heaved and throbbed, and in her ears there was a rushing noise as though the tempest was still raging round her. She followed the departing guests out of the hut. The storm had passed away; the veil of black clouds hung raggedly down, and through the rents sparkled the wet, far-gleaming distance. But for the sullen mutterings of the Thunder-god as he withdrew, and the roar of the waters as they rushed down the gullies into the depths, all around was tranquil and silent, and a white shroud of snow and hail stones had spread itself upon the mountains. Wally stood motionless, her hands pressed upon her bosom. "He never thinks how poor one must be to set one's heart so upon a bird," said she to herself. Then she stooped down and freed the half-numbed animal that climbed, staggering, on to her arm and looked at her with intelligence, as if to ask her forgiveness. "Aye, thou may look at me," she sobbed; "oh, Hansl, Hansl, what hast thou done for me!" She sat down on the door-step of her little hut, and wept from the very bottom of her heart till she was weary of the sound of her own sobbing. She looked up to where a high wall of snow rose perpendicularly behind her, down to where on the right hand and on the left death had prepared his cold nest in the snowy hollows,--away into the grey distance, where long streaks of rain cloud hung down from heaven to earth, and suddenly she felt again as she had felt on the first day, that she was alone in the wilderness--and must stay there. CHAPTER X. The Mistress of the Sonnenplatte. Again a year had gone by, a hard year for Wally; for when her lonely summer in the wilds was ended and Stromminger had sent to fetch the flocks home, she had gone down into the Schnalser valley on the other side of the Ferner where she was quite a stranger, and there had sought service. To the Rofeners she would not return, as she must again have rejected their suit. But it was just as hard to find employment with the vulture here as it had been in the Oetz valley, and at last she gave up all thought of remuneration, only to be taken in with Hansl. Naturally her lot was a forlorn one--for on account of this folly, as they called it, she was often turned away or scornfully treated by the women; and often she had to defend herself stoutly against the rude importunities of the men, who, here as everywhere, admired the beautiful girl. Nevertheless she bore it all steadfastly, for she was too proud to lament and complain of a burden she had laid on herself of her own free will. But she grew hard under it, hard and ever harder, just as the good pastor had forewarned her. The ghosts of all the murdered joys of her young life haunted her and cried out for revenge; in the short spring time of life three lost years count for much. Other young girls weep and lament over a lost dance. Wally did not weep for all the lost dances, for all the thousand pleasures of her youth, she grieved only for her wasted love; and her spirit, on which no ray of happiness had shone, waxed sour and hard like a fruit that has matured in the shade. Again the spring time came, and again Wally ascended the Ferner. It was a bitter spring and a stormy summer; rain, snow, and hail succeeded each other in turns, so that her clothes often did not dry the whole day through, and for weeks together she breathed the damp atmosphere of an impenetrable chaos of drizzling clouds, through which, as before the first day of Creation, no ray of light would dawn. And, in her soul, the vast outer chaos reproduced itself in little, gloom reflected gloom. The whole world as yet was but a dark and troubled dream like the cloud drifts around her--and God came not, who alone could say, "Let there be Light." One day, however, after endless weeks of darkness, He spoke again the mighty word of creation, and a gleam of sunshine shot through the clouds and parted them, and gradually there emerged from the chaos a fair and well-ordered world, with mountains and valleys, pastures and lakes and forests; it was spread out suddenly complete before her eyes, and she felt as if she also were now first suddenly roused to life--as was once the mother of mankind--that she might rejoice in this world that God had made so beautiful, not for Himself alone, but for those beings whom He had created to take delight in it with Him. Was it possible there should be no happiness in so fair a world? And wherefore had God set her, this hapless Eve, up here in the desert, where he for whom she had been born could never find her? "Oh! yonder, down yonder--enough of these lonely heights!" a voice cried suddenly within her, and all at once the wild yearning for life, for love, for happiness broke forth, so that she longingly stretched out her arms towards the smiling, sunny world that lay below at her feet. "Wally, thou must come down at once. Thy father's dead." The shepherd boy stood before her. Wally stared at him as if dreaming. Was it a vision called up by her own heart, that even now had cried out so rebelliously for happiness? She grasped the lad by the shoulder as though to assure herself that he was indeed there, and it was no trick of the imagination. He repeated the message. "The place in his foot got worse and worse, then it mortified, and he died this morning. Now thou's mistress at the farm, and Klettenmaier sends thee greeting." Then it was true, really true! the messenger of release, of peace, of liberty stood before her in the flesh. For this it was that God had shown her the earth so fair, as though He would say to her beforehand, "See, this is now thine own, come down and take that which I have given thee." She went silently into the hut and closed the door. Then she knelt down and thanked God, and prayed--prayed again, for the first time in many weeks, ardently, from the depth of her soul; and hot tears for the father who was now for ever gone--whom living she could not and dared not love as a child--welled up from her released and reconciled heart. Then she went down to the home, that now at last was again a home to her, where her foot once more trod her own soil, her own hearth. Old Klettenmaier stood at the gate and joyfully waved his cap when she arrived; the servant-girl who, two years before, had been so rude to her, came weeping and submissive to give her the keys, and at the sitting-room door she was received by Vincenz. "Wally," he began, "thou'st used me very badly, but--" Wally interrupted him quietly but severely. "Vincenz, if I've done thee any wrong, may God punish me as it shall please Him. I cannot regret it nor make it good to thee, nor do I ask thee for forgiveness. Now thou know'st my mind, and all I pray thee is, leave me to myself." And without vouchsafing him another glance, she went in to where the body of her father lay, and locked the door. She stood by it, tearless. She had been able to weep for the transfigured father, freed from the "tenement of clay;" but standing by that form of clay itself, which with a heavy fist had marred her and her life, which had struck her down and trodden on her--she could shed no tears, she was as if made of stone. Quietly she said a Pater Noster, but she did not kneel to say it. As she had stood motionless, self-possessed before her living father, so now she stood before him dead; only without resentment, reconciled by death. Then she went into the kitchen to prepare a supper by the time the neighbours should come for the night to pray and to watch the dead. It kept all hands busy, and by midnight the room was so full of watchers that she could hardly provide enough to eat and to drink. For the richer a peasant is, the more neighbours come to the watching and praying by the corpse. Wally looked on with silent aversion. Here lay a dead man--and so they ate and drank like so many flies! The dull hum and bustle were so strange to her after the sublime stillness of her mountain home, and struck her as so small and pitiful, that involuntarily she wished herself back again on the silent heights. Speechless and indifferent she passed to and fro between the noisy eating and drinking groups, and people said how much she resembled her dead father. On the third day was the funeral. From far and near people of the neighbouring hamlets came to it, partly to pay the last respect to the important and dreaded chief-peasant, partly to "make all straight" with the wicked Vulture-maiden, who now was mistress of all the great possessions of the Strommingers. Hitherto, indeed, she had been only an "incendiary" and a "ne'er do weel;" but now she was the wealthiest owner in all the mountain range, and that made all the difference. Wally felt the change keenly, and she knew too whence it came. When she saw now after the funeral the same people stand before her with bent backs and obsequious grins, who, but one year before, had turned her from their doors with scorn and flouting when, starving with cold and hunger, she had asked them for work--then she turned away with loathing--then, and from that hour she despised mankind. The curé of Heiligkreuz came too, and the Klötze from Rofen. Now was the moment for making at least an outward return for all their goodness to her when she had been poor and abandoned, and she distinguished them from all the others and kept with them only. When the funeral feast was over and the guests had at last dispersed, the priest of Heiligkreuz remained with her yet a little while, and spoke many good words to her. "Now you are mistress over many servants," he said, "but remember that he who does not know how to govern himself will not know how to govern others. It is an old saying, that 'he who cannot obey, cannot command'; learn to obey, my child, that you may be able to command." "But, your reverence, whom am I to obey? There's no one here now that has any orders to give me." "God." Wally was silent. "See here," said the curé, taking something from the pocket of his wide-skirted coat. "I have long meant this for you, ever since the time you were with me, but you could not have taken it with you in your wanderings." He took out of a box a small neatly-carved image of a saint with a little pedestal of wood. "See, this is your patron saint, the holy Wallburga. Do you remember what I said to you about hard and soft wood, and about the good God who can carve a saint out of a knotty stick?" "Yes, yes," said Wally. "Well, you see, in order that you may not forget it, I have had a little image brought for me from Sölden. Hang it up over your bed, and pray before it diligently--that will do you good." "I thank your reverence very much," said Wally, evidently delighted, as she took the fragile object carefully in her hard hands. "I will be sure always to remember when I look at it, how well you explained the meaning of it all to me. And this is how the holy Wallburga looked! Oh, she must indeed have been a sweet and lovely woman; but who could be so good and so pious as that?" And as Klettenmaier came towards her across the courtyard, she held the figure out to him and cried, "See, Klettenmaier, what I have had given me; it is the holy Wallburga, my patron saint. We will send his reverence the first fine lamb that is dropped, as a present." The good priest put in a sincere protest against this kind of return, but Wally, in her pleasure, paid no heed. When the curé was gone, she went into her room and nailed the carved figure with the sacred images over her bed, and all round, like a wreath, she placed the pack of cards that had been old Luckard's. Then she went to see what there was to do in the farm or in the house. "Hansl," she cried as she passed the vulture who was perched on the wood-shed, "_we_ are the masters now!" And the sense of mastery after her long servitude pervaded her whole being, as intoxicating wine drunk in deep draughts fills the veins of an exhausted man. In the courtyard the servants hired by Vincenz were all assembled, and Vincenz himself was amongst them. He had grown haggard, his face was of a yellow paleness, and on the back of his head in the midst of his thick black hair he had a bald place like a tonsure; his glaring eyes lay deep in their sockets, like the eyes of a wolf lurking in a crevice for his prey. "What is it?" asked Wally, standing still. The upper servant, erewhile so rude, approached with timid subserviency. "We only wished to ask thee if thou's meaning to send us away because we treated thee so badly while the master was alive? Thou knows we could only do what he would have done." "You did only your duty," said Wally quietly. "I send none away unless I find him dishonest or a bad servant. And if you left off bowing and bending before me, you'd please me better. Go to your work that I may see what you can do, that's better worth than fooleries." The people separated; Vincenz remained, his eyes fixed glowingly on Wally; she turned and stretched out her hand against him. "One only I banish from my hearth and home--thee, Vincenz," she said. "Wally!" cried Vincenz, "this--this in return for all I did for thy father." "What thou did for my father as his steward, so long as he was lame, that thou shall get a return for. I give thee the meadows that adjoin thy farm and round off thy land; that I think will repay thee thy time and trouble, and if not, say so--I'll be beholden to thee for nothing--ask what thou will but get thee from before my eyes." "I want nought--I'll have nought but thee, Wally. All is one to me without thee. Thou'st well nigh murdered me, thou'st ill used me every time I've ever seen thee--and--the devil's in it--I cannot give thee up. Look here--I did it all for thee. For thee I'd commit a murder--for thee I'd sell my soul's salvation--and thou thinks to put me off with a few meadows? Thou thinks to be free of me so? Thou may offer me all thou hast--all thy land and the Oetzthal into the bargain--I'd fling it back to thee if thou didn't give me thyself. Look at me--my very marrow is wasting away--I don't know how it is, but for one single kiss from thee, I'd give thee all my lands and goods and starve for the rest of my days. Now send a clerk to reckon once again with how many pounds and acres thou'll be rid of me!" And with a glance of the wildest and bitterest defiance at the astonished Wally he left the farmyard. She was awed by him--she had never before seen him thus; she had had a glimpse into the depths of an unfathomable passion, and she wavered between horror and pity. "What is there in me," she thought, "that the lads are all such fools about me?" Ah, and only one came not; the only one that she would have had--despised her. And if--if meantime he were already married? The thought took away her breath. She thought again of the stranger that he had brought with him across the Hochjoch--but no--she was only a servant maid! And yet something must happen soon! She was rich and important now, she might venture to take a step towards him! But all her maidenly pride stood in arms at the thought, and "Wait--wait," was still all that was left to her. She felt driven restlessly through house and fields; soon it was apparent that she was spoilt for the village life; week followed week, and she could not accustom herself to it. She was and she remained the child of Murzoll--the wild Wally. She scorned pitilessly all that seemed to her petty or foolish, she could bind herself to no regularity, no customs, no habits. She feared no one--she had forgotten what fear was, up there on the Ferner, and she met the smaller life below with the same iron front that had defied the terrors of the elements. Mighty and strong of body and soul she stood among the villagers like a being of another world. She had become a stranger in the boorish herd who stared at her with distrust and dislike--as boors always stare at that which is unfamiliar--but who nevertheless dared not approach too near to the great proprietress. But the girl was sensible of their hostility, as of the mean cowardice which, while it spoke her fair to her face, betrayed its hatred behind her back. "I ask leave of no one," was her haughty motto, and so she did whatever her wild spirit prompted. When she was in the humour, she would work all day like a labourer to incite the lazy servants, and if one of them was not up to the mark in his work, she would impatiently snatch it from his hand and do it herself. At other times she would spend the whole day in melancholy dreaming, or she would wander about the mountains so that people began to think her mind was unsettled. The men and maids meanwhile did as they pleased, and the neighbours maliciously whispered to each other that in this fashion she would let everything go to ruin. While she thus set herself against all rule and order, she was on the other hand stern even to hardness in matters which the other peasants passed over much less strictly. If she detected a servant in dishonesty or false dealing she at once gave information to the justices. If any one ill-used a beast, she would seize him by the collar and shake him, beside herself with rage. If one of her people came home drunk in the evening, she would have him ignominiously locked out to pass the night out-of-doors, whether in rain or snow. If she discovered any immorality, the culprit that same hour was turned out of the house. For her spirit was chaste and pure as the glaciers with whom she had so long dwelt in solitude, and all the lovemaking and whispering, the meetings and serenadings that went on around her, filled her with horror. All this gained her a reputation for unsparing hardness, and made her to be feared as her father had been before her. Nevertheless she seemed to have bewitched all the young men. Not only her possessions;--no, she--she herself with all her strangeness was what the lads desired to win. When she stood before them, tall, as though standing on higher ground, slim and yet so strongly and proudly built that her close-laced bodice could hardly contain her nobly-moulded form, when she raised her arm, strong and nervous as a youth's, against them threateningly, whilst a lightning flash of scorn flamed like a challenge from her large black eyes--then a wild fire of love and strife seized the lads, and they would wrestle with her as if for life or death only to win a single kiss. But then woe to them, for they had not the strength to conquer this woman, and must go their way with scorn and derision. He was yet to come who alone could cope with her--would he ever come? Enough, she awaited him. "He that can say of me I ever gave him a kiss, him will I marry, but he that's not strong enough to win that kiss by force--Wallburga Stromminger was not born for him!" she said haughtily one day, and soon the saying was reported in all the surrounding neighbourhood, and the young men came from far and near to try their luck and take her at her word. It became indeed a point of honour to be a suitor of the wild Wallburga, as any rash adventure is thought honourable by a man of strength and courage. Soon there was not a man of marriageable age in all the three valleys who had not striven to conquer Wally and to wrest the kiss from her, but not one had succeeded. And she triumphed in the wild game and in her mighty strength, for she knew that she was talked of far and near, and that Joseph would often hear of her; and she thought that now he must at last think it worth the trouble to come and carry off the prize, if it were only to prove his strength--as that day when he had gone to slay the bear. If only he were here, she thought, why should he not fall in love with her like all the others,--above all, if she showed to him how sweet and friendly she could be? But he never came. Instead, there came one day to the "Stag" which adjoined Wally's kitchen-garden, the messenger from Vent. Wally, who was at that moment weeding, heard Joseph's name spoken and listened behind the hedge to the messenger's narration. Since his mother's death Joseph Hagenbach goes oftener to the "Lamb" at Zwieselstein--was the man's story--and a love affair is talked about between him and the pretty Afra, the barmaid at the "Lamb." Only yesterday he was up there, and dined alone with Afra at the guest's table while the hostess stayed in the kitchen. Suddenly the bull broke loose, and ran through the village like a whirlwind; a hornet had stung him in the ear. All fled to their houses and shut to the doors, and the innkeeper of the "Lamb" is about to do the same, when he sees his youngest child, a girl of five, lying in the road. She couldn't get up, for the children had been playing coaches, and the little one was harnessed to a heavy wheel-barrow when the cry was raised that the bull was loose; the other children ran off, but little Liese with the heavy barrow could not so quickly get away; she fell and entangled herself in the rope, and there she lies right in the middle of the road, and the brute is snorting quite close to her with his horns lowered. There is no time to untie the child or to carry it off, barrow and all; the bull is there; the father and Afra scream so that they can be heard all through the village,--but all at once Joseph is on the spot, and thrusts a hay-fork into the side of the beast. The bull bellows and turns upon Joseph, and out of the windows, every one cries for help--but no one comes to help him. He seizes the bull by the horns, and with the strength of a giant forces him back a step or two whilst the bull struggles with him. Meanwhile the father has had time to fetch the child, and now the question is what will become of Joseph, whom all have left in the lurch? Afra wrings her hands and screams for help, the bull has forced Joseph with his horns to the ground and is about to trample on him, when from below Joseph strikes him in the neck with his knife, so that the blood spurts out all over him. The bull now begins to kick, lifting Joseph who holds tight on to his horns, then rushes furiously forward a little way, dragging Joseph with him, half in the air, and half on the ground: Joseph meanwhile, who wants to bring him to a stand-still again, never losing his hold. By this time the bull is bleeding from five wounds, and gradually getting weaker; once or twice Joseph finds his feet again, but each time the brute regains the mastery, and with desperate leaps hurries him on. The peasants have recovered themselves now and come out, the host of the "Lamb" at their head, to help Joseph with hay-forks and knives. But the bull hears the uproar behind him, and once more lowering his horns flings himself, with Joseph, against a closed barn door, so that every one thought Joseph must be crushed; but the door gives way under the blow and flies open, the bull rushes into the shed, and there wallows in his death-struggle among ladders, carts, and ploughs, so that all fall in confusion one over another. Joseph however swings himself up to a beam and throws the door to, so that the raging animal shall not get out again; the people outside hear him barricade the door; he is shut up in that narrow space alone with the brute, and those outside can do nothing. They hear the stamping and storming, the bellowing and uproar within, and shudder at the sound. At last all is still. After an anxious interval, the door is opened, and Joseph comes staggering forward bathed in blood and sweat. They suppose the bull is dead, but Joseph says it were a pity to kill so fine a beast, that his wounds could be healed and were none of them in a vital part. In the barn all is in confusion, everything upset, trampled, and crushed, but the bull lies with all four legs tied and fastened to the floor; he lies motionless on his side, snorting and gasping, like a calf in a butcher's cart. Joseph has subdued the bull and bound him, alive--all by himself. There is no one like him. When they came back with Joseph to the "Lamb," Afra fell on his neck before all the people, crying and sobbing, and the hostess brought Liese to him in her arms, and would have treated him to the best in the house--but Joseph was in no mood for any more merry-making. He drank one draught in his raging thirst, and then went home. The whole village was full of him, and that evening there was a great drinking-bout in his honour, that lasted far into the night. This was the news the messenger brought from Vent, and again there was much talking about Joseph Hagenbach, and all the folks wondered that he should never come up here after Wally. The mistress of the Sonnenplatte had so many suitors--only Joseph seemed to wish to have nothing to do with her. Wally left her place by the hedge: the words brought a hot blush of shame to her brow. Thus it was then that people spoke of her,--that Joseph would have nothing to say to her? And it was Afra that he was following? That was the same girl that he had brought with him over the Ferner the year before, and had been so careful of even then. She sat down on a stone and covered her face with both hands. A storm raged within her, a storm of love, admiration, jealousy. Her heart was as though torn in pieces. She loved him--loved him as she had never done before, as though the panting breath with which she had followed the narration of his deed had fanned the glimmering spark into a glowing flame. Again, then--again he had done what no other could accomplish, but she had no part in it--for Afra's master it had been done, for love of Afra! Was it possible? must she give way to a maid-servant--she, the daughter of the Strommingers? Was not she the richest, and as all the young men told her, the most beautiful maid in all the land? Far and wide, was there one that could compare with her for strength and power? Was not she, and she alone, his equal, and should they two not come together? There was but the one Joseph in the world, and should he not belong to her? Should he throw himself away on Afra, on a miserable beggar girl? No, it could not be, it was impossible. Why, after all, should he not go to the Lamb, without its being for Afra's sake? He wandered about so much in the course of hunting, and the Lamb was at Zwieselstein, exactly where all the cross roads met. "O Joseph, Joseph, come to me," she moaned aloud, and threw herself with her face upon the ground, as if to cool its burning heat in the little dewy leaves. Then all at once she remembered how the messenger had said that Afra had thrown herself on Joseph's neck when he came back to the inn. She shuddered at the thought. And suddenly she pictured to herself how it would be if she were Joseph's wife, and if, when after such a struggle he came home weary, wounded, and bleeding, she had the right to receive him in her arms, to refresh him, to comfort him. How she would wash his hot brow and bind his wounds and lay him to rest on her heart till he fell asleep under her caresses! She had never thought of such things before, but now, as they crowded on her, she was thrilled by a hitherto unknown sense--as an opening flower trembles when it bursts the encasing bud. In this moment she ripened into a woman, but, wild and ungovernable as all her feelings were, that which made her womanly stirred up all the hidden and sleeping powers of evil in her soul, and a fearful tempest raged within her. The evening breeze swept coldly over her, she felt it not; night came on, and the ever-peaceful stars looked down with wondering eyes on the writhing form, as she lay on the earth in the night dews and tore her hair. "The mistress wasn't in again all last night," said the housekeeper next morning to the underservants. "What is it, think you, that she does all night?" And they laid their heads together and whispered to each other. But they all scattered like spray before the wind when Wally came towards them across the courtyard from the kitchen-garden; she was pale, and looked prouder and more imperious than ever. And so she continued; from that day forth she was changed, unjust, capricious, irritable, so that no one dared speak to her but old Klettenmaier, who always had more influence with her than any one else. And withal she carried her haughtiness in everything to the farthest point; her last word was always "the mistress"--for "the mistress" nothing was good enough--"the mistress" would not be pleased with this or with that--"the mistress" might permit herself things which no one else could venture on, and many another such provocation. Every day she dressed herself as if it were Sunday, and had new clothes made, and even a silver necklace brought from Vent with all sorts of pendants in filigree-work, so heavy and costly that the like had never before been seen in the valley. At the feast of Corpus Christi she left off her mourning for her father and appeared in the procession so resplendent with silver and velvet and silk that the people could hardly say their prayers for gazing at her. It was the first time that she had joined in a procession, and indeed no one knew exactly what kind of a Christian she might be; but it was clear that she only went now to show her new clothes and her necklace, because most of the people of the canton from as far up as Vent, and as far down as Zwieselstein, were assembled there. When she knelt down there was a rustling and jingling of stiff silks and plaitings and tinkling silver, and it seemed to say, "See, no one can have all this but the mistress of the Sonnenplatte!" It happened that as the last Gospel was being read a slight confusion arose in the procession, and some people who had been behind were now walking before her. They were the hostess of the Lamb at Zwieselstein and the pretty slim Afra; she found herself close to Wally, and nodded to her, then looked back at Joseph, who was walking behind with the men--so at least it seemed to Wally. Afra looked so lovely at this instant, that for sheer jealousy Wally forgot to return her salute. Then she heard Afra say to her companion, "See there, that is the Vulture-maiden, that let her vulture tear Joseph to pieces nearly! Now she'll not even take my good-day--and yet I've said many a Pater Noster for her." "Thou might have spared thyself the trouble then," Wally broke in, "I want none to pray for me--that I can do for myself." "But as it seems to me, thou doesn't do it," retorted Afra. "I've no need to pray as much as other folk; I've enough and to spare, and don't need to pray to God like a poor maid-servant, who must say a Pater Noster whenever she's in want of a new shoe-ribbon." The angry blood mounted in Afra's face. "Oh, for that matter, a shoe-ribbon that's been prayed for may bring more happiness than a silver necklace that's been got in a godless way." "Yes, yes," said the hostess, putting in her word, "Afra's in the right there." "If my necklace doesn't please thee, walk behind me, then thou'll not see it; nor does it become the mistress of the Sonnenplatte to walk behind a servant wench." "It'd do thee no harm to tread in Afra's footsteps--that I tell thee plainly," retorted the innkeeper's wife. "Shame on you, hostess, to lower yourself by taking part with your own maid," cried Wally with flashing eyes. "He who doesn't value himself, none other will value!" "Oh! then a maid-servant's not a human soul!" said Afra, trembling from head to foot. "A silk gown though, makes no difference to the good God; He sees what's beneath it, a good heart or a bad!" "Yes, truly," cried Wally with an outbreak of hatred, "it's not every one can have so good a heart as thine--above all towards the lads. Go to the Devil!" "Wally!" exclaimed Afra, and the tears rushed from her eyes. But she had to be silent, for at this moment the procession had again reached the church, the last benediction was pronounced, and the procession broke up. Wally shot by Afra like a queen, so that she had to cling to her companion; she had almost run over the girl, and every one turned to look after her. The men said no more beautiful maid was to be found in all the Tyrol, but the women were bursting with envy. "She looks rather different now to what she did up on the Hochjoch, with a dog's hole to live in and neither combed nor coiffed--like a wild thing!" said Joseph, who was standing not far off, and looked at her with wondering eyes; then he nodded a farewell to Afra, and quitted the crowd; he wanted to be home by midday. But Afra hastened after Wally. Her pretty blue eyes sparkled with tears, like water sprinkled on a fire; she was beside herself with anger, and so was the innkeeper's wife. They caught up Wally at the village inn. She too was in the most terrible agitation; she had seen the affectionate familiar farewell that Joseph had nodded to Afra, and to her--to her, as she believed--he had not vouchsafed a single glance. And now he was gone, and all the hopes betrayed that she had set on this day's doings. This Afra! all her anger was centered on her, she could have trampled her under foot. And here was Afra standing before her, stopping her way and speaking to her with angry defiance--she, the low servant-girl! "Mistress" Afra brought out breathlessly, "thou's said a thing that I cannot let pass, for it touches my character--what did thou mean by saying I had a good heart towards the lads? I will know what lay behind those words!" "Dost wish to make a quarrel with Wallburga Stromminger," cried Wally, and her flashing eyes looked straight down upon the girl. "Dost think I'd enter into strife with such a one as thou?" "With such a one as me," cried the girl, "what sort of one am I then? I'm a poor maid and have had none to care for me, but I've done no one any harm, nor set fire to any one's house. I've no need to put up with anything from _thee_--know that." Wally started as though stung by a snake. "A wench art thou, a shameless servant wench that throws thyself on a lad's neck before every one," she cried, forgetting herself and every thing, so that the people crowded round her. "What? who? whose neck?" stammered the girl, turning pale. "Shall I tell thee? Shall I?" "Yes, speak out; I have a good conscience, and the mistress of the Lamb here, she can testify that it is not true." "Indeed--not true! is it not true that two years ago, when thou hardly knew Joseph, he dragged thee with him over the Hochjoch, and had to carry thee half the way because thou made as though thou could walk no farther? Is it not true thou'st never let him be since, so that everyone names him and thee together? Is it not true thou keeps Joseph away from other maids that have better right and were better wives for him than thou--a vagabond serving-girl? Is it not true that only the other day, when he had fought the bull, thou fell on his neck before the whole village as if thou'd been his promised wife? Is none of that true?" Afra covered her face with her hands, and wept aloud, "Oh, Joseph, Joseph, that I should have to put up with this." "Be quiet, Afra," said the good natured landlady consolingly, "she has betrayed herself, it's only her anger because Joseph doesn't run after her and won't burn his fingers for her like the other lads. If only Joseph were here he would make her tell a different story." "Yes, I can well believe that he wouldn't leave his pretty sweetheart in the lurch," said Wally, with a laugh so terribly sharp and shrill that the sound re-echoed from the hills like a cry of pain. "Such a sweetheart, who hangs about his neck, is no doubt more convenient than one who must first be won, and with whom it might come to pass that he'd have to take himself off again with scorn and mockery. The proud bear-hunter would no doubt sooner mate with such a one than with the Vulture-Maiden!" The innkeeper now stepped forward. "Hearken," he said, "I've had enough of this; the lass is a good lass--my wife and I, we answer for her, and we'll let no harm come to her. Do thou take back thy words; I order it--dost understand?" Again Wally laughed aloud, "Landlord," she said. "Did thou ever hear tell that the Vulture lets itself be ordered by the Lamb?" Everyone laughed at the play of words, for the host of the Lamb was proverbially called a "Lamperl,"[1] because he was a weak good-natured man who would put up with anything. "Aye, thou deserves thy name, thou Vulture-Wally--that thou dost." "Make way there," Wally now exclaimed, "I've had enough of this--this threshing of empty straw. Let me pass!" and she would have pushed Afra on one side under the doorway. But the innkeeper's wife held Afra by the arm. "Nay, thou's no call to make way--get thee in first; thou'rt no worse than she is," she said, as she tried to press through the door with Afra in front of Wally. Wally seized Afra by the waist, lifted her up and flung her from the door into the arms of the nearest bystander. "First come the mistresses, and after them the maids," she said; then passing before everyone into the room she seated herself at the head of the table. Everyone chuckled and clapped their hands at the audacious jest. Afra cried and was so abashed that she would not go in, and the innkeeper and his wife took her home. "Only wait, Afra," said the good woman consolingly on the way home, "I'll send Joseph to her, and he will take her in hand." But Afra only shook her head and said no one would do her any good; disgraced she was, and disgraced she must remain. "Well, but why must thou needs begin a quarrel with that bad girl of Stromminger's," said the landlord, scolding her good-naturedly, "every one keeps out of her way that can." Meanwhile Wally sat within and looked out of window at Afra departing with her companions; her heart beat so that the silver pendants to her necklace tinkled softly. She was called upon to eat, the vermicelli soup was getting cold; but she found the soup bad and the mutton as tough as leather; she tossed a gulden on the table, would take no change, and in the face of all the astonished peasants rustled out of the house. Just as she had done after her confirmation five years before, she tore off her fine clothes when she got home, and flung them into the chest. The silver necklace with its filigree work she trampled into a shapeless mass. What good had her splendour done her? It had not helped her to please the only one whom she desired to please. And, as once before, she threw herself on her bed, angrily chafing against the holy images. A piercing torment tortured her soul as if with knives. Her eyes fell on the carved image of Wallburga above her, and then she thought that the pain she was enduring might be the knife of God working on her, to make out of her a Saint--as the curé had said. But why should she be made a saint? She would so much rather be a happy woman. And that might have been done so easily; the good God would not have needed to carve her out for that--she would already have been quite right just as she was! So she murmured and rebelled against the knife of God. CHAPTER XI. At Last. For some time Wally's moods had been almost unendurable. The whole night through she would wander about in the open air; by day she was full of unceasing and indomitable energy, labouring restlessly early and late, and expecting every one else to do the same--an impossibility for most people. Vincenz might now venture to call again, for he always knew the latest news in the valley--and Wallburga had all at once grown eager for news. When Vincenz perceived this, he made it his express business to enquire far and near, so as always to have some new thing to retail to Wally, who thus became gradually accustomed to see him every day. He soon observed that she always showed more curiosity about Sölden and Zwieselstein than about any other place, and cunning as he was, he easily discovered the reason. He constantly brought word of the continued intimacy between Joseph and Afra; it was news that threw Wally into the most frightful agitation, but he feigned not to perceive this, and cautiously avoiding any mention of his own love, succeeded in making her feel secure and trustful with him. But he was consumed with jealousy of Joseph; that Hagenbach was the curse of his life. There was no glory in which he had not anticipated him, no deed of valour in which he had not stood before him, no match at skittles or at shooting at which he had not carried off the prize, and now he had taken from him Wally's heart also--Wally's heart, which his persistent suit might perhaps have won, had not Joseph been there. "Why does God Almighty pour everything down on one man and deal so niggardly with another?" growled Vincenz, and tormented himself secretly as much as Wally did. If they had only done their lamentations and grumbling together, it would have been enough to desolate the whole Oetz valley! One evening--it was in haytime--Wally was helping to load a large hay-cart; the load was ready and only the great crossbar had to be set in its place, but the hay was piled so high that the men could not throw it across. When they had got it half way up, they let it slip again, laughing and playing foolish tricks the while. Wally's patience all at once gave way. "Get out, you blockheads," she exclaimed, and mounted on the waggon, pushing the men to right and left out of her way; then drawing in the rope, she pulled up the crosstree, seized hold of one end of it with both her rounded arms, and with a single jerk hoisted it on to the waggon. A shout of admiration broke from all; the girls laughed at the men for not being able to do what a woman had done, and the men scratched their heads and thought that all could not be as it should be with the mistress, and that the devil must have a hand in it. Wally stood on the waggon, and looked at the red setting sun. In her attitude and on her features was an expression of proud satisfaction; once more she had felt the certainty that not one was her equal, and strong in her sense of power, she was ready to challenge the whole world. At that moment Vincenz came up. "Wally," he called out to her, "thou looks like Queen Potiphar on the elephant. If Joseph had seen Potiphar like that, for certain he'd not have been so bashful." Wally turned crimson at these offensive words, and sprang down from the waggon. "I forbid such jests with me," she said, when she was on the ground. "Nay," disclaimed Vincenz, "I meant no harm; but thou looked so handsome up there, it came out without thinking: it shall not happen again." They walked on silently together. "What news is stirring?" asked Wally at last, according to custom. "Not much," said Vincenz; "they say that Hagenbach is going to take the maid Afra to the dance at Sölden on St. Peter's Day. I heard it from the messenger who had had to fetch a new pair of shoes from Imst for Afra, and a silk neckerchief, and Joseph paid for them." Wally bit her lips and said nothing, but Vincenz saw what was passing in her mind. "I tell thee what," said Vincenz, "we also do things in style on St. Peter's Day, and if the peasant-mistress would come, there would be a feast to be talked of far and wide; come for once with me to the dance." Wally gave her head a short toss. "I'm the right sort to go to dances," she said. "Nay go, Wally," urged Vincenz, "just for once, if it's only to spite people." "Much I care for them," said Wally, laughing contemptuously. "But think a bit, people say--" he paused. Wally stood still. "What do they say?" she asked, looking at him piercingly. Vincenz shrank back at the expression on her countenance, "I only mean that they say thou's got some secret trouble. The upper servant says thou wast out the whole night, and goes wandering about like a sick chicken. And folk say thou'st everything heart can desire, and suitors as many as the sand on the seashore, so if thou's not content with that, there must be some love-sorrow on thy mind--and ever since what happened at the Procession--" "Well! go on!" said Wally huskily. "Since then they say that Joseph is the only lad in the Oetz valley that thou cares to catch--and that he won't bite." He darted a lightning glance at Wally as he said the words; they touched her to the quick. She had to stand still and lean her forehead against the trunk of a tree, the blood throbbed so in her temples. "And if it is so, if they do say such things behind my back--" she gasped, but she could not finish; a sudden mist seemed to cloud and confuse all her thoughts. Vincenz gave her time to recover herself; he knew what it must be to her, for he knew her pride. After a time he said, "Look here, it seems to me thou'd best come with me to the dance; that were the best way to stop peoples' mouths." Wally drew herself up. "I go with no lad to the dance that I don't mean to marry--that I tell thee once for all!" she said. "If I was thee, I'd sooner marry Vincenz Gellner than die an old maid for love of Hagenbach," said Vincenz sneeringly. Wally looked at him with newly-awakened aversion. "I wonder thou'rt not tired of that," she said; "when thou knows well it's all of no good." "Wally, I ask thee for the last time, can thou not bring thyself to think of me as a husband?" "Never--never! sooner will I die," she said. Vincenz' sharp and prominent cheek bones became white spots on his yellow face; he looked almost like the vulture, glancing sideways at Wally, as at some defenceless prey. "I'm sorry, Wally," he said, "but I've somewhat to say to thee--something that I'd fain have spared thee, but thou forces me to it. I've given thee a twelvemonth, and now I must speak." He drew a written sheet of paper from his pocket. "It's nigh upon a year since thy father died, and if thou doesn't marry me at the year's end thy right to the farm is over." Wally stared at him. He unfolded the paper. "Here's thy father's will, by which he appoints that if thou don't marry me by a twelvemonth after his death, the farm and all belonging to it is mine, and thou gets no more than he was bound by law to leave thee. There'll be an end then of the proud peasant-mistress. As yet, no one knows of this. Thou can turn it over once more, and in the end I fancy thou'll give in, sooner than go with me before the justices, and have the will carried out." Wally stood still, and measured Vincenz from head to foot with a single glance of cold contempt, then said with perfect calmness: "Oh thou pitiful fool! In _this_ net then thou'st thought to catch the Vulture-maiden? You are a pair, thou and my father, but neither one nor the other of you knew me. What do I care for money or property? That which I want cannot be bought with gold, and so I care nothing for it. On Monday will I pack up my things, and go away again, for thy guest I'll never be--no, not for an hour. And if it gives me pain to leave this farm, where I first saw the light--still, I've been no happier as mistress than when I minded the cattle--and as much a stranger here as there. So it's all for the best, and I'll leave the place, and go away as far as I can." Calmly she turned towards the house. A wild anguish seized Vincenz; he threw himself at her feet, and clasped her knees. "I never meant that," he cried, "thou mustn't go away,--for God's sake, don't serve me so--what do I want with the farm? I only meant--my God, my God--only to try everything!" With one hand he held Wally fast, with the other he thrust the paper into his mouth, and tore it with his teeth. "There, there, see, there goes the scrawl--I'll have none of the farm, if thou'll not stay--there--there--" he strewed the fragments to the wind, "I want nothing--nothing--only don't thou serve me so--don't go away!" Wally looked at him in wonder. "I pity thee, Vincenz, but I cannot help thee--no more than I myself am helped. Keep thou the farm and all that belongs to it; my father left it to thee, and that remains the same, although thou hast torn up the will--I'll take nothing as a gift from thee. Everything here is hateful to me, even now--why should I wait? No one is any good to me, nor I to any one. I'll take my Hansl, and go up again to the mountain--that is where I belong. But if I might ask thee one thing--tell no one till I'm gone that the farm was never mine; for thou seest--there's one thing I cannot bear--that folk should make fun of me. That--that drives me mad. Think of the pointing, and the scorn when they know that the proud Wally Stromminger has been turned out of house and home like a maidservant--I couldn't live through it. Let me at least go forth as mistress." "Wally," cried Vincenz, "where thou goest, I will go. Thou cannot hinder me--the roads are free to all, and he who will, may run. If thou'rt resolved to leave--I go with thee." Wally looked at him with amazement, as he stood there raving before her, and she shuddered as though she had raised some evil spirit. "What will come of it all?" she murmured helplessly. At this moment the messenger from Sölden was seen coming across the meadows from the house straight towards Wally. He had a big nosegay in his hat and in his Sunday-coat, like a bridal messenger. "He's come to bid thee to Joseph and Afra's wedding," cried Vincenz with a wild laugh. Wally's foot stumbled against something; she caught hold of Vincenz, and he seized her round the waist and held her. Meanwhile the messenger came up, and took off his hat to Wally. "Good day to thee, Mistress. Joseph Hagenbach sends thee friendly greeting, and asks thee to the dance on St. Peter's Day. If it's thy pleasure, he will come up at noon and fetch thee down to the Stag. Thou'lt send an answer by me." If Heaven itself had opened before Wally, and Hell before Vincenz, it would have been much the same thing. Then it was not true about Afra! He had come to Wally--he had come after five years of sorrow and suffering--at last, at last! The word was spoken--the winds bore it triumphantly onwards, the breezes echoed it back again, the white glaciers smiled at it in the evening sunshine; Joseph the Bear-hunter bade the Vulture-maiden to the dance! The labourers in the field shouted, the waggons swayed beneath their loads, the vulture on the roof flapped his wings for joy--the two who belonged to one another were come together at last! Joy to all mankind: the race of giants would live again in this one pair. And smiling graciously, like a Queen beneath the myrtle crown, Wally bowed her beautiful head and told the messenger, half-bashfully, that she should expect Joseph. Vincenz leaned against a tree, distorted, faded, mute--a ghost of the past. Wally threw him a compassionate glance--he was no longer to be dreaded: she bore a charmed life, none could hurt or harm her more. She hastened into the house, and the servants looked at her wonderingly, such rapture lay in her expression. But she could not stay indoors; she took money, and went through the village like a bliss-bestowing fairy. She entered all the poorest huts, and gave with liberal hand out of that which she could rightfully and lawfully call her own,[2] for she had decided irrevocably that the farm should belong to Vincenz. She was still rich enough to give to Joseph, and to all around her--even her rightful share of Stromminger's estate was a fortune. She must do good to all; she could not bear alone her newly-learnt, immeasurable happiness. The two days before St. Peter's festival were like a fairy tale to all the villagers. Who could now recognize the morose and bitter Vulture-maiden in the beatified girl who moved about as though borne on invisible wings? It had needed but this one ray of sunshine, and the hail-stricken, frost-bitten blossom had sprung up again. An inexhaustible power made itself felt in her bosom, a power for love as for hatred, for joy as for pain, for self-sacrifice as for defiance. All around her breathed more freely; it was as though a spell had been taken off them since Wally's dark repining spirit, that had weighed like a storm-cloud upon everything, had melted away. "When one is as happy as I am, every one else should rejoice too," she said; and soon it was known everywhere that it was because Joseph had asked her to the dance--which was almost the same as asking her in marriage--that Wally was so changed. Why should she conceal it, when in so few days it would be known? why should she deny that she loved him with all her heart, above everything? he deserved it all, and he loved her in return, or he would not be coming to fetch her to the dance. It was well for her that she dared to show all that she felt. If she met a child she took it in her arms, and told it how, on St. Peter's Day, Joseph the bear-hunter was coming--Joseph, who had slain the great bear, and saved the innkeeper's little Lieserl from the mad bull, and how they would all open their eyes, he was so tall, and so beautiful to look at--they had never seen such a man, for there was not such another in all the wide world. The children were quite excited, and played all day at Bear and Joseph the bear-hunter. Then she joked with Hansl, threatening him playfully. "Thou'rt to behave thyself when Joseph comes, else something will happen--that I can tell thee!" and Klettenmaier and all the best of the servants had new holiday-clothes--they knew well enough the reason why; but Wally let them chatter as they would about it, and was not angry. Then again she would sit for hours quietly in her room, doing nothing, wondering only how it had happened that Joseph had so suddenly changed his mind; but however much she thought and thought she could not understand why the unhoped-for happiness, so sudden, so full, so complete, had come upon her; and she looked up at her holy images, no longer with enmity, but with friendly eyes, and thanked them for all the good that they had brought to her. But when she looked at the cards that were nailed up above her bed, she laughed aloud. "Well, what do you now say? Own that you knew nothing of what was coming!" and like enchanted spirits that no liberating spell can call forth again into the light, the secrets of the future stared unintelligibly at her from these mute tokens. If only old Luckard had been there, she could have told what it was the cards replied to Wally--but to her they were dumb, like a cipher of which the key is lost. If Luckard had been alive, how rejoiced she would have been! Wally would have liked to lie down and sleep till the day of the festival, so that the time might not appear so long. But there was no question of sleep; she could not even close an eye by day or by night for impatience. She was always counting, "Now so many hours more--now so many--" At last the day was come. After breakfast Wally went to her room, and washed herself, and combed her hair without end. Once more she was a woman--a girl! Once more she stood before the glass, and adorned herself, and looked to see if she were fair, if she might hope to find favour in Joseph's eyes; and once more she had procured a new necklace, even more beautiful than the first, and filigree pins for her hair as well. The box was on the table before her, she took out the ornament, and tied it above her bodice; the bright silver was as white as the snowy pleated sleeves of her chemise and tinkled like clear marriage-bells, and through the rose-coloured chintz curtains a dim rosy light shed a tender mist of bridal-glow over the girl's noble figure. When she was ready, she took from its case a meerschaum pipe heavy with silver, such as no peasant of the country had far and wide--a really splendid pipe--and yet she held it long in her hand, doubting whether it were good enough for Joseph. And still there was something else, that she took out slowly, almost timidly, looking at the door to see if it were securely fastened; it was a small round box, and in it there lay--a ring. She trembled as she took it out, and a tear of unutterable joy and thankfulness glistened in her eye. She held the ring in her folded hands, and for the first time for many days she knelt down, and she prayed over it that the beloved one might be linked to her for ever. And she no longer heard the rustle of her silks, and the tinkle of her silver ornaments; she was lost in the passionate fervour of her prayers; she pressed forward as it were to the presence of God with the vehemence of a thankful child whose father has granted its warmest desire. "The mistress will never have done with dressing herself to-day," said the maids outside, as Wally did not appear. Already the peasants were flocking to the Stag. Whoever had feet to go on, and Sunday-clothes to go in, would be there to-day, for the whole village was stirred by the great event of the peasant-mistress going to the dance with Joseph Hagenbach. The road swarmed with people, and the landlord of the Stag had done his best, and sent for musicians to come from Imst. The upper maid-servant stood at the dormer-window above, and looked down the road by which Joseph must come. Wally stood ready dressed in her room; her heart beat like a sledge-hammer, her cheeks glowed, her hands were icy-cold, she held her white neatly-folded handkerchief pressed tightly to her heart--it had been her mother's wedding handkerchief. The pipe and the ring for Joseph she had hidden away in her pocket; so she waited motionless whilst the minutes passed by, and this silent pause of expectation, in which her breath almost failed her for impatience, was certainly one of the hardest experiences of her life. "They're coming, they're coming!" cried the maid at last. "Joseph and a crowd of other lads from Zwieselstein and Sölden, and the landlord of the Lamb--it's a regular procession!" Everyone ran out into the courtyard; already the noise of the approaching steps and voices could be heard in Wally's room. She came out, and a general "Ah!" of admiration broke from all as she appeared. At the same moment the procession approached the farm-gate, Joseph at its head. She went forward to meet him, modestly but with the beaming loftiness of a bride who is proud of her bridegroom--proud to have been chosen by such a man. "Joseph, art thou there?" she said, and her voice sounded soft and loving as she had never spoken before. Joseph glanced at her with a strange, almost a shamefaced look, and then cast his eyes down again. Wally was startled--was it on purpose, or was it by accident? Joseph had placed his black-cock feather upside down, as the young men are in the habit of doing when they seek a quarrel. It could only have happened from an oversight today! Every one stood round and watched her; she was so anxious that she could say no more, and he also was silent. She looked at him with eyes full of fervent moisture, but his avoided hers. He was as much embarrassed as she was, she thought. "Come," he said at last, and offered his hand. She laid hers in it, and they silently walked as far as the Stag. The strangers and all the servants closed the procession. As, sometimes, when we have gazed at the sun, all grows black before us, even in full daylight, so now with Wally in the midst of her happiness, all suddenly grew dark to her soul. She knew not how it was; she was bewildered and hardly knew herself--it was all so different from what she had imagined. A noisy countrydance was beginning as they entered the Stag, and as Wally passed down the long rows of dancers with Joseph, she heard the people say: "There is not a handsomer couple in the whole world." She now saw for the first time how many strangers had come with Joseph, and that all her rejected suitors were there also. Once more she silently compared them with Joseph, and she could truly say there was not one of them who came up to him for stature and beauty. He was a king among the peasants, a mortal of quite another stamp to the ordinary men who stood around him, and her eye rested with silent delight on the tall figure, from his broad chest down to his slender knees and ankles. Any one seeing him thus must surely understand that him only would she have, and none other. As she looked round, her glance met two piercing black eyes directed like daggers at Joseph. It was Vincenz, wedged in among the crowd. And not far off was another melancholy face--that of Benedict Klotz, who observed her thoughtfully. As she passed him, he pulled her gently back by the sleeve. "Mind what thou'rt about, Wally," he whispered, "there's some plot against thee--I don't know what, but I forebode no good." Wally shrugged her shoulders carelessly. What harm could happen to her, when Joseph was at her side? The sets formed for the dance, and Joseph and Wally were to begin; every one wanted to see them dance together. No couple had yet been watched with such envious eyes as this well-dressed, distinguished-looking pair. Joseph, however, moved away from Wally's side, and stood before her with something of solemnity in his air. "Wally," he said aloud, and the music stopped at a sign from the host of the Lamb, who stood behind them, "I hope that before we dance together, thou'lt give me the kiss that no one of thy suitors has yet been able to win from thee?" Wally coloured and said softly, "But not here Joseph, not before everyone." "Precisely here, before everyone," said Joseph, with strong emphasis. For a moment Wally struggled between desire and sweet embarrassment; to kiss a man before all these people was to her chaste and half-defiant spirit a severe humiliation. But there he stood before her, the man so dear to her heart; the moment for which she would joyfully have given a year of her life--nay her life itself--was there, and should she reject it for the sake of a few bystanders who could do her no harm, if she did kiss her bridegroom? She raised her beautiful face to his, and his eyes were fixed for a moment on the full and blooming lips that approached his own. Then with an involuntary movement, he pushed her gently from him, saying softly, "Nay, not so; a true hunter shoots his game only on the spring or on the wing--that I told thee once before. The kiss I'll wrest from thee, not take it as a gift. And were I a maid like thee, I'd give myself away less cheaply. Defend thyself, Wally, that I may win no easier than the others, else my honour is lost." A scarlet blush overspread Wally's face; she could have sunk into the ground for shame. Had she then so completely forgotten what she owed to herself, that her lover must remind her of it? She was crimson to her very eyes--it was as though a wave of blood were surging to her brain. Drawing herself up to her full height, with one flaming glance she measured herself with him. "Good," she said, "thou shalt have thy will--thou also shalt learn to know the Vulture-maiden. Look to thyself, whether now thou'lt get the kiss!" She was almost suffocated. She tore off her neckerchief and stood there in her silver-clasped velvet bodice and white linen chemise, so that Joseph's eyes rested in amazement on her beautiful bare neck. "Thou'rt handsome--as handsome as thou'rt wicked," he muttered, and springing on her, as a hunter springs on a wild animal to give the death-blow, he threw his strong arms round her neck. But he did not know the Vulture-maiden. With one powerful wrench she was free, and there was a laugh of derision from all those with whom it had fared no better, that maddened Joseph. He seized her round the waist with arms of iron, but she struck him such a blow on the heart, that he cried out and staggered backwards. Renewed laughter! With this blow, of which she knew the value, she had always defended herself against her importunate suitors, for none had held out after it. But Joseph smothered his pain, and with redoubled fury threw himself again on the girl, seized her by the arms with both hands, and so tried to approach her lips; but in an instant she bent herself down on one side, and now ensued a breathless struggle up and down, to and fro, an oppressive silence broken only by an occasional oath from Joseph. The girl bowed and twisted herself hither and thither like a snake in his arms, so that he could never reach her mouth. It was no longer a strife for love--it was a struggle for life and death. Three times he had got her down to the ground, three times she sprang up again; he lifted her in his arms, but she always twisted herself round, and he could not touch her lips. Her fine linen hung in rags, her silver necklace was all broken to pieces. Suddenly she freed herself, and flew to the doorway; he overtook her, and like a stormwind tore her back into his arms. It was a fierce and glowing embrace. His breath floated round her like hot steam; she lay on his breast; she felt his heart beat against her own; her strength left her, she fell on her knees before him, and said, as if fainting with pain, and shame, and love, "Thou hast me!" "Ah!" a heavy sigh broke from Joseph. "You have all of you seen it?" he asked aloud--he bent down and pressed his mouth upon her hot and quivering lips. A loud hurrah filled the room. She got up and sank almost senseless on his breast. "Stay!" he said in a hard voice, and stepped back a little, "ONE kiss is enough--no need of more. Thou'st seen now that I can master thee--and no further will I go." Wally stared at him, as if she could not understand his words. She was of an ashy paleness. "Joseph," she stammered, "why then art thou come?" "Didst think I had come to woo thee?" he answered. "Lately at the procession thou'st said before everyone that Afra was my sweetheart, because she was so easy to be had,--and that Joseph the bear-slayer had not the heart to try and win the Vulture-Wally. Didst truly think a lad with any spirit in him would let such things be said of him and of an honest girl? I only wished to show thee that I can master thee as I can a bear, or a mad bull, and the kiss I have won from thee, that will I take to Afra, as a kiss of atonement for the wrong that thou hast done her. Now take heed to thyself another time when thy haughty temper moves thee. Henceforth, perhaps, thou'll forego the pleasure of holding up a poor and honest girl to scorn and derision--now that thou'st felt what it is to be a laughing-stock thyself." A shout of laughter from all sides closed Joseph's speech, but he turned with displeasure from the applause. "You have seen that I've kept my word," he said, "and now I must go to Zwieselstein to comfort Afra. The good soul wept to think that I should play the peasant-mistress such a shabby trick. God keep you all." He went, but they all ran after him; it had been too good a joke. Joseph was something like a man. He had shown the proud peasant-mistress that she had a master. "It will do her good!" "It will serve her right!" "Joseph, that's the best day's work thou's ever done." "No one'll have anything to do with her, when this is known." Thus laughed the chorus of rejected suitors, as they crowded joyfully round Joseph. The dancing-floor was deserted--only two persons remained with Wally, Vincenz and Benedict. Wally stood still in the same place and did not stir; it was as if she were lifeless. Vincenz watched her with folded arms. Benedict went up to her and took her gently by the arm. "Wally, don't take it so to heart--we are here, and we'll get satisfaction for thee. Wally--speak. What shall we do? we are all ready, only say what thou'd have us to do." Then she turned round, her large eyes had a ghostly gleam in them, her face was ghastly pale. She opened and closed her lips once or twice, one word there was she struggled to utter, but it seemed as if the breath to speak it failed her. At last she brought it out, as from the very depths of her being,--more a cry than a word: "DEAD would I have him!" Benedict drew back. "God forbid, Wally!" he said. But Vincenz stepped forward with flashing eyes. "Wally, art thou in earnest?" "Ay, in bloody earnest!" She lifted her hand at the oath, her hand was quite stiff and the nails blue, as in one dead. "He who lays him dead at his Afra's feet--him will I marry, as truly as I am Wallburga Stromminger." CHAPTER XII. In the Night. All through the night a strange and measured sound was audible throughout the silent, sleeping farm-house. Now and then the maids awoke and listened, without knowing what they heard, then turned to sleep again. The boards cracked and the beams trembled, slightly but unceasingly. It was Wally who paced backwards and forwards with heavy, unpausing steps, her sinking heart engaged in a death-struggle with herself, with Fate, with Providence. All around was shattered--her clothes flung about the room, on the floor the carved St. Wallburga, the crucifix, the holy images, all broken to fragments in impotent wrath. She had half-undressed, and her hair fell loose and disordered on her bare shoulders. A red gleaming pine-torch flickered in its socket, and in the trembling shadows the features of the broken figure of Christ looking distorted and living. She stayed her steps, and looked down on the fragments. "Ay, thou may grin," she said, "thou's always taken me for a fool. You're of no good, none of you; idols you are of wood and paper, and no help to any one. Neither prayer nor curse can you hear. And them for whom you stand, hide themselves, God knows where, and would laugh if they could see how we kneel down before a piece of wood." And she pushed the fragments under the bed, that they might not be in her way as she walked to and fro. A shot was heard in the distance. Wally stood still and listened; all was silent. She must have fancied it. Why should the sound have taken her breath away? She was not even sure that it was a shot. The thought flashed through her like lightning, "Suppose Vincenz should have shot Joseph!" It was mere folly, Joseph was safe at home--or perhaps at Zwieselstein with his Afra! She beat her head against the wall in nameless agony at the thought, and pictures rose before her that drove her frantic. If only he were dead--dead so that she need never think of him again! She flung the window open that she might breathe more freely. Hansl, who was asleep on a tree outside the window, woke up and fluttered in half-stupid with sleep. "Ah, thou!" cried Wally, and stretched out her arms to him; she clasped him to her breast, he was all--all that was left to her in the world. Again--a second shot, and this time distinctly in the direction of Zwieselstein; she let go of the vulture, and pressed her hand to her heart, as though she herself had been struck. Why this terror? The trifling incident had suddenly brought before her the whole terrible deed which yesterday she had sworn to. She could not help thinking again and again how it would be if the shot she had just heard had shattered Joseph's head, and a wild and frenzied joy came upon her. Now he belonged to her only, now none other could claim his kiss, and as she thought upon it, it seemed to her as though it had really happened; she saw him lying on the ground in his blood, she knelt down by him, she took his head in her lap, she kissed the pale face--the beautiful pale face--she saw it actually before her. And then suddenly pity overwhelmed her for the poor, dead man, a burning, unutterable pity; she called him by every loving name, she shook him, she chafed his hands--in vain, he was no more. Unspeakable anguish filled her soul; no, this must not be, he must not die--sooner would she part with her own life! She felt as if an icy cramp had been grasping and crushing her heart, so that no warm human blood could flow in her veins, and that now the grip was at last relaxed and the hot flood streaming into her heart again. She must go out, she must see whether Vincenz was at home, she must speak to him at once, before daybreak, she must tell him that the ghastly deed must not be done--she was in a fever, all her pulses throbbed. She had desired the deed, commanded it, but already the idea that it might have been done, extinguished her wrath--and she forgave. She threw a neckerchief on her shoulders, and hastened across the courtyard and through the garden to Vincenz' house. What would he, what would everyone think of her? It was all one--what did it matter now? She reached the house. There was a light in Vincenz' room on the groundfloor; noiselessly she glided up, she could see through the parted curtains--her heart stood still--the room was empty, the pine-torch almost burnt away. She went round the house; the door was unfastened, she opened it softly and went in. All was still as death, the men and maids fast asleep; she crept through the whole house, nothing stirred--Vincenz was away! The blood curdled in her veins; she went into his bedroom, the bed was disturbed--he must have laid himself down, then risen again; his Sunday clothes were hanging up, but his work-day clothes were missing, nor was his hat in its place. She looked into the sitting-room; the nail where his rifle usually hung was empty. Wally stood as if paralysed; she never knew how she got outside the house again. At the door she dropped on to a bench; her feet would carry her no further. She tried to reassure herself: most likely, restless as he was, he had gone out after some night game--what could he do to Joseph, quietly asleep somewhere--she shivered--on a soft pillow? And by day when everyone was up and about, nobody could touch or harm him. It was her evil conscience that pursued her with these terrors, and she hid her face in her hands. "Wally, Wally, what art thou become?" Shamed, scorned, degraded in the eyes of men, and a sinner in the eyes of God. Where was water enough to purify her? Down below, there rushed the torrent--that--yes, that would clear her from every stain; if she threw herself into that cold flood, all would be washed away, her sorrow and her guilt--the whole unblest existence created only to horror and to strife at once done away with--annihilated. Yes, that were redemption--why did she hesitate? Away with the useless shell that held the soul in fetters of guilt and suffering! She started up, but she could not move, she fell back upon the bench. Was this down-trodden, deadened spirit still held to life then by some invisible thread? There, God be praised! a footstep on the grass. There came Vincenz. Now she could speak with him; all might yet be well. "Saints above us!" exclaimed Vincenz, as she went forward to meet him, "is it thou?" He gazed at her as if she were a spirit. Wally saw in the morning twilight that he was pale and disturbed. His gun was on his shoulder. "Vincenz," she said in a low voice, "hast thou shot anything?" "Aye." "What?" She looked at his game-bag, it was empty. "Noble game," he whispered. Wally shivered. "Where is it?" "He lies in the Ache!" Wally seized him by the arm, in her eyes was a gleam of frenzy. "Who?" she said. "Dost need to ask?" "Joseph!" she cried, and staggered back against the wall. "It was a hard job," said Vincenz, wiping his brow; "I never thought he'd have come so soon within shot. The devil knows what brought him out and about by night. I thought I'd get up early, so as to be down in Sölden before he was stirring, and at the first step he walks right into my hands. But it was still so dark that the first shot missed, and the second only grazed him, but he must have turned giddy, for he stumbled on the bridge, and held on by the railing. I made the best of the chance,--I sprang behind him and pushed him over the rail." A groan like a death-rattle burst from Wally, and as a vulture swoops upon his prey, she flew at Vincenz and seized his throat with both hands. "Thou liest, Vincenz, thou liest--it is not true, it cannot be--say it is not true, or I'll murder thee." "On my soul, it's true;--didst suppose Vincenz'd think twice when there was ought to do for thee?" "Oh murder! most cruel and dastardly murder," sobbed Wally, trembling from head to foot, "so underhand, so cowardly, so base--that I never meant; in fair fight I meant that he should die. Cursed be thou in time and in eternity!--outcast and accursed now and hereafter. What can I do to thee? With tooth and nail thou ought to be torn in pieces." "So these are the thanks I get?" said Vincenz between his teeth. "Did not thou bid me do it?" "And if I did--what then? Was that a reason?" cried Wally wildly, "often one says in anger what afterwards one rues in bitterness. Could thou not wait till I had come to myself again after the awful shock? Joseph, Joseph!--wild and wicked I may be, but no murderess. Oh, why could thou not wait, only a few hours? Thy own wickedness it was that drove thee on, and thou could never rest till thou had worked it out." "That's right, lay it all on me," growled Vincenz; "and yet thou's thy share in the mischief too." "Aye," said Wally, "I have--and with thee I'll atone for it. For us two no mercy remains. Blood cries for blood--" She ground her teeth, and seizing Vincenz by the collar, dragged him forward with her. "Wally, leave go of me!--what dost thou want? My God, are these the thanks I get? Mercy--Wally, thou'rt choking me--where art thou dragging me to?" "To where we two belong," was the gloomy answer, and on she went as though borne by a whirlwind, up the ascent, on to the bridge where the sheer precipice overhangs the torrent--where the deed was done. "Down," was the one fearful word she thundered in his ear, "we two--together." "God above us!" shrieked Vincenz in terror, "thou swore that if I did the deed thou'd be my wife, and now wilt thou murder me?" Wally laughed her fearful laugh of scorn. "Thou fool, when I fling myself down yonder with thee, shall not we two be together to all eternity? will thou try to save thy wolfish life?" And with the strength of a giant she grasped him in her arms, and hurried him forward to the low parapet that she might throw herself with him into the twilight gloom of the abyss. "Help!" shrieked Vincenz involuntarily, and-- "Help!" sounded feebly, ghostly, like an echo from the depths. Wally stood as if turned to stone and let go her hold of Vincenz. What was that? Some mocking goblin? "Did thou hear it?" she said to Vincenz. "It was the echo," he said, and his teeth chattered. "Hark--again!" "Help!" sounded once more like a passing breath from the abyss. "All good spirits be praised, it is he--he lives--he is clinging somewhere--he calls for help! Yes--I am coming, Joseph, only wait, Joseph--I am coming!" she shouted out with a voice like a trumpet into the depths, and with a voice like a trumpet-call she hailed the sleeping village as she flew along the street, knocking at every door. "Help, help--a man is perishing, save him--help, for God's sake, help--it's life or death!" And at the cry everyone sprang from his bed, and threw open the windows. "What is it? what's the matter?" "It's Joseph Hagenbach--he's fallen into the ravine," cried Wally, "ropes--bring ropes--only come quick--it may already be too late--it may perhaps be too late by the time we get there." She flew like the wind, home to the farm, into the barn, collected all the ropes that were there, and knotted them together with trembling hands; but all she could tie together, ropes and lines and cords, were still not enough to reach into the depths where he lay--God only knew where. Meanwhile the men came running together half-incredulous, half-amazed at the terrible news, and brought with them ropes, and hooks and lanterns--for it seemed as if to-day it would never be light--and there was questioning and advising and helpless bewilderment, for in the memory of man no one had ever fallen over the cliff, and here on the broad Plateau they were not provided with ready means of rescue as they are in places where the dizzy precipices and yawning clefts and chasms every year demand their victims. Thus they came at last to the spot, and a chill terror seized even the most cold-blooded as they bent over the railing, and looked down into the mysterious depths of the abyss in which nothing could be seen but the surging mists that rose up from the water. Vincenz had disappeared; all was solitary and silent as death far and wide, above and below. Wally gave a halloo so shrill that the air trembled; all listened with suspended breath--no answer. "Joseph--where art thou?" she cried once more with a voice in whose tone the anguish of all suffering and desperate humanity seemed concentrated. All was still. "He doesn't answer--he is dead!" sobbed Wally, and threw herself in despair upon the earth. "Now all is over!" "Perhaps he's lost his senses, or is too weak to answer," said old Klettenmaier consolingly, then whispered in her ear. "Mistress, think of all the people." She raised herself and pushed her disordered hair off her forehead. "Tie the ropes together; don't stand there doing nothing--what are you waiting for?" The men looked at her doubtingly. "We must at least try if he's not to be found," said Klettenmaier. The men shook their heads, but began to fasten the cords together. "Who will let himself down by the rope?" they said. "Who?" said Wally. Her black eyes flashed out of her pale face. "I will!" she said. "Thou, Wally--thou's out of thy senses--the rope will scarce bear one, much less two." "It need bear only one," said Wally gloomily, and seized the rope that it might be done quicker. "It's impossible, Wally--thou'll have to tie thyself and him to it to come up again," said the men, dropping their arms helplessly; "the only thing to do is to send into the villages, and collect more ropes--" "And meanwhile he'll fall to the bottom if he's lost his senses, and all will be too late," cried Wally desperately. "I'll not wait till more comes--give it me here--unwind the rope, and see how long it is--go on--unwind!" She shook out the coils of rope, and tried its length and strength; involuntarily the men took hold of it again, they unwound the huge coil, the preparations began to take shape and order. The men stepped out to make a chain. "It may reach far enough, but it'll never bear two." "If it won't bear two, I'll send him up alone. Where he has room to lie, I shall have room to stand. As soon as I've found a footing, I'll untie myself, and tie the rope round him; then draw him up, and I can wait till the rope comes down again--" "Nay--that won't do--if he's weak or senseless he can't be pulled up alone; he'll be dashed and crushed against the cliff if there's no one with him to hold him off." Wally stood as if thunderstruck--she had not thought of that. Again, then, she was thwarted--she was not to reach him, except down yonder, perhaps, in the cold bed of the Ache! The rope would not bear two, that she herself could see. "In the name of God," she said at last, and in spite of the fever that shook her, she stood there dignified and commanding in her firm resolve. She tied the rope round her waist, and took her Alpenstock in her hand. "Let me down, that I may at least seek him. If I find him, I'll stay with him and support him till you've brought another rope, and let it down to us. I'll wait patiently down there, even if I've to wait for hours hanging between earth and heaven till the other rope can come." Old Klettenmaier fell on his knees before her. "Wally, Wally, don't thou do it, they all say the rope isn't safe. If it must be done, let me go--what does my old life matter? If I can do no good, at least thou'll see if the rope holds, and if it breaks, it'll only be me that's killed--not thee." "Aye, Wally, hear him," said another, "he's in the right; don't thou go. Only wait, bethink thyself a little till help comes from the villages." Wally threw up her arms, so that they all fell back. "When I was but a child, I did not wait to think before I took the vulture from its nest down the precipice--and shall I wait now when I go to seek Joseph? Speak no more to me--I will, I must go to him. Now--step back, unwind, hold fast!" And even as she spoke, she had sprung over the railing, whilst the men who formed the chain had to hold back with all their might, so great was the strain upon the rope. "God Almighty help us," said Klettenmaier crossing himself, then ran off, as if Wally's words had reminded him of something. All gazed after her with horror as she slowly sank lower and lower into the sea of mist till it had swallowed her up and closed over her, never perhaps to be seen again. All stood speechless round the spot where she had disappeared, as round a grave; the tightly-strained rope alone gave intelligence of the movements of the death-defying diver in this sea of clouds, and on it every eye was fixed--would it break?--would it bear? And each time one of the hastily-tied knots was paid out, every heart beat louder--"Would it hold?" The beads of sweat fell from the brows of the men who formed the chain, and involuntarily each tried once more the knots on which a human life depended. So passed minute after minute, heavy as lead,--as if time also were bound to some rope that dark powers refused to let go. Still the rope strained and swayed, still she must be hanging to it; she had not yet found a footing. "It's coming to an end," cried the last man of the chain, "it's not long enough." "God help us!" they all cried together, "not long enough!" Only a few yards remained, and still no sign from below that Wally's end was attained. The men pressed together as close as they could to the edge of the precipice, paying out as much of the rope as they dared. If it were not long enough;--if all had been in vain;--if they should be obliged to draw up the hapless Wally, to set forth once more on the way of death! There--there, the rope is suddenly loosened--it is slack--a fearful moment! Has it given way, or has its burden touched the ground? The women pray aloud, the children cry. The men begin slowly to pull in, but only a little way--the rope is tight again. It is not broken, Wally has found a footing, and now, listen! An echoing cry rises from the depths, and a quivering response bursts from every throat. Again the rope is slack, they wind it in, and again it is loosened once or twice; it would seem that Wally is climbing up the precipice. Meanwhile the day has broken, but a fine, cold rain is drizzling down and the swirl of fog below is thicker than ever. Now the rope sharply jerked to the right takes a slanting direction; the men follow it and pass from the left to the right side of the bridge. Wally seems to mount higher and higher; they continue to haul in. "God be praised!" said some, "he cannot have fallen so deep; if he lies so far up, he may still live." "Perhaps she's only looking for him," said others. Now another pull at the rope, and then a sudden slackening, and a soul-piercing scream. "It's broken!" shrieked the people. No, it is taut again--perhaps it was a scream of joy--perhaps she has found him. The women fall on their knees, even the men pray, for though all hated the haughty "peasant-mistress"--still, for the devoted girl who hangs down there in the chaos between life and death, every one that has a human heart trembles. If only a ray of sunshine would pierce the gloom for one single moment! All stand looking down, but they can distinguish nothing; they must leave it to time that passes with such slow reluctance, to reveal the event. The rope remains immovable, but not another sound reaches them from below. Is it broken and caught on some point of rock, while Wally lies dashed to pieces below? Why is there no signal, no call? And hours must pass before they can get help from the villages round. No one dares to speak a word--all stand listening with suspended breath. Suddenly old Klettenmaier comes running up, beckoning and shouting. "See what I've got," he called out, showing a whole length of stout rope thrown over his shoulders. "Thank God, when Wally spoke of the vulture, it all at once struck me that old Luckard had had the rope laid by that Stromminger let Wally down to the vulture's nest with;--and there sure enough I found it, in the loft under a heap of old lumber." "That is a find!" "Klettenmaier, that's a real godsend," cried the people confusedly. "God grant it may yet be of use," said the patriarch of the village, looking despondingly at the cord of deliverance, "she gives no farther sign!" "The rope is pulled!" shouted the foremost man of the chain, and at the same moment a cry came up, so close at hand, that when all was silent they could catch the words: "Is there no more rope?" "Ay, ay, plenty!" resounded joyfully from every side. A grappling iron was fastened for an anchor on to the end of the rope, a fresh chain of men was formed, and it was cast into the impenetrably shrouded abyss. The oldest of the peasants gave the word of command--for the ropes must be paid out exactly together, so that Wally might be close to the injured man and support him. Not half so far down as Wally had gone at first, the rope was caught below, and held fast. "Let out!" said the leader, in order that Wally might have a few more yards to fasten round Joseph. "Enough," he called out then, and like soldiers at the word of command, the men stood awaiting the next order. Again a few minutes' pause; she must make the loop securely and carefully, so that the senseless man, now so nearly saved, might not fall again into the abyss. "Tie it fast, Wally," panted Klettenmaier, half beside himself "Yes, for God's sake, let her make it fast," echoed the people. A thrice-repeated pull at both ropes at once. "Haul in!" commanded the leader, and his voice trembled as he spoke. The men at both ropes set their feet firmly in the ground, the veins swell in legs and arms and brows, sinewy hands are stretched forward to pull, and the lifting of the heavy loads begins. A fearful and responsible task!--if one fails, all is lost. "Steady," warns the leader, "watch each other." It is a solemn moment. Even the children dare not stir; nothing is audible far or near but the deep breath of the toiling men. Now!--now they appear through the mist, more and more distinctly.--Wally emerges with one arm supporting the lifeless body that hangs to the saving rope, whilst with the other she powerfully bears off from the precipice with her Alpenstock, to keep herself and him from being dashed against it. In this way, as if rowing, she ascends upwards through the sea of clouds. And at last they are there, close to the edge,--one pull more, and they can be lifted up. "Steady," says the leader--every breath is held--the last moment is the worst--if the rope were to break now! But no, the foremost of the chain stoop and seize them with a firm grasp, those behind hold fast to the rope. "Up!" cry the men in front. They are raised--they are there--they are on firm ground, and a ringing shout of joy relieves the long-oppressed hearts of the bystanders. Wally has sunk speechless on the inanimate body of Joseph. She does not see, she does not hear, how all crowd round her and praise her--she lies with her face upon his breast--her strength is gone. CHAPTER XIII. Back to her Father. In Wally's room, on Wally's bed, lay Joseph, stretched out, insensible. All was silent and still around him; she had sent every one away, she knelt by the bed, she hid her face in her convulsively clasped hands, and prayed. "Oh, Lord God!--my God! my God! have mercy and let him live; take from me everything--everything--but let him live. I'll ask no more of him, I'll shun him--I'll leave him to Afra even--only he must not die!" And then she stood up again and made fresh bandages for his head where the blood flowed from a gaping wound, and for his breast that had been torn by the crag, and threw herself upon him as though with her body she would close those portals through which his life was streaming away. "Oh, thou poor lad! thou poor lad! so stricken and brought down--oh, the sin of it--the sin of it! Wally, Wally, what hast thou done? Should thou not sooner have struck a knife into thine own heart--sooner have stood by at Afra's wedding, then gone home quietly and died, than have laid him there to see him perish like cattle that the butcher has felled?" Thus she lamented out loud whilst she bound his wounds, turning against herself with the same anger with which she had been used to revenge herself on others. She would have torn her heart out with her own hands if she could, in the wild and frenzied remorse that had seized her. Just then the door opened softly. Wally looked round in astonishment, for she had forbidden any one to disturb her. It was the curé of Heiligkreuz. Wally stood before him as before her judge, pale, trembling in her very soul. "God be praised!" cried the old man, "he is here then." He went up to the bed, looked at Joseph, and felt him. "Poor fellow," he said, "you have been roughly handled." Wally set her teeth to keep herself from crying out at these words. "How did they get him up again?" asked the priest, but Wally could not answer. "Well, thank God, He has averted the worst in His mercy," continued the curé. "Perhaps he will get well, and you will then at least have no murder on your conscience, though before the eternal judge the intention is as bad as the deed." Wally tried to speak. "I know everything," he said with severity; "Vincenz came to me when he fled, and confessed all--your love and his jealousy. I refused him absolution, and sent him to join the Papal army; there he may earn God's forgiveness by good service to the Holy Father, or expiate his crimes by death. But what shall I say to thee, Wally?" He looked at her sadly and piercingly with his shrewd eyes. Wally clasped her hands before her face. "Oh!" she cried aloud, "none can punish me with so bitter a punishment as I have brought on myself. There he lies dying, whom I loved best in all the world, and I have to tell myself that I did it. Can there be greater misery than that? Needs there anything more?" The priest nodded his head. "This then is what you have done--you have become a rough piece of wood, fit to slay men with! It has happened as I told you; you have resisted the knife of God, and now the Lord casts you on one side and leaves the hard wood to burn in the fire of repentance." "Ay, your reverence, it is so, but I know of water that will quench that fire. Into the Ache I will fling myself if Joseph dies--then all will be at an end." "Alas, poor fool! do you think that is a flame that earthly water can quench? Do you really think that, with your earthly body, you can drown your immortal soul? That would burn in the tormenting flame of eternal remorse, even if all the seas in the world were poured upon it." "What shall I do then?" said Wally gloomily; "what can I do but die?" "Live and suffer: that is nobler than death." Wally shook her head. Her dark eyes looked vaguely before her. "I cannot--I feel it--I cannot live, the phantom maidens thrust me down--all has happened as they threatened me in my dream: there lies Joseph crushed and broken, and I must follow him; it is fated so, and it must happen so, none can prevent it." "Wally, Wally!" cried the priest, clasping his hands in horror, "what are you saying? The phantom maidens? What phantom maidens? In Heaven's name! do we live in the dark heathen times when men believed that evil spirits made sport of them? I will tell you who the phantom maidens are:--your own passions. If you had learnt to tame your own wild unbridled will, Joseph would never have fallen over the precipice. It is easy to lay the blame of your own evil deeds to the influence of hostile powers. For that it is that our Lord came to us, to teach us to acknowledge that we bear the evil in ourselves, and must fight with it. If we control ourselves, we control the mysterious powers which drove even the giants of the past to destruction, because with all their strength they had no moral power to withstand them. And with all your strength, your hardness and your daring, you are but a pitiful, weak creature, so long as you do not know what every homely, simple handmaid of the Lord performs, who, every day in the strict discipline of her cloister-life, lays on God's altar the dearest wish of her heart, and esteems herself blessed in the sacrifice! If you had only one glimmer of such greatness in your soul, you need have no more fear of the 'phantom maidens,' and your foolish dreams would no longer direct your destiny, but your own clear and conscious will. Reflect for once whether that were not nobler and happier." Wally leaned against the bed-post; she felt as if raised to a newly-awakened and noble consciousness. "Yes," she said shortly and decidedly, and crossed her arms on her heaving breast, "your reverence is right--I understand, and I will try." "I will try!" repeated the old priest, "once before you said that to me--but you did not keep your word." "This time, your reverence, I will keep it," said Wally, and the priest silently admired the expression with which she spoke the simple words. "What security will you give me?" he said. Wally laid her hand on Joseph's wounded breast, and two large tears sprang to her eyes; no spoken vow could have said more. The wise priest was silent also, he knew no more was needed. The wounded man turned in his bed and muttered some unintelligible words. Wally made him a fresh bandage for his head; he half-opened his eyes, but closed them again and fell back in a death-like slumber. "If only the doctor would come!" said Wally, seating herself on a stool by the bed. "What o'clock may it be?" The priest looked at his watch. "What time did you send for him?" he said. "About five o'clock." "Then he cannot be here yet. It is only ten o'clock, and it is quite three hours to Sölden." "Only ten o'clock," Wally repeated in a low voice, and the good priest was filled with pity to see her sit there so quietly, her hands folded in her lap, whilst her heart beat with anguish so that it could be heard. He bent over the sick man, and felt his head and his hands, "I think you may be easy, Wally," he said, "he does not appear to me like a dying man." Wally sat motionless, gazing fixedly before her. "If the doctor comes and says that he'll live, I care for nothing more in this world," she said. "That is right, Wally, I am glad to hear you say that," said the curé approvingly, "and now relate to me how it was that Joseph was saved--that will help to shorten the time till the doctor comes." "There's not much to tell," answered Wally shortly. "Nay, it is a noble deed that does honour to the men of the Sonnenplatte," said the priest, "were you not there?" "Oh yes!" "Well then, be less short in your answers. I spoke with no one on the way, and have heard nothing about it. Who fetched him up from the ravine?" "I!" "God be gracious! You, Wally? you yourself?" cried the old man, staring at her with astonishment. "Yes--I!" "But how can you have done it?" "They let me down by a rope, and I found him fixed between a rock and the trunk of a fir-tree; if the tree had not been there he must have fallen into the torrent, and no one'd ever have seen him alive again." "Child," cried the old man, "that is a great thing to have done." "May be so," she answered quietly, almost hardly, "as I'd had him thrown yonder, it was for me to fetch him up again." "You are right,--that was only fair," said the priest, controlling his emotion with difficulty. "But it is not the less an act of atonement that may take some part of the guilt from your hapless soul." "That is all nothing," said Wally, shaking her head. "If he dies, it's I that have murdered him." "That is true, but you gave a life for a life. You risked your own to save his; you have atoned as far as was in your power for the crime you have committed--the issue is in God's hands." Wally heaved a deep sigh; she could not take in the comfort that lay in the priest's words. "The issue is in God's hand," she repeated out of the depths of her burdened heart. The eye of the priest rested on her with content; God would not reject this soul, in spite of its great faults and imperfections. Never yet, old as he was, had he met with her equal in power for good, as for evil. He looked at the wounded man who unconsciously clenched his fist in defiance. It almost angered him that he should despise the noblest gift that earth can offer man--a devoted love; that through his indifference he should have had it in his power to harden a heart so noble in its nature and capable of such high-minded sacrifice. "You stupid peasant-lout," he muttered between his teeth. Wally looked at him enquiringly: she had not understood. There was a knock at the door, and at the same moment the doctor entered the room. Wally trembled so that she was obliged to hold by the bedpost. Here was the man on whose lips hung redemption or condemnation. A crowd of people pressed in after him to hear what he would say, but he soon turned them all out again. "This is no place for curiosity; the sick man must have the most perfect quiet," he said decidedly, and shut the door. He was a man of few words. Only, when he took the bandage from the sick man's head, "There has been foul play again here," he muttered. Wally stood white and silent as a statue. The curé purposely avoided looking at her; he feared to disturb her self-possession. The examination began; anxious silence reigned in the little chamber. Wally stood by the window with averted face while the surgeon examined the wounds and used his probe. She had picked up something from the ground which she held convulsively clasped between her hands, and pressed again and again to her lips. It was the thorn-crowned head of the Redeemer that she had broken in the night. "Forgive, forgive," she prayed, pale and quivering in her deadly anguish. "Have mercy on me--I deserve nothing--but let Thy mercy be greater than my sin." "None of the wounds are mortal," said the doctor in his dry way. "The fellow must have joints like an elephant." Then Wally's strength went from her. The chord, too long and too highly strung, gave way, and loudly sobbing she threw herself on her knees by the bed, and buried her face in Joseph's pillows. "Oh, thank God! Thank God!" "What is the matter with her?" asked the doctor. The priest answered him by a sign that he understood. "Come, collect yourself," he said, "and help me to put on the bandages." Wally sprang up at once, wiped the tears from her eyes, and lent a helping hand. The priest observed with secret pleasure that she assisted the doctor as carefully and skilfully as a sister of charity; she did not tremble, she wept no more, she showed a steady and quiet self-control--the true self-control of love. And withal there was a glory on her brow, a glory in the midst of sorrow, so that the priest hardly knew her. "She will do yet--she will do," he said joyfully to himself, like a gardener who sees some treasured faded plant suddenly put forth new shoots. When the bandages were all fixed and the doctor had given his further orders, the priest went out with him, and Wally remained alone with Joseph. She sat down on the stool by the bed and rested her arms on her knees. He breathed softly and regularly now, his hand lay close to her on the counterpane--she could have kissed it without moving from her place. But she did not do it, she felt as if now she dared not touch even one of his fingers. If he had lain there dying or dead, then she would have covered him with kisses, as heretofore, when she believed him lost; the dead would have belonged to her--on the living she had no claim! He had died to her in the moment when the doctor had said he would live, and she buried him with anguish as for the dead in her heart, while the message of his resurrection came to her as the message of redemption. So she sat long, motionless by the side of the bed with her eyes fixed on Joseph's beautiful, pale face--suffering to the utmost what a human soul can suffer--but suffering patiently. She neither sighed nor lamented now, nor clenched her fist as formerly, in anger at her own pain; she had in this hour learnt the hardest of all lessons--she had learnt to endure. What sort of right had she, the guilty one, to complain--what better did she deserve? How could she dare still to wish for him, she who had almost been his murderess? How could she dare even to raise her eyes to him? No, she would bewail herself no more. "Thou dear God, let me expiate it as Thou will--no punishment is too great for such as I am--" So she prayed, and bowed her head humbly on her clasped hands. All at once the door was flung open, and with a cry of "Joseph, my own Joseph!" a girl rushed in, past Wally, and threw herself weeping upon Joseph; it was Afra. Wally had started up as if a snake had touched her: for an instant the battle raged within, the last and hardest fight. She grasped herself, as it were, with her own arms, as though to keep herself back from falling upon the girl and tearing her away from the bed--from Joseph. So she stood for a time, while Afra sobbed violently on Joseph's breast; then her arms fell by her side as if paralyzed, and beads of cold sweat stood on her brow. What would she have? Afra was in her rights. "Afra," she said in a low voice, "if thou truly loves Joseph, be still and cease these cries--the doctor says he must have perfect quiet." "Who can be still that has a heart, and sees the lad lie there like that?" lamented Afra, "it's easy for thee to talk, thou doesn't love him as I do. Joseph is all I have--if Joseph dies I am all alone in the world! Oh Joseph, dear Joseph--wake up, look at me--only once--only one word!" and she shook him in her arms. A low groan escaped from Joseph's lips and he murmured a few unintelligible words. Then Wally stepped forward and took Afra gently but firmly by the arm; not a muscle of her pale face moved. "I have this to say to thee, Afra: Joseph is here under my protection, and I am responsible for all being done according to the doctor's orders; and this is my house that thou'rt in, and if thou will not do what I tell thee, and leave Joseph in peace, as the doctor wishes, I'll use my right and put thee out at the door, till thou's come to thy senses and art fit to take care of him again--then," her voice trembled, "I'll leave him to thee." "Oh, thou wicked thing, thou--" cried Afra passionately, "thou'd turn me out of the house because I weep for Joseph? Dost think everyone has so hard a heart as thou, and can stand there looking on like a stone? Let go my arm! I've a better right than thou to Joseph, and if thou doesn't like to hear me cry, I'll take him up in my arms and carry him home--there at least I can weep as much as I please. I'm only a poor servant-maid, but if I'd to pay for it by serving all my days for nothing, I'd sooner nurse him in my own little room than let myself be shown the door by thee--thou haughty peasant-mistress!" Wally let go of Afra's arm; she stood before her with a white face, and with marks of such deadly suffering round her closed lips, that Afra cast down her eyes in shame, as if she divined how unjust she had been. "Afra," said Wally, "thou's no need to show such hatred, I don't deserve it of thee; for it was for thee I fetched him out of the abyss--not for me,--and it is for thee he will live, not for me! Look here, Afra, only an hour ago I'd sooner have throttled thee than have left thee by his bedside--but now all is broken, my spirit, and my pride, and--my heart," she added low to herself "And so I'll make way for thee willingly, for he loves thee, and with me he'll have nought to do. Stay thou with him in peace--thou need not take away the poor sick man. Sooner will I go myself. You two can stay at the farm so long as you will--I will account for it with him to whom it belongs now. And I will take care of you in everything, for you are both of you poor, and cannot marry if you have nothing. And so perhaps some day Joseph will bless the Vulture-maiden--" "Wally, Wally," cried Afra. "What art thou thinking of? I pray thee--oh Joseph, Joseph--if only I might speak!" "Let it be," said Wally, "keep thyself quiet--for love of Joseph, keep thyself quiet. And now let me go in peace; torment me no more, for go I must. Only one thing I pray thee in return for what I've done for thee, take good care of him. Promise me thou will, that I may go with an easy mind." "Wally," said Afra entreatingly, "don't thou do that, don't go away! What will Joseph say when he hears we've driven thee out of thy own house?" "Spare all words, Afra," said Wally firmly, "when once I have said a thing, it stands, come what may." She went to the chest, and took out a change of clothes, which she tied together in a bundle and threw over her shoulder. Then from a box she took a bundle of linen. "See, Afra," she said, "here is old and fine linen that thou'll need for bandages, and here is coarser to make lint, which the doctor will want when he comes this evening. Look, there are scissors--thou must cut it into strips the length of my finger. Dost understand? And every quarter of an hour, thou must put a fresh bandage on his head to draw the heat out. Tell me, can I trust thee not to forget? Think what it would be if, after I have fetched him out of the ravine, I should find that thou--thou had been careless in nursing him--here, at his bedside. And see, he must always lie with his head high, that the blood may not go to it--and shake the pillows up often. That is all, I think, now--I know of nought else. Ah, my God, thou'll not be able to lift him and lay him down as I do--thou hasn't got the strength. Get Klettenmaier to help thee; he is trustworthy. Now I leave him in thy hands--" Her voice failed her, her knees trembled, she could hardly hold the bundle that she carried. She threw a last glance at the wounded man: "God keep thee!" she said, and left the room. Outside, the priest was talking with Klettenmaier. Wally went up to them. "Klettenmaier," she shouted in the old man's ear, "Go in and help Afra to mind Joseph; Afra is there now in my place. Joseph will stay at the farm, and I am going away. You are all to treat Joseph as if he were the master, and to obey him as if I were by, till I come back; and woe to you, if he has to complain of ought. Let all the servants know!" Klettenmaier had understood, and shook his head, but he did not venture to make any remark. "Good-bye, mistress," he said, "Come back again soon." "Never!" said Wally softly. Klettenmaier went into the house; Wally stood before the priest, and met his questioning glance. "Now nought is my own that my heart clings to, but the vulture," she said sadly, as if exhausted. "But him I cannot give up--he must come with me. Come, Hansl." She beckoned to the bird, which sat puffed up and drowsy on a railing; he came flying towards her with difficulty. "Thou must learn to fly again now, Hansl," she said, "we're going away." "Wally," said the priest, much concerned, "what do you mean to do?" "Your reverence, I must go away--Afra is in there! Is it not plain that I cannot stay? I will do anything, I will all my life go bare and homeless, and wander through the country, and leave everything to him--everything--but I cannot look on at his Afra's love--only that I cannot--cannot bear!" She set her teeth to keep back the springing tears. "And for his sake you will really give up house and home? Do you know what you are doing, my child?" "The farm no longer belongs to me, your reverence. Since yesterday I've known that it belongs to Vincenz, whenever he puts in his claim. But my money, what I have besides, shall be for Joseph. If he is crippled by my fault, and cannot earn his bread,--it is my accursed guilt, and I must provide for him." "What, is it possible," cried the priest, "that your father disinherited you of house and home?" "What do I care for house and home? The home I belong to is always ready," said Wally. "Child," said the old man, much disturbed, "you would not do yourself an injury?" "No, your reverence, never now. I see now how right you are in everything, and that God Almighty will not be defied by us. Perhaps, when He sees that I truly repent, He'll have pity on me and grant peace to my weary soul." "Now blessed be the hour, hard though it may have been, that broke your proud spirit! Now Wally, you are truly great! But where are you going, my child? Will you go to some charitable refuge? Shall I take you to the Carmelites?" "No, your reverence, that would never suit the Vulture-maiden. I cannot be shut up in a cell between walls--under God's free sky, as I have lived, will I die--I should feel as if God could not come through such thick walls. I'll repent and pray as if I were in a church, but I must have the rocks and the clouds about me, and the wind whistling in my ears, or I couldn't get on at all--you understand, do you not?" "Yes, I understand, and it would be folly to try to dissuade you. But where then are you going?" "I'm going back to my father Murzoll--there is now my only home." "Do as you will," said the priest. "Go in God's name, my child--I can part from you in peace, for wherever you go now--it is back to your Father!" CHAPTER XIV. The Message of Grace. High up on the lonely Ferner, near her stony father, once more sits the outcast, solitary child of man--spell-bound, as it were, like a part of the dizzy heights from which she looks down on the little world below, in which no space could be found for the large and alien heart that had matured in the wilderness among the glacier-storms. Men have hunted and driven her forth, and that has been fulfilled that her dream foretold, the mountain has adopted her as its child. She belongs to the mountain now; stone and ice are her home--and yet she cannot turn to stone herself, and the warm and hapless human heart is silently bleeding to death up here between stone and ice. Twice had the moon's disk waxed and waned since the day when Wally sought this, her last refuge. No familiar face from amongst the dwellers in the valley had she seen. Only once the priest had dragged his old and frail body up the mountain to tell her that Joseph was recovering; further, that news had come from Italy that shortly after enlisting Vincenz had been shot, and had left to her the whole of his possessions. Then she had folded her hands on her knees, and said quietly, "It is well for him--it is soon over," as if she envied him. "But what will you do with all this money?" the priest had asked her, "who will manage your immense property? You must not let it all go to ruin." "Gold and goods plentiful as straw--and no help in them," said Wally, "they cannot buy for me one short hour of happiness. When time has gone by, and I can think of things again, I'll go down to Imst and make it all sure that my property becomes Joseph's. For myself I'll keep only enough to have a little house built further on, under the mountain, for the winter--but now I must have peace, I can care for nothing now. Manage things for me, your reverence, and see that the servants get their due, and give the poor what they need; there shall be no poor on the Sonnenplatte from this day forward." Thus briefly had she settled her worldly affairs as though on the brink of the next world: it remained to her only to await her hour--the hour of deliverance. It seemed to her as if God had said by the mouth of the priest, "Thou shalt not come to me, till I myself fetch thee." And now she waited till He should fetch her--but how long, how terribly long the time might be! She looked at her powerfully-built frame--it was not planned for an early death, and yet death was her only hope. She knew and understood that she must not end her days with violence, that her atonement must be consecrated; but she thought--surely she might _help_ the good God to set her free when it should please Him! And so she did everything that might injure the strongest body. It was not suicide to take only just enough nourishment to keep herself from starving--fasting is ever a help to penitence--nor to expose herself day and night to the storm and rain from which even the vulture took shelter in a cleft of the rock, so that wet, frost, and privation began gradually to undermine her healthy constitution. It was not self-murder to climb the cliffs no mortal foot had trodden, it was only to give the good God the opportunity to fling her down--if He would! And with a sort of gloomy pleasure she watched her beautiful body waste away, she felt her strength diminish, often she sank down with fatigue if she had wandered far, and when she climbed, her knees trembled and her breath grew short. Thus she sat one day weary on one of Murzoll's highest peaks. Around her, piled one upon another, rose white pinnacles and blocks of ice; it looked like a church-yard in winter where the snow-covered grave-stones stand in rows side by side, no longer veiled by clinging leaf or blossom. Immediately at her feet lay the green-gleaming sea of ice with its frozen waves, that flowed onwards as far as the pass leading over the mountain. Deepest silence as of the tomb dwelt in this frozen, motionless upper world. The distance with its endless perspective of mountains lay dreamily veiled in soft noonday mists. On Similaun, close to the brown Riesenhorn, nestled a small, bright cloud, that clung to it caressingly and was wafted up to sink again, till at last, torn on the sharp edges of the frightful precipices, it disappeared. Wally lay supported on her elbow, and her eye mechanically followed the drift of the tiny cloud. The mid-day sun burned above her head, the vulture sat not far off, lazily pruning himself and spreading his wings. Suddenly he became uneasy, turned his head as if listening, stretched his neck, and flew croaking a short way higher up. Wally raised herself a little to see what had startled the bird. There, over the slippery, fissured glacier came a human form straight towards the rock where Wally sat. She recognized the dark eyes, the short, black beard, she saw the friendly glance and greeting, she heard the "Jodel" that he sent up to her--as once years ago, when from the Sonnenplatte she had seen him pass through the gorge with the stranger--she, an innocent, hopeful child in those days, not yet cast out and cursed by her father--not yet an incendiary--not yet a murderess. As a whole landscape bursts from the darkness with all its heights and depths revealed, under a flash of lightning--so the whole destined chain of events passed before her soul, and shuddering, she recognized the depth to which she was fallen. What had she been then--and what was she now? And what did he seek who had never sought her then, what did he seek now of her, the condemned one--the dead-alive? She gazed downwards in unspeakable terror. "Oh God! he is coming," she cried aloud, and clung to the rock in mortal anguish as if it were the hand of her stony father. "Joseph--stay below--not up here--for God's sake not up here--go--turn back--I cannot, will not see thee--;" but Joseph, who had mounted the rock at a quick run, was coming towards her. Wally hid her face against the stone, stretching out her hands, as if to defend herself against him. "Can one be alone nowhere in this world?" she cried, trembling from head to foot. "Dost thou not hear? Leave me. With me thou'st nought to do--I am dead--as good as dead am I--can I not even die in peace?" "Wally, Wally, art thou beside thyself?" cried Joseph, and he pulled her from the rock with his powerful arms, as one might loosen some close-growing moss. "Look at me, Wally--for God's sake--why will thou not look at me? I am Joseph, Joseph whose life thou saved--that's not a thing one does for those one cannot bear to look at." He held her in his arms, she had fallen on one knee, she could not move, she could not defend herself; she was no longer the Wally of former days, she was weak and powerless. Like a victim beneath the sacrificial knife, she bowed her head as if to meet the last stroke. "Good Heavens, maiden! thou looks ready to die. Is this the haughty Wallburga Stromminger? Wally, Wally--speak then--come to thyself. This comes of living up here in the wilds where one might forget to speak one's mother-tongue almost. Thou'rt quite fallen away; come, lean on me and I'll lead thee down to thy hut. I'm no hero myself yet, but even so I've somewhat more strength than thee. Come--one gets dizzy up here, and I've much to say to thee, Wally--much to say." Almost without will of her own, Wally let herself be led step by step, as, without speaking, he guided her uncertain footsteps over the glacier and down to her hut. There however they found the herdsman, and pausing therefore, Joseph let the girl glide from his support on to a meadow of mountain grass. She sat silent and resigned with folded hands; it was God's will to send her this trial also, and she prayed only that she might remain steadfast. Joseph placed himself beside her, rested his chin on his hand, and looked with glowing eyes into her grief-worn face. "I have much to account for to thee, Wally," he said earnestly, "and I should have come long ago if the doctor and the curé would have let me; but they said it might cost me my life if I went up the mountain too soon, and I thought that were a pity--for--now I first rightly value my life, Wally--" he took her hand, "since thou'st saved it--for when I heard that, I knew how it stood with thee--and just so it stands with me, Wally!" He stroked her hand gently. Wally snatched it from him in sheer terror; it almost took her breath away. "Joseph, I know now what thou would say! Thou think'st that because I saved thy life, thou must love me out of gratitude and leave Afra in the lurch after all. Joseph, that thou need not think, for so sure as there is a God in Heaven--wretched am I and bad--but not so bad as to take a reward I don't deserve, nor to let a heart be given me like wages--a heart too that I must steal from another. Nay, that the Vulture-maiden will not do--whatever else she may have done! Thank God, there's still some wickedness even I am not capable of," she added softly to herself. And collecting all her strength, she stood up and would have gone to the hut where the herdsman sat whistling a tune. But Joseph held her fast in both arms. "Wally, hear me first," he said. "Nay, Joseph!" she said with white lips, but proudly erect, "not another word. I thank thee for thy good intention--but thou dostn't know me yet." "Wally, I tell thee thou must hear me for a moment--dost understand? Thou _must_." He laid his hand on her shoulder and fixed his eyes on her with an expression so imperious that she broke down and gave way. "Speak then," she said as if exhausted, and seated herself, far from him, on a stone. "That is right--now I see thou can obey," he said, smiling good-humouredly. He stretched his finely-formed limbs on the grass, laid the jacket he had thrown off under his elbow and supported himself on it; his warm breath floated towards Wally as he spoke. She sat motionless with downcast eyes; the internal struggle gradually brought the hot colour to her face, but outwardly she was calm, almost indifferent. "See, Wally,--I will tell thee exactly how it is," Joseph went on, "I could never bear thee formerly, because I didn't know thee. I heard so much of how wild and rough thou wert, and so I took a bad opinion of thee and would never have to do with thee at all. That thou'rt a fine and handsome maid I could see all the while--but I didn't want to see! So I always kept out of thy way, till the quarrel happened between thee and Afra--but that I could not let pass. For see, Wally--what is done to Afra is done to me, and when Afra is hurt it cuts me to the heart, for thou must know--well, it must come out, my mother in her grave will forgive me--Afra is my sister." Wally started back, and stared at him as if in a dream. He was silent for a moment, and wiped his forehead with his linen sleeve. "It's not right for me to talk about it," he continued, "but thou must know, and thou'll let it go no further. My mother told me on her deathbed that before ever she knew my father, she had a child out there in Vintschgau, and I solemnly promised her that I would care for the lass as a sister, and it's for that I fetched her from across the mountains and brought her to the Lamb so that she might be near me. But we two promised each other that we'd keep it secret and not bring shame on our mother in her grave. Now dost thou understand how I couldn't let an injury to my sister pass unpunished, and stood up for her when she was wronged?" Wally sat like a statue and struggled for breath. She felt as if the mountains and the whole world were whirling round her. Now all was clear--now too she understood what Afra had said by Joseph's bedside. She held her head with both hands, as if she could not grasp the meaning of it all. If it were indeed true, how gigantic was the wrong she had done. It was not a heartless man who had scorned her for a lowly maid-servant--it was a brother fulfilling his duty to a sister that she would have killed--she would have bereft a poor orphan of her last remaining stay for the sake of a blind movement of jealousy. "Good God, if it had been so!" she said to herself. She felt giddy--she buried her face in her hands, and a dull groan escaped her. Joseph, who did not observe her agitation, went on. "So it came to pass that up at the Lamb I swore before them all that I would take down thy pride, and do to thee as thou'd done to Afra, and so we hatched the plot among us, in spite of Afra who'd not have had it done. And all went well; but when we wrestled with one another, and when that dear and beautiful bosom lay upon my heart, and when I kissed thee, it was as if my veins were filled with fire. I'd say no word to thee, because I'd been thy enemy so long,--but from hour to hour the fire grew, and in the night I clasped my pillow to me and thought that it was thou, and when I woke, I cried out loud for thee and sprang out of bed for the ferment and fever I was in." "Stop, stop--thou'rt killing me," cried Wally, with cheeks and brow aflame; but he went on passionately: "So I went out whilst it was still night, and wandered up to the Sonnenplatte. I'll tell thee all,--I meant to knock at thy window before break of day, and I was full of joy to think how thou'd put out thy sleepy face, and how I'd hold thy head, and make amends for all, and ask thy pardon a thousand, thousand times. And then--then a shot whistled past my head, and directly after another hit my shoulder, and as I stumbled some one sprang on me from behind and hurled me down from the bridge. And I thought, now all is over with love and everything else. But thou came, thou angel in maiden's form, and took pity on me, and saved me, and cared for me--Oh, Wally!" He threw himself at her feet, "Wally, I cannot thank thee as I ought--but all the love of all the men in the world put together is not so great as the love I have for thee." Then Wally's strength gave way altogether--with a heart-rending cry she thrust Joseph from her, and flung herself in wild despair face downwards on the earth. "Oh, so happy as I might have been--and now all is over--all, all!" "Wally, for God's sake!--I believe thou'rt really mad! What is over? If thee and me love each other, all is well!" "Oh Joseph, Joseph, thou doesn't know--nothing can ever be between us two; oh, thou doesn't know, I am outcast and condemned--thy wife I can never be--trample on me, strike me dead--me it was that had thee flung down yonder." Joseph shrank back at the awful words--he was not yet sure that Wally was not mad. He had sprung up, and was looking down at her in horror. "Joseph," whispered Wally, and clasped his knees, "I've loved thee ever since I've known thee, and it was because of thee that my father sent me up to the Hochjoch, because of thee that I set fire to his house, because of thee that for three years I wandered lonely in the wilds, and was hungry and frozen and would have died sooner than be married to another man. And out of pure jealousy I treated Afra as I did, because I thought she was thy love and would take thee from me. And thou came at last after long, long years that I had waited for thee, and thou asked me to the dance like a bridegroom--and I believed it, my heart was bursting for joy, and I let thee kiss me as a bride, but thou--thou mocked me before everyone--mocked me!--for all the true love with which I had longed for thee--for all the sore trouble that I had borne for thee--then all at once everything was changed, and I bade Vincenz kill thee." Joseph covered his face with his hands. "That is horrible," he said in an undertone. "Then in the night I repented," Wally went on, "and I went out, and would have hindered it--but it was too late. And now thou'st come to tell me that thou loves me, and all would be well if I could stand before thee with a clear conscience. And I have brought it all on myself with my blind rage and wickedness. I thought no wrong could be so great as that thou did to me, and it is all nothing to what I have done to myself--but it serves me right--it serves me quite right." There was a long silence. Wally had pressed her damp brow against Joseph's knee, her whole body shook as in a death-agony. An agonizing minute passed by. Then she felt a hand gently raise her face, and Joseph's large eyes looked down on her with a wonderful expression. "Thou poor Wally!" he said softly. "Joseph, Joseph, thou mustn't be so good to me," cried Wally trembling, "take thy gun and kill me dead--I'll hold still and never shrink, but bless thee for the deed." He raised her from the ground, he took her in his arms, he laid her head on his breast and smoothed her disordered hair, then kissed her passionately. "And STILL I love thee!" he cried in a voice like a shout, so that the words rang back exultingly from the desert walls of ice. Wally stood there hardly conscious, motionless, almost sinking under the flood of happiness that flowed over her. "Joseph, is it possible? Can thou really forgive me--can the great God forgive me?" she whispered breathlessly. "Wally! He who could listen to thy words and look in thy wasted face, and could yet be hard to thee--that man would have a stone in the place of a heart. I'm a hard fellow, but I could not do that." "Oh God!" said Wally, and the tears rushed to her eyes, "when I think that I would have stilled _that_ heart for ever--!" She wrung her hands in despair: "Oh thou good lad--the better and the dearer thou art to me, so much the more terrible is my remorse. Oh, my peace is gone, for ever gone, in earth and in Heaven. Thy servant will I be, not thy wife--on thy door-step will I sleep, not at thy side--I'll serve thee, and work for thee, and do all thy will before thou can speak the word. And if thou strike me, I'll kiss thy hand, and if thou tread on me, I'll clasp thy knee--and beg and pray till thou'rt good to me again. And if thou grant me nought but the breath of thy lips, and a glance and a word--still I'll be content--it'll still be more than I deserve." "And dost think that I should be content?" said Joseph hotly, "dost think a glance and a breath are enough for me? Dost think I'd suffer that thou should lie on the doorstep, and me inside? Dost think I would not open the door and fetch thee in? Dost think perhaps that thou would stay outside, when I called to thee to come?" Wally tried to free herself from his grasp; she hid her glowing face in her clasped hands. "Be at peace, sweet soul," Joseph went on in his deep, harmonious voice, and drew her towards him. "Be at peace, and take that which our Lord God sends thee--thou mayst, for thou hast atoned nobly. Torment thyself no more with self-reproach, for I also have sinned heavily towards thee, and provoked thee cruelly and rewarded thy long love and faith with mockery and scorn. No wonder that thy patience gave way at last--what else could one expect?--thou'rt only the Vulture Wally! But thou's quickly repented thee, and despised death itself to bring me from the depths where no man would have had the heart to go, and had me carried to thy room, and laid upon thy bed, and thyself hast tended me, till that foolish Afra came and drove thee away, because thou thought she was my love. And thou wished to give us all thy property that I might be able to marry Afra--as thou thought! And then came away to the wilderness with thy heavy sorrow! Oh, thou poor soul, nought but heart-ache hast thou had for my sake since thou's known me, and shall I not love thee now and shall we know no happiness together? Nay, Wally, and if the whole world were hard to thee--it's all one to me, I take thee in my arms, and none shall do thee an injury." "Is it really true that out of all my shame and misery thou'll take me to thy heart, thy great and noble heart? Thou'll have no fear of the wild Vulture-maiden that's done so many wicked things?" "I fear the Vulture-maiden--I, Joseph the Bear-slayer? No, thou dear child, and were thou still wilder than thou art, I fear thee not, I'll conquer thee, that I told thee once before in hatred--I tell it thee now in love. And even if I could not tame thee, if I knew that within a fortnight thou'd murder me, I would not leave thee--I could not leave thee. A hundred times have I climbed after a chamois when I knew that each step might cost me my life--and yet would never leave it, and thou--art thou not worth far, more to me than any chamois? See Wally--for a single hour of thee as thou art to-day, to see thee look at me and cling to me as now, will I gladly die." He pressed her to him in a breathless embrace. "A fortnight hence thou'll be my wife, and have no thought of killing me--I know it, for now I know thy heart." Then Wally sprang up, and raised her arms towards heaven. "Oh, Thou great and merciful God," she cried, "I will praise Thee and bless Thee my whole life long, for it is more than earthly happiness that Thou hast sent me--it is a message of Grace!" It was now evening; a mild countenance looked down on them as in friendly greeting; the full moon stood above the mountain. On the valleys lay the shades of evening--it was too late now to descend the mountain-side. They went into the hut, kindled a fire and sat down on the hearth. It was an hour of sweet confidence after long years of silence. On the roof sat the Vulture and dreamed that he was building himself a nest, the rush of the night-wind round the hut was like the sound of harps, and through the little window shone a star. Next morning Wally and Joseph stood at the door of the hut ready to set out homewards. "Farewell, God keep thee, Father Murzoll," said Wally, and the first gleam of morning showed a tear glittering in her eye, "I shall never come back to thee more. My happiness lies down yonder now, but yet I thank thee for giving me a home so long, when I was homeless. And thou, old hut, thou'll be empty now, but when I sit with my dearest husband down there in a warm room, I'll still think of thee, and how long nights through I've shivered and wept beneath thy roof, and will always be humble and thankful." She turned and laid her hand on Joseph's arm. "Come, Joseph, that we may be at the good priest's at Heiligkreuz before mid-day." "Aye, come--I'm taking thee home, my beautiful bride! You see, you phantom maidens, I've won her, and she belongs to me--in spite of you and all bad spirits." And he threw out a "Jodel" into the blue distance, that sounded like a hymn of rejoicing on the day of resurrection. "Be quiet," said Wally, laying her hand on his mouth in alarm, "thou mustn't defy them." But then she smiled with a serene look. "Ah no," she said, "there's no more 'phantom maidens' and no more bad spirits--there is only God." She looked back once more. The snowy peaks of the Ferner glowed around in the morning light. "Still it is beautiful up here," she said with lingering footsteps. "Art sorry to come down yonder with me?" asked Joseph. "If thou wast to lead me into the deepest pit under the earth where no gleam of day ever shone, still I'd go with thee and never question nor complain," she said, and her voice sounded so wonderfully soft that Joseph's eyes were moist. There was a sudden rush down from the roof of the hut. "Oh, my Hansl--I'd almost forgotten thee!" cried Wally. "And thou--?" she said smiling at Joseph, "thou must make friends with him, for now you two are brothers in fate. I fetched thee from the precipice as well as him." So they went down the mountain side. It was a modest wedding procession, no splendour but the golden crown that the morning sunshine wove around the bride's head--no follower but the vulture that circled high in the air above them--but in their hearts was hardly-won, deeply-felt, unspeakable joy. * * * * * Up yonder on the giddy height of the Sonnenplatte where once "the wild Highland maid looked dreaming down," where later on she let herself into the depths of the gloomy abyss to rescue the beloved one, a simple cross stands out against the blue sky. It was erected there by the village community in memory of Wallburga the Vulture-maiden and Joseph the Bear-hunter--the benefactors of the whole neighbourhood. Wally and Joseph died early, but their name lives and will be praised so long and so far as the Ache flows. The traveller who passes through the gorge late in the evening when the bell rings for vespers and the silver crescent of the moon stands above the mountains, may see an aged couple kneeling up yonder. They are Afra and Benedict Klotz, who often come down from Rofen to pray by this cross. Wally herself it was who brought their hearts together, and to-day on the brink of the grave they still bless her memory. Below in the gorge, white, misty forms hover around the traveller and remind him of the "phantom maidens." Down from the cross there is wafted to him a lament as it were out of long-forgotten heroic legends, a lament that the mighty as well as the feeble must fade and pass away. Still this one thought may comfort him--the heroic may die, but it cannot perish from off the earth. Under the splendid coat of mail of the Nibelungen hero, beneath the coarse peasant frocks of a Vulture-maiden and a Bear-hunter--still we meet with it again and again. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Lamb.] [Footnote 2: In most foreign countries the law provides that a certain portion of a man's estate is inalienable from his natural heirs.] THE END. * * * * * PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. * * * * * 
47533	----	The Forest Farm [Illustration: _Frontispiece._] THE FOREST FARM. [_Drawn by Milicent Norris._] The Forest Farm _Tales of the Austrian Tyrol_ By Peter Rosegger With an Appreciation by Maude Egerton King And a Biographical Note by Dr. Julius Petersen The Vineyard Press London: A. C. Fifield, 13 Clifford's Inn, E.C. 1912 WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH Contents PAGE FRONTISPIECE: THE FOREST FARM. Drawn by MELICENT NORRIS ROSEGGER: AN APPRECIATION. By MAUDE EGERTON KING 9 PETER ROSEGGER: A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE. By DR. JULIUS PETERSEN. With a portrait 15 I. MY FATHER AND I. Illustrated by M. E. K. and L. E. 29 II. HOW I GAVE GOD MY SUNDAY JACKET. Translated by A. T. DE MATTOS 36 III. CHRISTMAS EVE. Translated by M. E. K. 42 IV. A LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. Translated by M. E. K. 61 V. HOW LITTLE MAXEL'S HOUSE WAS BURNED DOWN. Translated by M. E. K. and L. G. 74 VI. THREE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FOUR NIGHTS AND A NIGHT. Translated by A. T. DE MATTOS 80 VII. HOW THE WHITE KID DIED. Translated by A. T. DE MATTOS 86 VIII. CHILDREN OF THE WORLD IN THE FOREST. Translated by A. T. DE MATTOS 93 IX. HOW MEISENSEPP DIED. Translated by LOUISE EVERS 105 X. THE CORPUS CHRISTI ALTAR. Translated by A. T. DE MATTOS 114 XI. ABOUT KICKEL, WHO WENT TO PRISON. Translated by ETHEL BLOUNT 124 XII. HOW I CAME TO THE PLOUGH. Translated by A. T. DE MATTOS 142 XIII. THE RECRUIT. Translated by A. T. DE MATTOS 146 XIV. A FORGOTTEN LAND. Translated by A. T. DE MATTOS 161 XV. THE SCHOOLMASTER. Translated by A. T. DE MATTOS 170 XVI. THE STAG ON THE WALL. Translated by MELICENT NORRIS and M. E. KING 179 XVII. FOREST-LILY IN THE SNOW. Translated by A. T. DE MATTOS 186 XVIII. THE SACRED CORNFIELD. Translated by M. E. KING and L. SWIETOKOWSKI 190 XIX. ABOUT MY MOTHER. Translated by A. T. DE MATTOS 195 Rosegger: An Appreciation The unmistakable trend of our time is the civilisation--which, in its modern form, is largely urbanisation--of the whole habitable globe. From its centres outwards it is thrusting itself upon places, men, processes--ultimate sanctuaries, never before reached by alien trespassing. Most men are looking on at its destruction of the old order with shrugging acceptance of the inevitable, or hailing the chaotic stuff of the new in its making with so far unjustified joy. With a wit worn somewhat threadbare with use they invariably counsel the few eccentrics who deny its inevitability and question its beneficence to quit the hopes and mops of Mrs. Partington for the discreet submission of the wiser Canute. Then they grow properly grave, and declare that this modern civilisation, for all its shortcomings, has been well described as a banquet, the like of which, for those below as for those above the salt, has never been spread before. However that may be, there is no question that here and there a guest is sometimes moved to look round on the company and scan its several types with a sudden sense of their significance. Some of these, good and bad, are common to all late civilisations, he perceives, others as hatefully peculiar to our own as certain diseases. Where, in God's name, were there ever till now men like these, who bend a complaisant spectacled gaze on a world going under, content if they may but first secure their museum sample (including one carefully chosen, perfectly embalmed, stuffed and catalogued peasant) of every species? Or their younger kindred--men whose intellect obeys no inspiration save curiosity nor law save its own limit, whose inventions, therefore, cannot foster good and beauty but only spoil these in Nature and men's souls? As for that splendid group beyond, one may question if Athens, Rome, or Byzantium, whose sumptuous culture of brain and body achieved an almost criminal comeliness by Christian standards, ever equalled them: question, too, whether their selfish perfection or the travesty of it in this mob of women dull with luxury, of men brutalised by the scramble of getting it for them--be less desirable for the race! Thankfully his eye passes from them to those who turn such a cold shoulder upon their vulgarity: a little company, fine-edged, polished and flexible with perpetual fence of wit and word, hardly peculiar to our day perhaps, but rather such as might have played their irresponsible game on the eve of any red revolution. Now and again they lend an amused ear to various gassy gospels over the way, where, as he perceives, he is once more among the children of this latter day alone: notably certain insignificances who, because they have raised their self-indulgence to the dignity of a problem play, are solemnly mistaking themselves (as actors and audience too) for pioneers of social progress; and some earnest women who have slammed the front door on their nearest and dearest stay-at-home duties and privileges, to go questing after problematical rights. It looks, too, as if the same types, modified for worse and better by class conditions, were repeated below the salt; but there the multitude is so great that the individuals are soon lost in a far-off colourless mass--sometimes a menacing mass--by no means so content with stale bread as the others with caviare. Is then this civilisation to become the universal order? he asks himself; and must the world it has laid waste be repeopled from these? The very fear of it summons a shadowy memory of fathers' fathers among Sussex sheepfolds, Highland crofts, Tuscan vineyards, or German forests. After that the banquet grits in the teeth like husks, and there is nothing possible but to get up and go out from it, sick with longing for those simpler, saner people. To them, it is said, fatherhood, motherhood, home, were chiefest of prides and sanctities outside Heaven. They either kept or consciously broke the ten commandments, but they never set up the _Seven deadly Sins_ in their place. They won life out of the earth, sometimes with difficulty enough, but the struggle bred a muscle and fortitude only now failing their descendants in hyper-civilisation. They laboured, and took their pleasures too, under open skies and in quiet places where the divine voice could clearly be heard at times, and unperplexedly obeyed. Between fear and hope these famished feasters come at last to the ancestral places; only too often to find them ruined, or sheltering some sad survival unaware of his own splendid history. On the cold thresholds they stand, stricken with the sense of the world's irreparable loss in a virile and faithful race. Just so far have many thinking people come to-day, and there remain, needing a leader who can turn regretful retrospect to rational hope. Such a one is Peter Rosegger, whose life is a type of our own day and a prophecy of better. He, too, left the land for the city, and now, because all his culture and experience do but confirm his faith that _Bauernthum_ is as necessary for the world's soul as the bread which the peasant grows for its body, he has gone back to it. When he wants new vigour for daily life, or for his mission of protecting and pleading for a vanishing folk, he touches earth and gets it. Peasant-born, in most of his books he _is_ Peasantry grown conscious and articulate,--he gives us that life from within. But culture has enabled him to see the peasant in his true relation to the world as well, to measure the life he was born into with the civilisation whose guest he has been. And so in one invaluable book, _Erdsegen_, he writes of the folk life from without, and that with great truth and consistency. The story is given in a series of letters from a city journalist, who for a frivolous wager goes to live "the simple life" as a peasant among peasants for one year. Looking through the townsman's eyes, we find there no stage-peasant's Arcady, no rose-bowered cottages pleasantly ready for week-end lodgers; rather we stare aghast at the coarse food, rough work, some very unwholesome conditions, and obstinate superstitions. The journalist's earlier letters treat of these things with humorous realism, and we respect his pluck for putting up with them. Gradually the tone of the letters changes, and we see the innate fineness--not the cultured refinement--of the townsman, responding to the strong faith behind the superstition, to the beauty of the traditional labours, the heroic endurance of their undoing by storm and bad fortune, and the acceptance of good and ill alike as from the hands of a good if sometimes incomprehensible Father. The faint sneer, even the amused smile, die from the townsman's face; dirt and discomfort are lost sight of in the divine realities which draw him, humbly enough at last, to throw in his lot with these humble people. Rosegger is a true prophet, he never disguises truth in defending it. His passion for essential Peasantry is too great for sentimentalities, too honest for whitewash; and so while he exhilarates us with its elemental force he does not fear to show where this merges into brutality, nor when its simplicity opens the door to superstition. And yet in the end we are one with his faith in _Bauernthum_ and the world's need of it. The land-folk who emigrate to cities, and their children there born, are fast losing and will soon quite lose what no money or experience can compensate them for. Age after age, great shaping influences from the forest, the mountain and the waters of the mountain, the solitudes, the mastery and love of beasts, the disciplinary tragedies and triumphs of agriculture, came and wrought upon the humanity in their midst, gradually creating the customs, traditions, lore and art--everything except religion in its _Church_ sense--which is part of the collective soul of Peasantry. Whatever these uprooted land-folk gain in the city, though they gain the whole world, they certainly lose their own soul--the soul special to Peasantry and until now the fullest spring of the world's imaginative life. At times, perhaps when he has stayed too long in Graz, Rosegger writes of _Bauernthum_ as of something irrevocably passing; at others he utters his faith--for it is deeper than hope--that it will come again. To him his own life is racially prophetic. He has had the best of civilisation, intellectual intercourse, fame, travel, wealth: but from these and all others of its benefits or lures, he has again and again run back, mastered by a _Heimweh_ which saved him. Sometimes, in terrible trouble, once at the point of death, he went back, and every time the touch of the earth renewed him, body and soul. Signs of this saving _Heimweh_ he sees here and there among those who remain at the banquet, actually starving in satiety, some of them; and from the quiet valley where his genius, long since the consecrated champion of the ancient peasantry, does its best work, he calls upon these to come back and make possible a new. His loyal traditionalism does not hinder his belief that a new peasantry, not born, but becoming such from a choice inspired by heart's hunger and a surfeit of civilisation, must have a strong redemptive value of its own among the decadent nations. Of the earth he writes as he wrote of the stern tender woman who bore him in the Forest Farm,--with a worship that makes a town-bred creature drag at his chain or break his heart to run home to her. She has never failed him, he says, in any need of spirit or flesh, nor will she ever fail her prodigals. When they come back in a hundred or a thousand years they will find her patiently waiting to teach them all the vital forgotten things over again: and, even if she take the gewgaws and lumber out of their hands, she will leave them whatever of learning she can with her ancient processes and gift of wonder transmute into wisdom. M. E. K. [Illustration: PETER ROSEGGER (_By kind permission of Messrs. Staackmann, Leipsic_) _To face page 15 "The Forest Farm."_] Peter Rosegger A Biographical Note By Dr. Julius Petersen I In the heart of Austria lies Steiermark (Styria), a rough mountain country on the eastern slope of the Alps. Its inhabitants, protected from the levelling influences of modern civilisation and cut off from that mingling with other peoples which destroys racial character, have retained their old individuality and customs longer than any other German people. Rough though the climate is, the soil stony, the struggle for existence hard, these sons of the mountains have grown stubbornly inseparable from their home; it is with difficulty that they take root in other soil--they are evermore drawn back to the place where once their cradle stood. In former centuries the Swiss soldiers in French service could not hear the home-like chime of cow-bells without a temptation to desert their colours; and time after time sons of Steiermark have been driven back to their free hills by the constraint of garrison life. The deserters were always easily caught: the sergeant in pursuit had simply to look for the culprit in his father's house. The _Heimweh_ (other languages can hardly express the meaning of this word) is the national sickness to which all natives of the Alps driven into foreign parts are subject, and it is but the other side of that impassioned joy in the home, which finds expression in jubilant songs and shouts rising for ever from the mountains to the sky. Peter Rosegger is the national poet of Styria. If it can be said that all men on their way through life carry with them a clod of home-soil, as the pious pilgrim carries a handful of sacred earth, then one may say that this poet is home personified. "Styria on two legs," he is called by his own people. All that can move the soul of this people, from the lightest jest to the deepest longings and searchings, has found expression in his writings. He has passed through many phases of life, from peasant to craftsman, to schoolmaster, to theologian, and all these phases are reflected in his life-work. The son of the peasant, who on his journey has attained the heights of humanity, is always turning back to his starting-point. Like the old giant Antæus, he draws new strength from his mother Earth. Close touch with the home soil is for him a condition of life. When Rosegger was on a lecturing tour through the great German cities, where he was enthusiastically greeted by audiences of thousands, there never left him the longing for the silent peace of the mountains; and _Heimweh_ drove him away even from the shining Gulf of Naples. Even Graz, the beautiful capital of Steiermark, where Rosegger has his vine-covered house, cannot take the place of home for him. In the summer months he escapes to Krieglach in the Mürztal; there he lives among his native people, and from his window he looks out to those heights where, out of sight, stands a deserted farm--his birthplace. In Alpl, near Krieglach, a forest community which has now almost ceased to exist and even at the time of his birth consisted only of twenty-three farms, Rosegger came into the world on July 31st, 1843. It was almost by accident that he learnt to read and to write. An old schoolmaster, whom the Church had dismissed from his office because of his leanings towards freedom in 1848, wandered a beggar through the mountains, and when he came to the peasants of Alpl they said: "Beggars we have anyhow in plenty, but a schoolmaster we have not and never have had since the world began. He shall be schoolmaster here, and our children shall learn to read and to write; if it does no good, it can do no harm." And so the old schoolmaster went hawking his learning from house to house, and his school fees consisted of the right to eat as much as ever he liked. Peter, the son of the _Wald-bauer_ (forest peasant),[1] was soon known for his learning. Once in the dead of winter he was taken to one of the highest-lying farms, where the old peasant owner wanted to make her will. There being neither paper nor ink, he wrote the will with charcoal inside a coffer lid, for the boy was gifted with a bright mother-wit which never left him at a loss. He read everything printed that he could lay hands on, but as he did not find enough to read, he began to write himself; stories of saints, sermons, works of devotion and calendars. These he illustrated with drawings of his own invention. A student who had spent his holidays in the mountains had left him a little box of watercolours. The boy cut a lock of hair from his own head, bound it to a little stick, and so made himself a brush with which to paint his pictures of his saints. This story is a symbol of all Rosegger's achievement of learning. However much outside help he may have received, he may thank himself for the best, after all. "My little saddle-horse," says he, "has never fed upon the dry hay of school-knowledge, but only on the green grass of life itself. The little that I know, Life has taught me, and the little that I can do, Necessity. The inability to express myself by word of mouth has taught me to write, and my desire to share that written word with others taught me to read. As the father of a family, with a very uncertain income, I learnt arithmetic; as a herdsman on the pasture land, zoology; as farmer and stonecutter, mineralogy; as hay-maker and woodcutter, botany. Geography I learnt in travelling; history from events which followed one another as cause and consequence; folklore I learnt as a travelling journeyman; and astronomy in sleepless nights, when I lay and looked up at the stars. Thoughts about physiology, anatomy, medicine, and patience have come to me in illness; theology I have turned to in times of need and loneliness; and law has been learnt in self-examination. Music became dear to me from the birds of the woods and the sound of waterfalls. The telling of stories I never learnt at all. My first baby stammer--so says our old cousin--was a story in Styrian dialect; and my life, according to the belletristic newspapers, was a romance." His life, indeed, is rich in wonders, and the evolution of the peasant boy a sort of fairy tale. Rosegger has described for us his youth in the form of a novel, _Heidepeters Gabriel_ (1872), in which it all reads like an impossible romance. Later he has published the story of his life in a series of autobiographical writings, _Waldheimat_ (_The Forest Home_, 1875); _Als Ich jung noch war_ (_When I was still young_, 1895); _Mein Weltleben_ (_My Life in the World_, 1898); in these the same course of events is given with a wonderful truth to life. As documents of a rare human evolution they may stand on a level with Rousseau's _Confessions_; they are more lovable, though no less honest. The boy very early saw something of the world. As a little fellow his father took him with him on a pilgrimage to Maria Zell; his godfather, on another pilgrimage, pointed out to him the first railway as an uncanny bit of devil's invention; and on one occasion the eleven-year-old boy set out alone for Vienna, reaching the Imperial city after a several days' tramp. His aim was to visit the Kaiser Josef II, of whose friendliness so many stories were going about among his people. As a matter of fact, Josef II had been lying in his grave for more than sixty years, and his visitor was conducted to his mausoleum. Later, as he was again wandering in the streets and casting about how to get home (for of his travelling money--the proceeds of the sale of a lamb--only just the equivalent of the little beast's tail was left), a bearded man came up to him and offered him five florins if he would pose for half an hour in his studio. And, wonder on wonder, the water-colour which the artist painted from this sketch now hangs in the Rosegger Room at Mürzzuschlag, which is the nucleus of a future Rosegger Museum! Here also is preserved the tailor's goose, which later the boy, then in his apprenticeship, had to carry after his master; and beside it is a peasant's waistcoat--the same apprentice's claim to journeymanship! It appears that, though his brothers and sisters all became farm-workers, the Waldbauer's first-born proved to be too sickly for the ancestral calling. He was to become a priest. The parish priest of Birkfeld offered to instruct him in Latin. Peter, as a candidate for holy orders, was entrusted to the care of a peasant in that parish. After three days he ran away in the night--home-sickness was too much for him. So in 1860 he became apprentice to a master-tailor of his own district, and played his part in his itinerant trade. He worked on more than sixty farms in the neighbourhood, and in this way learned to know the life of the people in Styria more intimately than would have been possible in any other calling. The inexhaustible wealth of strange character and peasant originality and the unique acquaintance with the most ancient and characteristic native customs which Rosegger displays in his later writings, are the fruit of those years of close observation. With the passion for reading grew the desire to write. One day his master set out, leaving his carefully guarded paper-patterns lying about. He was accustomed to apprentices, anxious to become independent, making use of such an opportunity to copy the patterns for themselves. His apprentice Peter seized on them too, concerning himself with their shape not at all, but only with the contents of the cut-out newspapers whose stale news he devoured. This made his master almost despair of him. "Honesty's a very fine thing, Peter," he said, "but I can clearly see you'll never be much of a credit to me. Here you are, waiting from week to week for the end of your time, and have never yet stolen one pattern from your master!" Others, too, prophesied to the youth that he would never make a proper tailor. Once he had to share quarters with a shoemaker's apprentice. Then it was that the little note-book in which he used to write songs of his own making was discovered. The song which made Rosegger celebrated, and which as a genuine folk-song is not only sung in Styria, but all over Germany, was amongst them: "Darf ih's Dirndl liabe." The beauty of this song, which is inseparable from its dialect, can scarcely be rendered in a translation: without the charming form the idea is almost too primitive. The boy goes in succession to priest, father, and mother, and puts the question to them, whether he may love the maid? Each puts him sharply off until at last he goes to the Lord God Himself, and there finds sympathy with his inquiry. "Why yes, of course," He smiled and said; "Because of the boy I have made the maid." The shoemaker's apprentice found this moral most enlightening and determined to send the song to his sweetheart, but could not believe that the young tailor could make such verses without having a sweetheart of his own. "Get along--and look here, you tell me of anyone else who can turn out verses like that!" he said admiringly. "And don't be angry, tailor; I don't understand much of your trade, but after looking at your father's new jacket I don't mind telling you that you'll never make a first-rate tailor. Your song now, _that's_ a masterpiece if you like. Now, don't you forget, that down here on the plain and in the farmer's oat-straw I told you how it would be--you'll never remain a tailor. You'll go to the towns and become somebody; you'll be a bookbinder! Mark my word, in the end you'll become a bookbinder!" That was the highest the shoemaker's apprentice could conceive of. But it soon happened otherwise. Passing tourists had come across the verses which the country folk had already set to music, and they encouraged the author to send certain of them to town. As a result, the editor of the Graz _Daily Post_ took an interest in the people's poet, and asked him to send him all the poetry he had written and to give him an account of his life. Peter packed up, and, carrying a bundle of manuscripts weighing fifteen pounds, set off on his way to Graz. The postage for such a parcel would have been quite beyond his means. II At the end of 1864 an article appeared in the Graz _Daily Post_, entitled _A Styrian Poet of the People_, in which a larger public was called upon to assist the young talented writer. And now from all quarters sendings poured into the post office in Krieglach--congratulations, books, small sums of money, and provisions. A bookseller in Leibach offered him an apprenticeship. Rosegger accepted it, but after a few days _Heimweh_ again drove him from the unfamiliar district. However, a free scholarship was found for him at the Graz Commercial Academy; friends and teachers were not wanting, and here, between the years 1865-9 the farmer's son, not yet able, when he entered it, to write correctly, received an intellectual training which left him no longer inferior to the well educated. In the same year that he left this institution his first book, a volume of poems in dialect, and entitled _Zither und Hackbrett_ (_Zither and Dulcimer_), was published. A second collection, _Tannenharz und Fichtennadeln_ (_Pine-resin and Fir-needles_), came out in the following year; and in 1870 also appeared his first picture of Styrian peasant life, _Sittenbilder aus dem Steierischen Oberlande_. These won him some fame; already publishers began to approach him with offers. And now once more miracle entered his life. In the summer of 1872 a young and beautiful Graz lady, accompanied by a friend, made a pilgrimage to the birthplace of her favourite poet; there by chance she and her poet met, and a year later they were married. Their happy life together lasted but a short time; after the birth of a second child the young wife died. Six years after his sad loss Rosegger made a second and equally happy marriage. About his life since then there is not much to tell. One fact, however, should be emphasised; namely, that Rosegger, who in his early years had become indebted to so many friends, very soon began to pay them back, and the account has long since been balanced in his favour and now shows a debit on the other side. Many a time has he introduced the work of young writers to the literary world with warm words of recommendation, just as the distinguished poet Robert Hammerling once did for his first collection of poems. The greater part of the profits of his extensive lecture tour have been used for the public good. Through him, a Catholic, Mürzzuschlag has got a Protestant church; his home-parish, Alpl, has for some years now had a school-house of its own for which it has to thank Rosegger. And only a short time ago it was his eloquent intervention that obtained a large contribution for the German School-Society--a society which aims at preserving race-characteristics and culture where they are threatened on the language frontiers. Were I to give data of his public life during the last ten years, they would consist of such services as these, and of the grateful homage which is rendered him by the many who love and honour him. But his inner development is revealed in the writings of his maturity; for Rosegger has written nothing but what in his inmost heart he has experienced. Since 1876 he has edited a monthly magazine, _Heimgarten_, which is his public diary. "Heimgarten," he tells us, "is the name given in various districts to that house in the Alpine village in which of an evening the village folk come together, bringing in small handwork to do and enjoying one another's company. Here are to be found the brightest of the inhabitants, those readiest in storytelling and description, those who are men of the world, or who would like to be such, assembled for educative and stimulating intercourse. In the Heimgarten, stories and legends, tragic and comic incidents from life are repeated; songs and ballads are sung; poems are improvised; farces and comedies are given, or incidents of the day and important events in the life of the village or the wide world are discussed by the village wiseacres. Intercourse in the Heimgarten enlightens and enriches the mind, quickens, warms, and ennobles the heart. This homely type from Alpine village life furnishes the title and programme for my monthly magazine." And to this programme the paper, which has become a home for true national education, has held faithfully for thirty-four years. Here all stories, articles, and poems of Rosegger's first appeared, and in this paper he expresses his views on all vital questions of the day. "All we poets are foresters and woodwards in the great forest of mankind," said once Berthold Auerbach, another poet of the people, to Rosegger. Such a one the editor of the _Heimgarten_ feels himself to be, expending, as he does, all his ripe experience and loving care upon the husbandry which has been entrusted to him. To protect the vanishing traditional customs of his forefathers, their natural conceptions of right and wrong, the blessing of family life, their healthy contentment--the outcome of bodily toil and the love of the home--against the demoralisation of modern hyperculture, is his most earnest aim. The principal heroes of his romances are by preference those whose calling involves the task of cherishing and teaching the people: schoolmasters and priests. The _Writings of the Forest Schoolmaster_ (1878) is the name of Rosegger's most popular work, which already in 1908 appeared in its seventy-eighth edition, and which, let us hope, may within the author's lifetime still reach its hundredth edition. The theme is the gradual emergence of a forest parish from a group of demoralised and utterly uneducated men to a social organisation, to a lawful and religiously organised community. A similar _Kulturroman_ is _Der Gottsucher_ (_The God-seeker_, 1883), which leads us back into past centuries. A parish has been excommunicated by the Church for murdering its priest. The people cannot exist without religion, and, deprived of their old church, they create a new one, a religion of Nature, by means of which the leader of the community brings back order and industry to the village. The third novel belonging to this series, _Das Ewige Licht_ (_The Light Eternal_, 1897), is a pessimistic counterpart to the _Waldschulmeister_. This treats of the dangers to religion which arise from modern civilisation. The faithful priest of a mountain parish has to look on helplessly while the modern world thrusts itself into the mountain idyll; while the atmosphere of the great cities, brought up by mountain climbers and summer visitors, and the smoke from the chimneys of the ever-spreading industrialism in the valleys below, poison the pure air, and, morally and economically, ruin the old inhabitants. But the peasantry has yet another enemy: the love of sport among the nobility. As once Karl Marx, the theorist of collectivism, studied in Scotland the expropriation of man from the soil in favour of deer, and in his _Kapital_ exposed the tragic consequences of such excessive sport, so now Rosegger in his home must look on at the depopulating of entire villages. By this means his own birthplace has been nearly ruined. In his first novel, _Heidepeters Gabriel_, he already shows the hopeless struggle of the peasant against the devastation of his fields by game, a struggle which leads to poaching and to prison. And in his novel _Jacob der Letzte_ (1888), which, from an artistic point of view, is perhaps the most complete of his works, the principal character, the last descendant of an old peasant family, who clings tenaciously to the old soil, is beaten and goes under in the struggle. Such a single case becomes for Rosegger an alarming symptom of the universal decline of the free peasantry. "What will come of it?" he asks, when he receives from numerous parts of Germany letters all witnessing to the same facts: "I am no practical teacher of political economy, I am only a poet; but they say that poets are seers, and I verily see that future generations will have to go home to the land again, that only on the land can the social question be peacefully and lastingly solved. Here master and man live on far more friendly footing than in the city, and come humanly nearer together. For twenty-five years I have been preaching in every way the return to natural living. I have built my little house in a peasant village and I live right among the peasants.--I am utterly dissatisfied with the leading spirits of our time: they don't teach us to live, they teach us only to think. One thing we have still to learn--to forget what they have taught us. Our true Mother is the Earth: from her spring our bread and our ideals." The return of the townspeople to nature forms the theme of two later novels, _Erdsegen_ (_The Earth and the Fullness Thereof_, 1900) and _Weltgift_ (_The Poison of the World_, 1903). In the former the editor of a paper pledges himself to live a whole year as farm-labourer in the country. He not only earns his wager, but in the course of the year so richly experiences and realises the blessedness of life on the land that, cured of the fever of city life, he marries a village girl and starts his own farm. This thesis, with its obvious strong purpose, aroused opposition. The chief objection brought forward was that it would be impossible for a thoroughly town-bred person to take such deep root in the country. In reply to this, Rosegger points in the other novel to the fate of a townsman, who, unlike the character in the former book, is too full of the city virus for recovery. The poison of the world has eaten right into him, and he cannot escape his doom. Rosegger can only compare town and country by the strongest contrast of light and shade. And in the talks which he collected in 1885 under the title of _Mountain Sermons, delivered in these latter days in the open air, and dedicated to the reviling and derision of our Enemies, the Weaknesses, the Vices and the Errors of Civilisation_, a fanatical anger is occasionally apparent: one misses the beatitudes which the title leads one to expect. And yet love is the gospel which Rosegger proclaims at all times, and religious questions pervade his writings from first to last. He is himself, like the chief character in his book, a God-seeker. "Man creates for himself an ideal, an always nobler image of himself, calls it God and strives after it. So he climbs as if on a rope ladder, throwing the upper end higher and higher up the rugged wall of rocks towards the heaven of perfection. But who taught him to do this? Surely He who has put the power and spirit of growth in His creature's heart, God the Father, who from everlasting created the world and will create it to everlasting." These conceptions are not exactly canonical, and it has been Rosegger's experience to have an article of his, _How I picture to myself the personality of Christ_, confiscated by the licensing authorities as blasphemous. This induced him twice afterwards openly to state his convictions; once in _Mein Himmelreich_ (_My Kingdom of Heaven_, 1900), and again in _I.N.R.I: Frohe Botschaft eines armen Sünders_ (_The Gospel of a poor Sinner_, 1904). These much-discussed writings give us an image of Christ as Rosegger made it, putting it together from the four gospels: a Christ rejoicing in God, intimate with man's heart, filled with joy of the earth, with mighty creative energy, with consuming wrath in due season; the Superman, the God-man in the highest sense. Rosegger is as strongly opposed to all the violent "Missions" movements in the Church as to the faith-destroying tendency of the modern world's point of view. He holds piously by many an old belief, not because it is for him an article of faith, but because it is a piece of poetic childhood's remembrance; and he has saved many a dogma for himself by interpreting it symbolically and not literally. To the most poetic of his interpretations belongs that of the Cross: "The Cross has a foot rooted in Earth; that means 'Man, make use of the Earth.' The Cross has a head that towers up into the air of heaven; that means 'Man, remember thy ideals.' The Cross has two arms stretching out to right and left, not to chastise men, but to embrace all the world; that means 'Man, love thy brothers.' Love, Joy,--those are the two beams of our Cross. The world is not here as a penance, but a joy." In such sentences as these is contained Rosegger's whole Gospel of Joy, which looks for its fulfilment on this side. For him the highest aim of civilisation, as of religion, is the happiness of mankind. This brings us to a conclusion. We have now seen Rosegger develop from peasant to craftsman, to teacher, to preacher. And now another question arises: Has he not possibly reached a greater height still--is he a prophet? Of that only late generations may judge; to them it is given to see whether the new birth of mankind, which Rosegger, like Tolstoy, looks for from a return to the simplicities of life on the land, will be realised. With Rosegger's prophecy, which we shall do well to consider, I close this paper. "The future generations will find peace and happiness again when they turn back to Nature and give themselves up to the healthy influences of the life of the soil. As yet, when the leaves turn yellow, the townsfolk hurry back into their walls; but there will come a time when the well-to-do citizens will buy land and farm it themselves like peasants, and when artisans will clear and reclaim such land from the wilderness itself. They will renounce hyper-intellectualism, and find pleasure and new vigour in bodily toil; and they will make laws under which a firm-rooted and honourable peasantry can once more thrive." FOOTNOTE: [1] _Wald-bauer_, one whose farm included forest-land. I My Father and I On the whole I had not a bad bringing up, rather I had none at all. When I was a good, devout, obedient, apt child, my parents praised me; when I was the reverse they gave me a downright scolding. Praise almost always did me good and made me feel inches taller; for some children like plants shoot up only in sunshine. But my father was of opinion that I ought not to grow in height only, but also in breadth, and that to this end reserve and austerity were good. My mother was love itself. My father may have been the same by nature, but he did not know how to express his warm and loving heart. With all his gentleness this care and labour-laden man had a taciturn, serious bearing: only later, when he judged me man enough to appreciate it, did he ever give his rich humour free play before me. During those years when I was tearing my first dozen pairs of breeches, he concerned himself with me but little except when I had done something naughty; then he allowed his severity full play. His harshness and my punishment generally consisted in his standing over me, and in loud angry tones, holding up my sin before me and pointing out the punishment I deserved. When such an outburst occurred, it was my habit to plant myself in front of my father and remain standing before him as if petrified, with my arms hanging down, and looking steadily in his angry face throughout the vehement rebuke. In my inmost heart I always repented my wrongdoing and had the clearest sense of guilt; but I also remember another feeling that used to come over me during those homilies: a strange trembling, a sense of charm and ecstasy when the storm burst over my head. Tears came to my eyes and trickled down my cheeks; but I stood rooted there like a little tree, gazing up at my father, and was filled with an inexplicable sense of wellbeing, that increased mightily the longer and louder he thundered. When after such a scene weeks went by without my concocting mischief, and my father, kind and silent as ever, went about his business without taking notice of me, the longing to devise something to put him in a rage gradually began and ripened in me again. This was not for the sake of vexing him, for I loved him passionately; nor yet from malice; but from another cause which I did not understand at the time. Thus it once happened on the sacred eve of Christmas. In the previous summer in Maria Zell[2] my father had bought a little black cross on which hung a Christus in cast lead, and all the instruments of the Passion in the same material. This treasure had been put safely away until Christmas Eve, when my father brought it out of his press and set it on the little house-altar. I profited by the time when my parents and the rest of our people were still busy on the farm outside and in the kitchen making ready for the great festival, and, not without endangering my sound limbs, I reached the crucifix down from the wall, and crouched down behind the stove with it, and began taking it to pieces. It was a rare joy to me when with the aid of my little pocket-knife I loosened first the ladder, then the pincers and hammer, then Peter's cock, and at last the dear Christ Himself from the cross. The separated parts seemed to me much more interesting now than before as a whole; but when I had finished and wanted to put the things together again and could not, I began to grow hot inside and thought I was choking. Would it stop at a mere scolding this time? To be sure, I told myself: the black cross is now much finer than before; there is a black cross with nothing on it in the chapel in Hohenwang too, and people go there to pray. Besides, who wants a crucified Lord at Christmas time? At that time He ought to be lying in the manger--the Priest said so; and I must see about that now. I bent the legs of the leaden Christus back and the arms over the breast, then laid Him reverently in my mother's work-basket, and so set my crib upon the house-altar; while I hid the cross in the straw of my parents' bed--forgetting that the basket would betray the taking down from the cross. Fate swiftly overtook me. My mother was first to observe how absurdly the work-basket had got up among the Saints to-day! "Who can have found the crucifix in his way up there?" asked my father at the very same moment. I was standing a little apart, and I felt like a creature thirsting for strong wine to drink. But at the same time a strange fear warned me to get still farther into the background if possible. My father approached me, asking almost humbly if I did not know where the crucifix had got to? I stood bolt upright before him and looked him in the face. He repeated his question. I pointed towards the bed-straw; tears came, but I believe there was no quiver of my lips. My father searched for and found it, and was not angry, only surprised when he saw the mishandling of the sacred relic. My craving for the strong bitter wine grew apace. My father put the bare cross on the table. "I can see," he said, speaking with perfect calmness, and he took his hat down from the nail, "I can see he'll have to be thoroughly punished at last. When even the Lord Christ Himself is not safe----! Mind you stay in the room, boy!" he bade me darkly, and then went out to the door. "Run after him and beg for pardon!" cried my mother to me. "He's gone to cut a birch-rod." I was as if welded to the floor. With horrible clearness I saw what would befall me, but was quite incapable of taking a single step in self-defence. My mother went about her work; I stood alone in the darkening room, the mutilated crucifix on the table before me. The least sound scared me. Inside the old case of the Black Forest clock standing there on the floor against the wall, the weights rattled as the clock struck five. At last I heard someone outside knocking the snow off his shoes; that was my father's step. When he entered the room with the birch-rod I had vanished. He went into the kitchen and demanded in abrupt and angry tones where the rascal was? Then began a search throughout the whole house; in the living-room the bed and the corner by the stove and the great coffer were rummaged through. I heard them moving about in the next room, in the loft overhead. I heard orders given to search through the very mangers in the byres and the hay and straw in the barns; they were to go out to the shed, too, and bring the fellow straight to his father--he should remember this Christmas Eve all the rest of his life! But they came back empty-handed. Two farm-hands were to be sent about among the neighbours; but my mother called out that if I had gone over the open and through the forest to a neighbour I should certainly be frozen to death, for my little coat and hat were still in the room. What grief and vexation children were! They went away, the house was nearly empty and in the dark room there was nothing visible but the grey squares of the windows. I was hidden in the clock-case and could peep through the chinks. I had squeezed in through the little door meant for winding up the works and let myself down inside the panelling, so that I was now standing upright in the clock-case. What anguish I suffered in my hiding-place! That no good could come of it all, and that the hourly increasing commotion was certainly working towards an hourly more dangerous conclusion, I clearly perceived. I bitterly blamed the work-basket which had betrayed me from the very beginning, and I blamed the little crucifix; but I quite forgot to blame my own folly. Hours passed, I was still in my up-on-end coffin, already the icicles of the clock-weights touched the crown of my head, and I had to duck myself down as well as I could lest the stopping of the clock should lead to its winding up and thereby the discovery of myself. For my parents had at last come back into the room again and kindled a light and were beginning to quarrel about me. "I don't know anywhere else to look for him," said my father, and he sank exhausted on a chair. "Just think, if he's gone astray in the forest, or if he's lying under the snow!" cried my mother, and broke into audible weeping. "Don't say such things!" said my father, "I can't bear to hear it." "You can't bear to hear it, and yet you yourself have driven him away with your harshness!" "I shouldn't have broken any bones with these twigs," he replied, and brought the birch-rod swishing down upon the table: "but if I catch him now, I'll break a hedge-pole across his back!" "Do it, do it!--perhaps it will never hurt him any more!" said my mother, and wept again. "Do you think that children were given you only to vent your anger on? In that case our dear Lord is quite right when He takes them again betimes to Himself. One must love little children if they're to come to any good!" Thereupon he said, "Who says that I don't love the boy? I love him with my whole heart, God knows, but I don't care to tell him so: I don't care to, and what's more I can't. It doesn't hurt him half as much as me when I have to punish him, that I _know_!" "Well, I'm going out for another look!" sighed my mother. "I can't rest here, neither!" he said. "You must just swallow a spoonful of warm soup, to please me--it's supper-time," she said. "I couldn't eat now, I'm fairly at my wits' end," said my father, and knelt down by the table and began to pray silently. My mother went into the kitchen to get together my warm clothes for the fresh search in case they should find me anywhere, half frozen. The room was silent again, and I, in the clock-case, felt as if my heart must burst for sorrow and anguish. Suddenly, in the midst of his prayer, my father began to sob convulsively. His head fell on his arm and his whole body shook. I gave a piercing cry. A few seconds later I was lifted out of my shell by my parents, and I fell at my father's feet and clung whimpering to his knee. "Father, father!" were the only words I could stammer out. He reached down to me with both his arms, lifted me up to his breast, and my hair was wet with his tears. In that moment the eyes of my understanding were opened. I saw how dreadful it was to anger and offend such a father. But I saw, too, why I had done so--from sheer longing to see my father's face before me, to be able to look into his eyes and hear his voice speaking to _me_. If he could not be cheery as others were with me, and as he, at that time so care-laden, seldom was, then I would at least look into his angry eyes, hear his harsh words. They went tingling deliciously all through me, and drew me to him with irresistible might. At least they were my father's eyes and words. No further jar unhallowed our Christmas Eve, and from that day on things were very different. My father had become deeply aware of his love for me and my devotion to him; and, in many an hour of play, work, and rest, bestowed upon me his dear face and kindly conversation, so that I never again needed to get them by guile. FOOTNOTE: [2] A place of pilgrimage in Styria. II How I Gave God My Sunday Jacket The church of the Alpine village of Ratten contains a nearly life-size equestrian statue, standing to the left of the high altar. The horseman is a splendid warrior; he wears a crested helmet and moustaches black as ebony. He has drawn his broad and gleaming sword and is using it to cut his cloak in half. At the foot of the prancing steed cowers the figure of a ragged beggar-man. My mother used to take me to this church when I was still a little whipper-snapper, hardly up to the height of an ordinary person's trousers. Near the church stands a lady-chapel, famed for its many graces; and here my mother loved to pray. Often, when there was not another soul remaining in the chapel and twelve o'clock struck and the steeple sent the midday Angelus clanging out across the summer Sunday, mother would still be kneeling on one of the chairs and sending up her plaint to Mary. The Blessed Virgin sat on the altar, with her hand in her lap, and moved not head, nor eyes, nor hands; and so, little by little, my mother was able to say what she wanted. I preferred to stop in the church and gaze at the fine rider on his horse. And once, when we were on our way home and mother leading me by the hand (and I had always to take three steps for every one of hers), I raised my little head to her kind face and asked: "Why does the man on horseback keep on standing against the wall up there? Why does he not ride out through the window into the street?" Then mother answered: "Because you put such childish questions and because it is only a statue, the statue of St. Martin, who was a soldier and a very charitable and pious man and is now in Heaven." "And is the horse in Heaven too?" I asked. "I will tell you all about St. Martin," said mother, "when we come to a nice place where we can sit down and rest." And she led me on and I skipped along beside her. But I was very anxious for the resting-place and constantly cried out: "Mother, here's a nice place!" But she was not content until we came to the shady wood, where a flat, mossy stone stood; and then we sat down. Mother fastened her kerchief tighter round her head and was silent, as though she had forgotten her promise. I stared and stared at her lips and then peeped through the trees; and once or twice it appeared to me as though I had seen the grand horseman riding through the wood. "Yes, true enough, laddie," mother began, suddenly, "we must always help the poor, for the love of God. But you won't find many fine gentlemen like St. Martin nowadays, trotting about on their tall horses. You know how the icy blast rushes over our sheep-walk, when winter is nigh--your own little paws were nearly frozen there last year! Well, it was just such a stretch of heath that St. Martin came riding over one evening late in autumn. The earth is frozen hard as stone; and it makes a fine noise each time the horse puts hoof to ground. The snowflakes dance all round about; not one of them melts away. Night is just beginning to fall; and the horse clatters over the heath and the rider draws his white cloak round him as close as ever he can. Well, as he rides on like that, suddenly he sees a little beggar-man squatting on a stone, with nothing to cover him but a torn jacket; and he shivering with cold and lifting his sad eyes to the tall horse. Whoa! When the horseman sees that, he pulls up his steed and bends over and says to the beggar, 'Oh, my dear, poor man, what alms can I give you? Gold and silver I have none; and my sword you could never use. How can I help you?' Then the beggar lets his white head fall on his half-naked breast and heaves a sigh. But the horseman draws his sword, takes his cloak from his shoulders and cuts it across the middle. One half of the garment he hands down to the poor shivering grey-beard: 'Take this, my needy brother!' he says. The other half of the cloak he flings round his own body, as best he can, and rides away." This was the story my mother told me; and, with those cold autumn evenings of hers, she made that lovely midsummer day feel so chilly that I shivered. "But it's not quite finished yet, my child," mother continued. "You know now what the horseman with the beggar in the church means; but you have not heard what happened afterwards. When the rider, later on at night, lies sleeping peacefully on his hard bolster at home, the same beggar whom he met on the heath comes to his bedside, smiles and shows him the half cloak, shows him the marks of the nails in His hands and shows him His face, which is no longer old and sorrowful, but radiant as the sun. This same beggar from the heath was Our Lord Himself.--There, laddie, and now we must be getting on." Then we stood up and climbed into the woods on the mountain-side. On the way home, we met two beggar-men; I peered very closely into their faces; for I thought: "Our Lord may be concealed behind one of them." On the evening of the same day, I was told to take off my Sunday suit--for father was a thrifty man--and was playing and skipping about in my shabby workaday breeches, with only the brand-new grey jacket, which I did not want to take off and had begged to be allowed to wear for the rest of the day. Mother was attending to her household duties and I ran out to the sheep-walk, for it was my business to bring the sheep home to the fold, including a little white lamb that was my own property. As I hopped along, throwing stones into the air and trying to hit the golden evening clouds, suddenly I saw an old, white-headed and very poorly dressed man squatting on a rock a little way off. I stopped, greatly startled; dared not take another step; and thought to myself: "Now this is most certainly Our Lord." I trembled with fear and joy and simply had no notion what to do. "If it _is_ Our Lord," I said to myself, "then surely I must give Him something. If I go home now, so that mother comes and looks out and sees me and tells me how the matter stands, He might be gone in the meantime; and that would be disgraceful and ridiculous. I think it is He beyond a doubt: the one whom the horseman met looked just like that." I went a few steps back and began to tear at my grey jacket. It was no easy work: the coat fitted so tightly over my coarse linen shirt; and I did not want to be puffing and panting, lest the beggar-man should notice me too soon. I had a yellow-handled pocket-knife, brand-new and just lately sharpened. I took it out of my pocket, put the little coat under my knee and began to divide it down the middle. It was soon done and I stole up to the beggar-man, who seemed to be half asleep, and put his part of my coat on his head: "Take this, my needy brother!" I said, silently, in my thoughts. Then I put my half of the coat under my arm, gazed at Our Lord a little longer and then drove the sheep from the walk. "He is sure to come in the night," I thought, "and then father and mother will see Him and, if He wishes to stop with us, we can fit up the back room and the little altar for Him." I lay in the cupboard-bedstead, beside father and mother, and I could not sleep. The night passed and He Whom I was expecting did not come. But, early in the morning, when the barn-door cock crowed the men and maids out of their beds and when the noisy working-day began in the yard outside, an old man--he was nicknamed Mushroom Moses--came to my father, brought him the piece of my jacket which I had given away and told how I had wantonly cut it the evening before and flung one half at his head as he was taking a rest on the sheep-walk after hunting for mushrooms. Thereupon my father came up softly to my bed, with one hand hidden behind his back. "Look here, lad, just you tell me what you've done with your new Sunday jacket!" That soft slinking with his hand behind his back at once struck me as suspicious; and my face fell; and, bursting into tears, I cried: "Oh, father, I thought I was giving it to God!" "Lord, lad, what a duffer--what an idiot you are!" cried my father. "You're much too good for this world and yet quite too silly to die! What you want is to have your soul thrashed out of your skin with a stout besom." And then, when the hand with the twisted birch-rod came in view, I raised a great hullabaloo. Mother came rushing up at once. As a rule, she seldom interfered when father was correcting me; but, this time, she caught hold of his hand and said: "I dare say I can sew the jacket together again, father. Come with me: I have something to tell you." They both went out into the kitchen; I think they must have discussed the story of St. Martin. Presently, they came back to the room. Father said: "All right now, be quiet; there's nothing going to be done to you." And mother whispered in my ear: "It's all right, your wanting to give your jacket to Our Lord; but it'll be better still if we give it to the poor boy down in the valley. Our Lord lies hidden in every poor man. St. Martin knew that too, you see. So there. And now, lad, jump out of bed and get your breeches on; father's not so very far off yet with that birch of his!" III Christmas Eve Year in, year out, there stood by the grey clay-plastered wall of the stove in our living-room an oaken footstool. It was always smooth and clean, for, like the other furniture, it was rubbed every Saturday with fine river sand and a wisp of straw. In spring, summer, and autumn-time this stool stood empty and lonely in its corner, save when of an evening my grandmother pulled it a little forward to kneel on it and say her evening prayer. On Saturdays, too, while my father said the prayers for the end of the week, grandmother knelt upon the stool. But when during the long evenings in late autumn the farm-hands were cutting small household torches from the resinous logs, and the maids, along with my mother and grandmother, spinning wool and flax, and all during Advent time, when old fairy tales were told and hymns were sung--then I always sat on the stool by the stove. From out my corner I listened to the stories and songs, and if they became creepy and my little soul began to be moved with terror, I shoved the stool nearer to my mother and covertly held on by her dress; and could not possibly understand how the others still dared to laugh at me, or at the terrible stories. At last when bedtime came, and my mother pulled my little box-bed out for me, I simply could not go to bed alone, and my grandmother must lie beside me until the frightful visions had faded and I fell asleep. But with us the long Advent nights were always short. Soon after two o'clock, the house began to grow restless. In the attics above one could hear the farm-lads dressing and moving about, and in the kitchen the maids broke up kindling wood and poked the fire. Then they all went out to the threshing floor to thresh. My mother was also up and about, and had kindled a light in the living-room; soon after that my father rose, and they both put on somewhat better clothes than they wore on working-days and yet not their Sunday best. Then mother said a few words to grandmother, who still lay a-bed, and when I, wakened by the stir, made some sort of remark, she only answered, "You lie nice and quiet and go to sleep again!" Then my parents lighted a lantern, extinguished the light in the room, and left the house. I heard the outer door close, and saw the gleam of light go glimmering past the window, and I heard the crunching of footsteps in the snow and the rattling of the house-dog's chain. Then, save for the regular throb of the threshers at work, all was once more quiet and I fell asleep again. My father and mother were going to the Rorate[3] at the parish church, nearly three hours away. I followed them in my dream. I could hear the church bell, and the sound of the organ and the Advent song, "Hail Mary, thou bright morning star!" I saw, too, the lights on the high altar; and the little angels that stood above it spread out their golden wings and flew about the church, and the one with the trumpet, standing over the pulpit, passed out over the heath and into the forests and blew throughout the whole world that the coming of the Saviour was near at hand. When I awoke the sun had long been shining into the windows; outside the snow glittered and shimmered, and indoors my mother went about again in workaday clothes and did her household tasks. Grandmother's bed, next mine, was already made, and she herself now came in from the kitchen and helped me to put on my breeches, and washed my face with cold water, that stung me so that I was ready to laugh and cry at the same moment. That over I knelt on my stool and prayed with grandmother the morning prayer: In Gottes Namen aufstehen Gegen Gott gehen, Gegen Gott treten, Zum Himmlischen Vater beten, Dass er uns verleih Lieb Engelein drei: Der erste, der uns weist, Der Zweite, der uns speist, Der dritt' der uns behüt' und bewahrt, Dass uns an Leib und Seel' nichts widerfahrt.[4] After these devotions I received my morning soup, and then came grandmother with a tub full of turnips which we were to peel together. I sat close beside it on my stool. But in the matter of peeling turnips I could never quite satisfy grandmother: I constantly cut the rind too thick, or here and there even left it whole upon the turnip. When, moreover, I cut my finger and instantly began to cry, my grandmother said, very crossly, "You're a regular nuisance, it would be a good thing to pitch you right out into the snow!" All the while she was binding up my wound with unspeakable love and care. So passed the Advent season, and grandmother and I talked more and more often about Christmas Eve and of the Christchild who would so soon be coming among men. The nearer we came to the festival the greater the stir in the house. The men turned the cattle out of the stall and put fresh straw there and set the mangers and barriers in good order; the cowman rubbed the oxen till they looked quite smooth; the stockman mixed more hay than usual in the straw and prepared a great heap of it in the hayloft. The milkmaid did the same. Threshing had already ceased some days ago, because, according to our belief, the noise would have profaned the approaching Holy Day. Through all the house there was washing and scrubbing; even into the living-room itself came the maids with their water-pails and straw wisps and brooms. I always looked forward to the cleaning, because I loved the turning topsy-turvy of everything, and because the glazed pictures in the corner where the table was, the brown clock from the Black Forest with its metal bell, and the various things which, at other times, I saw only at a distance high above me, were taken down and brought nearer to me, and I could observe them all much more closely and from all sides. To be sure, I was not allowed to handle such things, because I was still too clumsy and careless for that and might easily damage them. But there were moments in that eager scrubbing and rubbing when people did not notice me. In one such moment I climbed from the stool to the bench, and from the bench to the table, which was pushed out of its place and on which lay the Black Forest clock. I made for the clock, whose weights hung over the edge of the table, looked through an open side-door into the very dusty brass works, tapped several times on the little cogs of the winding-wheel, and at last even laid my finger on the wheel itself to see if it would go; but it didn't. Eventually I gently pushed a small stick of wood, and as I did so the works began to rattle frightfully. Some of the wheels went slowly, others quicker, and the winding-wheel flew round so fast that one could hardly see it at all. I was indescribably frightened, and rolled from the table over bench and stool down on to the wet, dirty floor; then my mother gripped me by my little coat--and there, sure enough, was the birch-rod![5] The whirring inside the clock would not leave off, and finally my mother laid hold of me with both hands, carried me into the entrance, pushed me through the door and out into the snow, and shut the door behind me. There I stood like one undone; I could hear my mother--whom I must have offended badly--still scolding within doors, and the laughing and scrubbing of the maids, and through it all the whirring of the clock. When I had stood there sobbing for a while and still nobody came to call me back into the house, I set off for the path that was trodden in the snow, and I went through the home meadow and across the open land towards the forest. I did not know whither I would go, I only conceived that a great wrong had been done me and that I could never go home again. But I had not reached the forest when I heard a shrill whistle behind me. That was the whistle my grandmother made when she put two fingers in her mouth, pointed her tongue, and blew. "Where are you going, you stupid child?" she cried. "Take care; if you run about in the forest like that, Moss-Maggie will catch you! Look out!" At this word I instantly turned round, for I feared Moss-Maggie unspeakably. But I did not go home yet. I hung about in the farmyard, where my father and two of our men had just killed a pig. Watching them I forgot what had happened to myself, and when my father set about skinning it in the outhouse I stood by holding the ends of the skin, which with his big knife he gradually detached from the carcase. When later on the intestines had been taken out and my mother was pouring water into the basin, she said to me, "Run away or you'll get splashed." From the way in which she spoke I could tell that my mother was once more reconciled with me and all was right again; and when I went into the dwelling-room to warm myself a bit, everything was back in its own place. Floor and walls were still moist, but scrubbed clean, and the Black Forest clock was once more hanging on the wall and ticking. And it ticked much louder and clearer than before through the freshly ordered room. At last the washing and scrubbing and polishing came to an end, the house grew peacefuller, almost silent, and the Sacred Vigil was upon us. On Christmas Eve we used not to have our dinner in the living-room, but in the kitchen, where we made the large pastry-board our table, and sat round it and ate the simple fasting fare silently, but with uplifted hearts. The table in the dwelling-room was covered with a snow-white cloth, and beside it stood my stool, upon which, when the twilight fell, my grandmother knelt and prayed silently. The maids went quietly about the house and got their holiday clothes ready, and mother put pieces of meat in a big pot and poured water on them and set it on the open fire. I stole softly about the room on tiptoe and heard only the jolly crackling of the kitchen fire. I gazed at my Sunday breeches and coat and the little black felt hat which were ready hanging on a nail in the wall, and then I looked through the window out at the oncoming dusk. If no rough weather set in I was to be allowed to go with the head farm-servant, Sepp, to the midnight Mass. And the weather was quiet, and moreover, according to my father, it was not going to be very cold, because the mist lay upon the hills. Just before the "censing," in which, following ancient custom, house and farm were blessed with holy water and incense, my father and my mother fell out a little. Maggie the Moss-gatherer had been there to wish us all a blessed Christmastide, and my mother had presented her with a piece of meat for the feast-day. My father was somewhat vexed at this; in other ways, he was a good friend to the poor, and not seldom gave them more than we could well spare; but in his opinion one ought not to give Moss-Maggie any alms whatever. The Moss-gatherer was a woman not belonging to our neighbourhood, who went wandering around in the forests without permission, collecting moss and roots, making fires and sleeping in the half-ruined huts of charcoal-burners. Besides that, she went begging to the farmhouses, offering moss for sale, and if she did but poor business there she wept and railed at her life. Children at whom she looked were sore terrified, and many even became ill; and she could make cows give red milk. Whoever showed her kindness, she would follow for several minutes, saying, "May God reward you a thousand and a thousandfold right up into heaven!" But to anyone who mocked, or in any other way whatsoever offended her, she said, "I pray you down into the nethermost hell!" Moss-Maggie often came to us, and she loved to sit before the house on the grass, or on the stile over the hedge, in spite of the loud barking and chain-clanking of our house-dog, who showed singular violence towards this woman. She would remain there until my mother took her out a cup of milk or a bit of bread. My mother was glad when Moss-Maggie thereupon gave her a thousandfold-right-up-to-heaven-may-God-reward-you; but my father considered the wish of this person worthless, whether as curse or blessing. Some years earlier, when they were building the school-house in the village, this woman had come to the place with her husband and helped at the work, until one day the man was killed at stone-blasting. Since then she had worked no more, nor did she go away; but she just idled about, nobody knowing what she did nor what she wanted. She could never again be persuaded to do any work--she seemed to be crazed. The magistrate had several times sent Moss-Maggie out of the district, but she always returned. "She wouldn't always be coming back," said my father, "if she got nothing by begging in the neighbourhood. As it is she'll just stay about here, and when she's old and ill, we shall have to nurse her as well: it's a cross that we ourselves have tied round our necks." My mother said nothing in reply to such words, but when Moss-Maggie came she still gave the usual alms, and to-day in honour of the great feast a little more. Hence then arose the little dispute between my father and mother, which however was at once silenced when two farm-hands bearing the incense and holy water entered the house. After the censing my father placed a lighted candle on the table; to-day pine-splinters might only be burned in the kitchen. Supper was once again eaten in the living-room. During supper the head farm-servant told us all manner of wonderful stories. When we had finished my mother sang a shepherd's song. Rapturously as I listened to these songs at other times, to-day I could think of nothing but the churchgoing, and longed above everything to get at once into my Sunday clothes. They assured me there would be time enough for that later on; but at last my grandmother yielded to my urgent appeal and dressed me. The cowman dressed himself very carefully in his festal finery, because he was not going home after the midnight mass, but would stay in the village till morning. About nine o'clock the other farm-servants and the maids were also ready, and they kindled a torch at the candle flame. I held on to Sepp, the head servant; and my parents and grandmother, who stayed at home to take care of the house, sprinkled me with holy water that I might neither fall nor freeze to death. Then we started off. It was very dark, and the torch, borne before us by the cowman, threw its red light in a great disk on the snow, and the hedge, the stone-heaps and the trees past which we went. This red illumination, which was broken too by the great shadows of our bodies, seemed very awful to me, and I clung fearfully to Sepp, until he remarked, "Look here, leave me my coat; what should I do if you tore it off my back?" For a time the path was very narrow, so that we had to go one behind the other, and I was only thankful that I was not the last, for I imagined that he for certain must be exposed to endless dangers from ghosts. There was a cutting wind and the glowing splinters of the torch flew far afield, and even when they fell on the hard snow-crust they still glowed for a while. So far we had gone across open ground and down through thickets and forest; now we came to a brook which I knew well--it flowed through the meadow where we made hay in summer. Then the brook had been noisy enough; to-day one could only hear it murmur and gurgle, for it was frozen over. We passed along by a mill where I was badly scared because some sparks flew on to the roof; but there was snow lying upon it and the sparks were quenched. When we had gone some way along the valley, we left the brook and the way led upwards through a dark wood where the snow lay very shallow but had no such firm surface as out in the open. At last we came to a wide road, where we could walk side by side, and now and again we heard sleigh-bells. The torch had already burned right down to the cowman's hand, and he kindled another that he had with him. On the road were visible several other lights--great red torches that came flaring towards us as if they were swimming in the black air, behind which first one and then several more faces of the churchgoers gradually emerged, who now joined company with us. And we saw lights on other hills and heights, that were still so far off we could not be sure whether they were still or moving. So we went on. The snow crunched under our feet, and wherever the wind had carried it away, there the black patch of bare ground was so hard that our shoes rang upon it. The people talked and laughed a great deal, but this seemed not a bit right to me in the holy night of Christmas. I could only think all the while about the church and what it must be like when there is music and High Mass in the dead of night. When we had been going for a long time along the road and past isolated trees and houses, then again over fields and through a wood, I suddenly heard a faint ringing in the tree-tops. When I wanted to listen, I couldn't hear it; but soon after I heard it again, and clearer than the first time. It was the sound of the little bell in the church steeple. The lights which we saw on the hills and in the valley became more and more frequent, and we could now see that they were all hastening churchwards. The little calm stars of the lanterns floated towards us, and the road was growing livelier all the time. The small bell was relieved by a greater, and this one went on ringing until we had almost reached the church. So it was true, what grandmother had said: at midnight the bells begin to ring, and they ring until the very last dweller in the farthest valleys has come to church. The church stands on a hill covered with birches and firs, and round it lies the little God's-acre encircled by a low wall. The few houses of the village are down in the valley. When the people came close to the church, they extinguished their torches by sticking them head downwards in the snow. Only one was fixed between two stones in the churchyard wall, and left burning. And now from the steeple in slow, rhythmical swing, rang out the great bell. A clear light shone through the high, narrow windows. I longed to go into the church; but Sepp said there was still plenty of time, and stayed where he was, laughing and talking with other young fellows and filling himself a pipe. At last all the bells pealed out together; the organ began to play inside the church, and then we all went in. There it looked quite different from what it did on Sundays. The candles burning on the altar were clear, white, beaming stars, and the gilded tabernacle reflected them most gloriously. The lamp of the sanctuary light was red. The upper part of the church was so dark that one could not see the beautiful painting of the nave. Mysterious shapes of men were seated in the chairs, or standing beside them; the women were much wrapped up in shawls and were coughing. Many had candles burning in front of them, and they sang out of their books when the _Te Deum_ rang out from the chancel. Sepp led me between two rows of chairs towards a side altar, where several people were standing. There he lifted me up on to a stool before a glass case, which, lighted by two candles, was placed between two branches of fir trees, and which I had never seen before when I went to church with my parents. When Sepp had set me on the stool, he said softly in my ear, "There, now you can have a look at the crib." Then he left me standing, and I gazed in through the glass. Thereupon came a friendly little woman and whispered, "Look here, child, if you want to see that, somebody ought to explain it to you." And she told me who the little figures were. I looked at them. Save for the Mother Mary, who had a blue wrapped garment round her head which fell down to her very feet, all the figures represented mere human beings: the men were dressed just like our farm-servants or the elder peasants. Even St. Joseph wore green stockings and short chamois-leather breeches. When the _Te Deum_ was over, Sepp came back, lifted me from the stool, and we sat down on a bench. Then the sacristan went round lighting all the candles that were in the church, and every man, including Sepp, pulled a little candle out of his pouch, lighted it, and fastened it on to the desk in front of him. Now it was so bright in the church that one could see the paintings on the roof clearly enough. Up in the choir they were tuning fiddles and trumpets and drums, and, just as the little bell on the door of the sacristy rang, and the priest in his glittering vestments, accompanied by acolytes and tall lantern-bearers, passed over the crimson carpet to the altar, the organ burst forth in all its strength, joined by a blast of trumpets and roll of drums. The incense smoke was rising, and shrouding the shining high altar in a veil. Thus the High Mass began, and thus it shone and sounded and rang in the middle of the night. Throughout the offertory all the instruments were silent, only two clear voices sang a lovely shepherd-song; and during the Benedictus a clarionet and two horns slow and softly crooned the cradle-song. During the Gospel and the Elevation we heard the cuckoo and nightingale in the choir, just as in the midst of the sunny spring-time. Deep down in my soul I understood it, the wonder and splendour of Christmas. But I did not exclaim with delight; I remained grave and silent, I felt the solemn glory of it all. But while the music was playing I could not help thinking about father and mother and grandmother at home. They are kneeling by the table now in the light of the single candle, and praying; or they are even asleep, and the room is all dark--only the clock ticking--while a deep peace lies upon the forest-clad mountains, and the Eve of Christmas is spread abroad over all the earth. The little candles in the seats were burning themselves out, one after another, as the service neared its close at last; and the sacristan went round again and extinguished the lights on the walls and altars and before the pictures with the little tin cap. Those on the high altar were still burning when a joyous march music sounded from the choir and the folk went crowding out of the incense-laden church. When we came outside, in spite of the thick mist which had descended from the hills, it was no longer quite so dark as before midnight. The moon must have risen; no more torches were lighted. It struck one o'clock, but the schoolmaster was already ringing the prayer bell for Christmas morning. I glanced once more at the church windows. All the festal shine was quenched, I saw only the dull red glimmer of the sanctuary lamp. And now, when I wanted to renew my hold on Sepp's coat, he was no longer there: I found myself among strangers, who talked together for a little, and then immediately set out for their several homes. My guide must be already on ahead. I hurried after him, running quickly past several people, hoping soon to overtake him. I ran as hard as my little feet were able, going through a dark wood and across fields over which such a keen wind was blowing, that warm as I otherwise was I scarcely felt my nose and ears at all. I passed houses and clumps of trees; the people who were still on the road a short time before had dropped off little by little; I was all alone, and still I hadn't overtaken Sepp. I thought he might just as well be still behind me, but I determined to hurry straight home. Here and there I saw black spots on the road, the charcoal that folk had shaken down from their torches on their way to church. I made up my mind not to look at the bushes and little trees which stood beside the way and loomed eerily out of the mist, for they scared me. I was specially frightened whenever a path cut straight across the road, because that was a cross-road, where on Christmas Eve the Evil One loves to stand, and has chinking treasure with him with which he entices the hapless children of men to himself. It is true the cowman had said he did not believe it, but such things must be or people would not talk so much about them. I was very agitated; I turned my eyes in all directions, lest a ghost should be somewhere making for me. Then I determined to think no more of such nonsense; but the harder I made up my mind, the more I thought about it. And now I had reached the path which should take me down through the forest and into the valley. I turned aside and ran along under the long-branched trees. Their tops rustled loudly, and now and again a great lump of snow fell down beside me. Sometimes it was so dark that I did not see the trunks until I ran up against them; and then I lost the path. This I did not mind very much, for the snow was shallow and the ground nice and level. But gradually it began to grow steep and steeper, and there were a lot of brambles and heather under the snow. The tree-stems were no longer spaced so regularly, but were scattered about, many leaning all awry, many with torn-up roots resting against others, and many, in a wild confusion of up-reaching branches, lying prone upon the ground. I did not remember seeing all this on our outward journey. Sometimes I could hardly get on at all, but had to wriggle in and out through the bushes and branches. Often the snow-crust gave way under me, and then the stiff heather reached right up to my chest. I realised I had lost the right path, but told myself that when I was once in the valley and beside the brook I should follow that along and so was bound to come at last to the mill and our own meadows. Lumps of snow fell into the pockets of my coat, snow clung to my little breeches and stockings, and the water ran down into my shoes. At first all that clambering over fallen trees and creeping through undergrowth had tired me, but now the weariness had vanished; I didn't heed the snow, and I didn't heed the heather, nor the boughs that so often scratched me roughly about the face, but I just hurried on. I was constantly falling, but as quickly picking myself up again. Then, too, all fear of ghosts was gone; I thought of nothing but the valley and our house. I had no notion how long I had been astray in the wilderness, but felt strong and nimble, terror spurring me on. Suddenly I found myself standing on the brink of a precipice. Down in the abyss a grey fog lay, with here and there a tree-top rising out of it. The forest was sparser about me, it was bright overhead and the half-moon stood in the sky. Before me, and away beyond that, there was nothing but strange cone-shaped, forest-clad mountains. Down there in the depths must be the valley and the mill. It seemed to me as if I heard the murmur of the brook; but it was only the soughing of the wind in the forest on the farther side. I went to right and to left, searching for a footpath that might take me down, and I found a place where I thought I should be able to lower myself by the help of the loose rocks which lay about, and of the juniper bushes. In this I succeeded for a little, but only just in time I clutched hold of a root--I had nearly pitched over a perpendicular cliff. After that I could go no farther, but sank in sheer exhaustion to the ground. In the depths below lay the fog with the black tree-tops. Save for the soughing of the wind in the forest, I heard nothing. I did not know where I was. If only a deer would come I would ask my way of it; quite probably it would be able to direct me, for everyone knows that on Christmas Eve the beasts can talk like men. I got up to climb back again, but only loosened the rocks and made no progress. Hands and feet were aching. I stood still and called for Sepp as loud as ever I could. Lingering and faint, my voice fell back from the forests and cliffs. Then again I heard nothing but the soughing of the wind. The frost was cutting right into my limbs. "Sepp! Sepp!" I shouted once more with all my might. Again nothing but the long-drawn-out echo. Then a fearful anguish took possession of me. I called quickly, one after another, my parents, my grandmother, all the farm-hands and maids of our household by name. It was all in vain. I began to cry miserably. There I stood trembling, my body throwing a long shadow aslant down the naked rock. I went to and fro along the ledge to warm myself a little, and I prayed aloud to the holy Christchild to save me. The moon stood high in the dark heavens. I could no longer cry or pray, I could scarcely move any more. I crouched down shivering on a stone and said to myself, "I shall go to sleep now; it's all only a dream, and when I wake up I shall either be at home or in heaven." Then on a sudden I heard a rustling in the juniper bushes above me, and soon after I felt that something was touching me and lifting me up. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't--my voice was frozen within me. Fear and anguish kept my eyes fast shut. Hands and feet, too, were as if lamed, I could not move them. Then I felt warm, and it seemed to me as if all the mountain rocked with me. When I came to myself and awoke it was still night; but I was standing at the door of my home and the house-dog was barking furiously. Somebody had let me slip down on the hard-trodden snow, and had then knocked loudly on the door and hurried away. I had recognised this somebody; it was the Moss-wife. The door opened, and grandmother threw herself upon me with the words, "Jesus Christ, here he is!" She carried me into the warm living-room, but from thence quickly back again into the entrance. There she set me on the bread-trough, and hastened outside and blew her most piercing whistle. She was quite alone. When Sepp had come back from church and not found me at home, and when, too, the others came and I was with none of them, they had all gone down into the forest and through the valley and up the other side to the high road, and in all directions. Even my mother had gone with them, and everywhere, all the time, had called out my name. So soon as my grandmother believed it could no longer harm me, she carried me back into the warm room, and when she drew off my shoes and stockings they were quite frozen together and almost frozen to my feet. Thereupon she again hurried out of doors, whistled again, brought some snow in a pail, and set me barefoot down in it. Standing thus I felt such a violent pain in my toes that I groaned; but grandmother said, "That's all right; if it hurts, your feet aren't frozen." Soon after that the red morning light shone in through the window, and one by one all the farm-hands came home. At length my father, and quite last of all--when the red disk of the sun was rising over the Wechselalpe, and after grandmother had whistled countless times--came my mother. She came to my little bed, where they had tucked me up, my father sitting beside me. She was quite hoarse. She said I ought to go to sleep now, and she covered the window with a cloth so that the sun should not shine in my face. But my father seemed to think I ought not to go to sleep yet: he wanted to know how I had got away from the servant without his noticing it, and where I had been wandering. I at once related how I had lost the path, and how I got into the wilderness; and when I had told them about the moon and the black forests, and about the soughing of the wind and the rocky precipice, my father said under his breath to my mother, "Wife, let us give God praise and thanks that he is here--he has been on the Troll's rock!" At these words my mother gave me a kiss on the cheek, a thing she did but seldom, and then she put her apron before her face and went away. "Well, you young scaramouch, and how did you get home after all?" asked my father. I said I didn't know; that after a prolonged sleeping and rocking, I found myself at our door, and that Moss-Maggie had stood beside me. My father asked me yet again about this circumstance, but I told him I hadn't got anything else to say about it. My father then said he must be off to High Mass in the church, because to-day was Christmas Day; and he bade me go to sleep. I must have slept many hours after that, for when I awoke it was twilight outside, and in the dwelling-room it was nearly dark. My grandmother sat nodding beside my bed, and from the kitchen I heard the crackling of the fire on the hearth. Later, when the servants were all sitting at the evening meal, Moss-Maggie was with them at table. During the morning service she had been out in the churchyard, cowering on her husband's grave; and after High Mass my father went and found her there and brought her with him to our house. They could get nothing out of her about the event of the night, save that she had been searching for the Christchild in the forest. Then she came over to my bed and looked at me, and I was scared at her eyes. In the back part of our house was a room in which there were only old, useless things and a lot of cobwebs. This room my father gave Moss-Maggie for a dwelling, and put a stove and a bed and a table in it for her. And she stayed with us. She would still very often go rambling about in the forest, and bring home moss, and then return and sit for hours upon her husband's grave; from which she could never more tear herself away to return to her own district--where, indeed, she would have been just as lonely and homeless as everywhere else. Of her circumstances we could learn nothing more definite: we could only conjecture that the woman had once been happy and certainly in her right mind; and that grief for the loss of her mate had robbed her of reason. We all loved her, for she lived peacefully and contentedly with all and caused nobody the least trouble. The house-dog alone, it seemed, would never trust her, he barked and tore furiously at the chain whenever she came across the home meadow. But the creature was meaning something quite different than we thought, all the time; for once when the chain broke he rushed to the woman, leapt whining into her bosom and licked her cheeks. At last in the late autumn, when Moss-Maggie was almost always in the graveyard, there came a time when, instead of barking cheerily, the dog howled by the hour together, so that my grandmother, herself very worn and weary by then, said, "You mark my words; there'll soon be somebody dying in our neighbourhood now, when the dog howls like that! God comfort the poor soul!" And a little while after that Moss-Maggie fell ill, and when winter came she died. * * * * * In her last moments she held both my father and mother by the hand and uttered the words, "May God requite you a thousand and a thousandfold, right up into heaven itself!" FOOTNOTES: [3] A morning service of the Catholic Church held during Advent. [4] In God's name let us arise Towards God to go, Towards God to take our way, To the Heavenly Father to pray, That He lend to us Dear little angels three: The first to guide us, The second to feed us, The third to shelter and protect us That nothing mischance us in body or soul. [5] The birchen Lizzie--_Die birkene Liesel_. IV A Last Will and Testament When of a Saturday evening my father sat at his shaving I had to creep under the table because it was dangerous above. When my father sat shaving himself, and when he had lathered his cheek and lips to such a snowy whiteness that he looked like the herd-boy after he has been lapping cream behind the milkmaid's back; when, further, he sharpened his gleaming razor on his brown-leather braces and then passed it slowly over his cheek, he would straightway begin to twist mouth, cheeks, and nose--indeed, his whole countenance--in such a fashion as made his dear kind face quite unrecognisable. He drew both lips deep into his mouth, till he was like nothing so much as old neighbour Veit who had lost all his teeth; or he stretched his mouth crosswise, from left to right, like Köhler-Sani scolding his hens; and he screwed one eye up tight and blew out a cheek, for all the world like poor Tinili the tailor, after his virago wife had been caressing him. All the funniest faces in the whole neighbourhood came to my mind in turn when my father sat at his shaving. And that set me off. At this point my father, still friendly, would say, "Do be quiet, laddie." But scarcely had he spoken when again there came such a wonderful face that I simply couldn't help laughing outright. He peered into the little looking-glass, and I fully expected to see his distorted features relax into a smile. Then he suddenly called out, "If you're not quiet, boy, I'll break the shaving-brush over your pate!" It was now high time to creep under the table, where my smothered giggles kept me shaking like a wet poodle. After that he could shave peacefully and without danger of breaking out into untimely mirth over his own or my grimaces. And so it came to pass one winter evening that my father was sitting before the soap-bowl and I under the table when I heard someone in the entrance stamping the snow from his boots. A moment later the door opened and in came a big man whose thick red beard had icicles hanging from it just like our shingle roof outside. He at once sat down on a bench, drew a big tobacco-pipe from under his homespun cloak, gripped it between his front teeth, and, while striking a light, remarked, "Having a shave, Farmer?" "Yes, I'm having a bit of a shave," answered my father, and went on scraping with the razor, and cut a really God-forsaken grimace. "That's all right," said the stranger. And later, when he was quite hidden in tobacco smoke and the icicles were dripping from his beard, he uttered himself thus: "I don't know if so be you know me or not, Farmer. Five year agone I passed your place and took a drink of water at your spring. I come from Stanz; I'm Frau Drachenbinder's farm-hand, and I've come about the matter of that big lad of yours." Under the table, I went hot to the tips of my toes at these words. My father had but one big lad at the time, and that was myself. I drew back into the darkest corner. "Come about my boy?" returned my father. "You can have him if you want him--we can easily spare him; he's just too bad for anything!" (Peasant folk are very fond of talking like that for the sake of teasing and overaweing their forward children.) "Come, come, Farmer! Not so bad as all that! Frau Drachenbinder wants to get something written down--a will or some such matter--and she don't know anybody, far and wide, that's a good writing scholar. But now she's heard tell that the farmer at Vorderalpel has got an uncommon kind of boy that can do such things as that with his little finger alone! And so she's sent me off here, and I was to beg of you, Farmer, if you'd be so kind as to lend her the loan of the boy over there for a day. She'll soon pack him off back again, and give him something for his trouble as well." When I heard him say that I rattled my shoe-tips against the table legs: that wouldn't come at all amiss, I thought. "Go along with you!" said my father when he had scratched one cheek quite smooth. "However is my small boy to go to Stanz in the dead of winter? It must be at least a four hours' walk!" "Just so," answered the big man, "and that's why I'm here. He's only got to climb up on my back and open his legs and shove 'em along past my ribs, both sides of me, towards the front, where I'll lay hold of them; and then he must hug me round the neck with his hands, like as if he was my sweetheart, so that he don't go falling off backwards." "I see," replied my father; "you needn't make such a talk about a pig-a-back ride!" "Well, after that I'll manage all right, and when Sunday comes I'll bring him back home again." "I'm not afraid of your not bringing him back safe and sound," said my father; "and if Frau Drachenbinder really wants to have something written down, and seeing that you're her man, and if the lad will go with you--there's no objection so far as I'm concerned." He uttered these words with a smooth, ordinary countenance. A little later I was rigged out in my Sunday clothes. Elated with my so suddenly acquired importance I strutted up and down the room. "You wandering Jew, you!" exclaimed my father. "Haven't you got anything to sit upon?" But there was no more peace for me. Better than anything I should have liked to settle myself there and then on the big man's broad back, and ride straight away. But just then my mother came in bringing a steaming savoury dish, saying, "Eat that, you two, before you start off!" Not in vain did she say it. I had never yet seen our biggest wooden spoon piled up so high as then when the strange big man plied it between the meat-platter and his bearded mouth. But I walked up and down all the while and thought about how I was going to become Frau Drachenbinder's scrivener. Presently, when matters had gone so far that my mother could turn the dish upside-down on the hearth without a crumb falling out, I hopped up on to the man's back, held on hard by his beard, and rode away in the name of God. The sun was already setting; the valleys were full of blue shadow; the far snow-heights of the Alps were a dull rose-colour. So long as my nag was trotting uphill over the bare pastures the snow bore his weight well, but when he came in among the young larch and pine-woods the surface became treacherous and broke under him. He was prepared for that, however. When he came up to an old hollow larch with wild arms stretching out into the air, he pulled up, thrust his right hand into the dark cavity, and fished out a pair of snow-shoes of woven willow which he bound under his shoe-soles. Upon these wide things he began the pilgrimage anew. Progress was slow, for in order to manage the shoes he must keep them far apart; but with such duck's feet there was no more breaking through. Suddenly--it was already dark and the stars shining clear--my mount began to undo my shoes, pulled them clean off my feet and put them away in his turned-up apron. Then he said, "Now, laddie, stick your little hoofs in my breeches pocket, so that your toes don't freeze off." He took my hands in his own and breathed warm breath upon them--and that was instead of gloves. The cold bit my cheeks, the snow creaked under the snow-shoes; I rode on lonely through the forest and over the heights. I rode all along the ridge of the Hochbürstling, where even in summer I had never yet been. Now and again, when progress was too deliberate, I pressed my knees into the yielding flesh, and my horse took it all in good part, going on as well as ever he could--there was no doubt about his knowing the way! I rode past a post whereon, summer and winter, that holy patron of cattle, St. Erhardi, stood. I knew St. Erhardi at home, he and I between us had charge of my father's herd. He was always much carefuller than I: if a cow came to grief, I the herdboy was blamed; if the others throve, St. Erhardi got the credit for it.--It did my heart good he should see that I had become a horseman while he stood there nailed to his post for ever and ever. At last our path took a turn and I began riding downwards over stumps and stones, making towards a little light that glimmered in the valley below. And just when all the trees and places had passed me by and I had nothing but the dark mass with the one little pane of shining light before me, my good Christopher came to a halt and said, "Now look here, my dear boy--seeing as how I'm a stranger to you and you've come with me like this without taking thought what you were doing--how d'you know that I mayn't have got a life-long grudge against your father and am just now going to carry you into a robbers' den?" I listened a moment. Then, as he added nothing to these words, I answered in the same tone: "Considering my father trusted me to Frau Drachenbinder's man and that I've come with him like this, it's not likely Drachenbinder's man has got a grudge against us, and he won't carry me into a robbers' den." At these words of mine the man snorted into his beard, and soon after he lowered me on to the stump of a tree, saying, "And now here we are at Frau Drachenbinder's house." He opened a door in the dark mass and went in. The small living-room had a stove with glowing embers on it, a burning pine-splinter,[6] and a straw bed with a child asleep on it. Near it stood a woman, very old and bent and with a face as pallid and creased as the coarse nightgown she was wearing. As we entered, this person uttered a strange cry, a sort of crowing, began to laugh violently, and then hid herself behind the stove. "That's Frau Drachenbinder," remarked my guide. "She'll soon come and speak to you, and meantime you sit down there on the stool near the bed and put on your shoes again." I did what he bade me, and he seated himself on a block of wood near by. When the woman became composed, she moved lightly about the stove and soon brought us a steaming grey meal-soup in an earthenware pot, and two bone spoons with it. My man ate solemnly and steadily, but I couldn't quite fancy it. Then he got up and said softly to me, "Sleep well, boy!" and went away. And when I found myself alone in the close room with the sleeping child and the old woman I began to feel downright creepy. Frau Drachenbinder came up to me, laid her light, lean hand on my cheek, and said, "I thank the dear Lord God that you've come!--It's barely six months since my daughter died. That there"--she pointed to the child--"is my young branch--such a dear mite--he's my heir. And now I hear Death knocking at the door again. I'm very old. I've saved all my life--I'm going to beg my coffin from kind folks' charity. My husband died long ago and left this little house to me. My illnesses have cost me the house--but they weren't worth it. Whatever I leave behind me is for my grandchild's very own. As yet he's too young to take it into his heart, and I can't give it into any man's hand, and so I want to have it written down so that it's kept. I won't do it through the schoolmaster in Stanz, and the doctor can't do it without the stamp-duty. And then people told me about the son of the farmer at Vorderalpel, and how he was such a scholar that he could write out people's last wills without the stamp! That's why I've had you brought all this long way. Do this favour for me to-morrow, and to-night go and get a good rest." She ushered me, by the light of the burning splinter, into the little room adjoining. It was made only of boards. A bed of hay, with a covering in the shape of the woman's thick, best Sunday dress, was there, and in a corner stood a little brown church with two small towers in which little bells were set a-tinkling whenever one trod the shaky floor. Frau Drachenbinder stuck the burning pine-wood in the window of one of the towers, made the sign of the cross on me with her thumb, and then I was alone in the room. It was cold: I was shivering with the bitter winter, and with a fear of my hostess too, but, before ever I crept into my nest, curiosity impelled me to open the door of the little church. Out sprang a mouse who had just made her supper off the gold-paper altar and St. Joseph's cardboard hand. Saints and angels were there within, and gay banners and wreaths--it was a lovely toy. I thought to myself that this must be Frau Drachenbinder's parish church, for the little body was far too feeble to walk to Stanz for mass. I said my evening prayer before it, asking Our Lord to protect me during that night; then I extinguished the splinter so that it should not burn right down to the window-frame, and after that laid myself down on the hay, in God's name. It seemed to me as if I had been torn away from myself and were some learned clerk in a far-away cold house, while the real boy of the forest farm was sleeping at home in his own warm little nest. Just as I was falling asleep I heard the short, sharp cries of joy again in the living-room, and soon after that the loud laughter. Whatever was it that delighted her so much, and at whom was she laughing? I was terrified, and thought of running away. One of the boards could be easily shifted, but then--the snow! Only towards morning did I fall asleep, and I dreamed and dreamed about a red mouse that had bitten off the right hand of all the saints in the church. And my father was looking out of the window of the tower with his lathered, distorted cheeks and holding a lighted pine-splinter in his mouth: and I sobbed and giggled together, and was hot with fear. When at last I awoke I thought I was in a cage with silver bars, for so the white daylight looked through the vertical cracks in the woodwork. And when I went outside the house door I was astonished to see how narrow the ravine was, and how high and wintry the mountains. Within doors the child was screaming, and then Frau Drachenbinder broke out into her jubilant cries again. At breakfast there was my horse again, but he hardly spoke at all, giving all his attention to his food; and when that was finished he got up, put on his huge hat, and went off to church at Stanz. When the old woman had comforted the child, fed the fowls, and done other household work, she pushed the wooden bolt of the house door, went into the inner room, and began ringing the bells of the little church. She lighted two candles that stood on the altar, and then she made a prayer, and one more moving have I never heard. She knelt before the church, held out her hands, and murmured: "By the most sacred wound of Thy right hand, O my crucified Saviour, save my parents if they be still in torment. Though they have lain for half a century in the earth I can still hear my father in the dead of night crying out for help.--By the most sacred wound of Thy left hand I commend to Thee the soul of my daughter. She had hardly looked round upon the world and she was just going to lay her little one in her husband's arms, when up comes cruel Death and takes and buries her out of our sight!--By the most sacred wound of Thy right foot, I pray Thee from my very heart for my husband, and for my kindred and benefactors, and that Thou wilt not forget this little lad from the forest farm.--By the most sacred wound of Thy left foot, O crucified Saviour, in love and mercy remember also all my enemies, who have smitten me with their hands and trodden me with their feet. Blinded men crucified Thee to death, and yet Thou hast forgiven them.--By the most holy wound of Thy sacred side, I invoke Thee a thousand and a thousand times.--O crucified God, take up my grandchild to Thy Divine Heart. His father is far away with the soldiers, and perhaps I have not long to live. Be Thou a guardian to the child, I beseech Thee." That was how she prayed. The little red candles burned devoutly. At that moment it seemed to me that if I were Our Lord I would come down from Heaven and take the child in my arms, and say, "See for yourself, Frau Drachenbinder, I am holding him close to My heart, and I will be his guardian." I would let him grow white wings, so that he could fly away to the Better Land. But then, I wasn't Our Lord. Presently Frau Drachenbinder said, "Now let's get to the writing." But when we wanted to begin there was no ink and no pen and no paper. We had forgotten every one of these things. The old woman leant her head on her palm, murmuring, "What a misfortune!" I had heard somewhere the story of the doctor who in default of the necessary things wrote his prescription on the door of the room with chalk. His example was worth following now; but there was no chalk to be found in the house. I didn't know what else to suggest, and was unspeakably ashamed of being a scribe without a pen. "My boy," said the woman suddenly, "maybe you learned to write with charcoal too?" Yes, yes--with the charcoal--just like that on the hearth there; that would do! "And this, in God's name, must be my writing-paper," she went on, and lifted the lid of an old coffer standing near the stove. Inside the coffer I could see cuttings of cloth, a piece of linen, and a rusty spade. When she saw me looking at the spade, she looked sadly confused, covered her old face with her brown apron, muttering, "It's a real disgrace!" I was stricken, for I took this to be a reproach for my having no writing things about me. "I expect you'll be making fun of me," she said. "But don't you go and think badly of me--I can't do more than I do, I really couldn't do a thing more--I'm a fairly worn-out old body!" Then I thought I understood: the poor old woman felt herself disgraced because she could no longer handle the spade, and it had therefore gone rusty. I looked about on the hearth for a bit of soft charcoal. The pine-tree was obliging, and lent me the pen wherewith to write out Frau Drachenbinder's will, or whatever it might prove to be. Just when the grey coffer was opened and I standing there ready to take down her words, that they might deliver their message to her grandchild in the years to come, the old woman beside me uttered a loud cry. She turned away quickly, crowed again, and then broke into hoarse laughter. In terror I broke the charcoal in my fingers and glanced askance at the door. When she had done laughing, she grew quiet, drew a deep breath, wiped the sweat from her face, and turning again to me, said, "Write this--it won't come to much altogether--still, you'd best begin up in the top corner, there." I placed my hand on the topmost corner of the lid. Then the woman spoke as follows: "One and one is God alone.--That, child of my child, is thy very own." I wrote this on the wood. "Two and two," she went on, "Two and two is man and wife. Three and three the child of their life. Four and five to eight and nine-- For griefs are countless, darling mine. Pray as if thou hadst no hand, Work as if thou knewest no God, Carry fuel, and think the while, God will cook the broth for me." When I had written these things, Frau Drachenbinder let down the coffer lid, bolted it carefully, and said, "You've done me a great service--and there's a great stone lifted off my heart. That coffer there is my legacy to my grandchild.--And now you must tell me what I owe you for this." I shook my head. I wouldn't ask for anything, not anything at all. "What--learn to write so finely and then come all this long way and suffer cold the long night through and then in the end take nothing for it--that would be fine indeed!" she cried. "Why, my boy, I couldn't allow it!" I glanced through the open door into the next room where the little church stood. It certainly would be heavenly company for my little bed at home. She guessed at once. "You're thinking of my little house-altar!" she said. "Then, in God's name, you shall have it. I can't shut it up in the chest--my dear little church--and the people would only steal it from me when I'm gone. With you it will be respected, I know, and you'll think of old Frau Drachenbinder in sacred moments, when you're saying your prayers." And she gave me the little church as it stood. And that was the greatest bliss of all my childhood. I dearly wanted to take it on my shoulders at once and carry it away over the hills to my home. But she said, "You dear little goose, that's impossible. When the man's back, he'll contrive something for you." And sure enough, when the man was back again and had eaten the midday meal with us, he knew what to do. He bound the little church on to my back with a string, then stooped down in front of the wood block, and said, "Now, boy, mount again!" So for the second time I got up on his back, thrust my feet in his breeches pockets, and clung with my hands round his neck. The old woman held the waking child so that it might put out its little hand to me, uttered more thanks, and then dived behind the stove and crowed as before. I rode away from the place, and with every movement the saints in the church kept tapping behind my back and the bells in the towers kept tinkling. When the man had climbed with me as far as the heights of the Bürstling, and there again bound the snow-shoes fast to his feet, I asked him why Frau Drachenbinder was continually screaming for joy and laughing. "That's not screaming nor yet laughing neither," said my horse; "Frau Drachenbinder has a lot of suffering to bear. For some years she used to have a sort of catch in the breath--such as you may get through a chill or the like: she didn't take any notice of it, let it just go its own way, and so, little by little, the barber says, that cramp-crowing and cramp-laughing came on. Her inside just twists itself up together, and when she gets excited the fits come on strong. She can hardly touch any food, and she's face to face with death all the time." I said nothing. I looked up at the snow-white heights, at the twilight forests, and saw we were gradually climbing down towards my home in the clear Sunday afternoon. I was thinking about the little church I had got as a legacy--how I would set it up in the living-room and hold a service in it, and how my father and mother would now no longer have to trudge all that long way to the parish church. My good horse trotted patiently on, and behind me all the way the little bells in the towers kept on chiming. What were they saying?... Old Frau Drachenbinder died soon after that. FOOTNOTE: [6] With these small torches the peasants light their rooms. V How Little Maxel's House was Burned Down How well I remember that night! A dull report, as if the trap-door of the hay-loft had slammed to, woke me up. And then someone rapped on the window and called into the living-room: whoever wanted to see little Maxel's house burning must get up and go and look. My father sprang out of bed; I began to cry, and immediately thought about rescuing my rabbit. When other people lost their heads in moments of emergency it was always blind Julia, our old servant, who calmed us down again. So now, too, she remarked it wasn't our house that was burning, but little Maxel's, and that was half an hour away; that it was not even certain that little Maxel's house was burning; that a wag, passing by, had thrown the lie in through the window; and that quite possibly no one _had_ done so at all, but it had only happened to us in a dream. Meanwhile she pulled on my breeches and shoes, and we hurried out of the house to look. "Oh dear! oh dear!" cried my father. "It's all gone already!" Over the Waldrücken, which stretches like a wide-bowed saddle across our part of the country, dividing it into Highlands and Lowlands, the flame streamed steady and clear toward us. No hissing nor crackling was to be heard; the beautiful new house, only finished a few weeks before, was burning like oil. The air was damp, the stars were hidden; now and again there was a growl of thunder, but the storm was drawing gently away in the direction of Berkfeld and Weitz. The lightning--so the man who had wakened us now said--had been darting hither and thither, had described a great cross in the sky, and then descended. The fiery point at its lower end had never died out, but had grown rapidly larger, and then he--the man--had thought to himself, "There now, it's gone and struck little Maxel's!" "We must go and see if we can't do something to help," said my father. "Help, would you?" rejoined the other. "Where the thunderbolt falls, _I_ shan't meddle! Man mustn't work against his Maker, and if He casts fire upon a house He certainly intends that house to burn. Besides, you know, anything struck by lightning can't be quenched!" "Nor your idiocy neither!" cried my father; and then, angry as I had seldom seen him, he shouted in his face, "You've been struck silly!" He left him standing there, and took me by the hand and quickly away. We descended into the Engtal and went along by the Fresenbach, where we could see the fire no longer, only the fiery clouds. My father carried a two-handled pail, and I advised him to fill it at the Fresen. My father didn't listen, but said several times to himself, "Maxel--to think of that happening to Maxel!" I knew little Maxel quite well. He was an active, cheery little chap, somewhere in the forties; his face was full of pock-marks, and his hands were brown and rough as the bark of the forest trees. So long as I could remember he had been a woodcutter in Waldbach. "If it was anyone else's house that was burning down," said my father, "well--it would just be his house burning down!" "Isn't it the same with little Maxel?" I asked. "With him it's his all that's being burnt: everything that he had yesterday, and has to-day, and might have had to-morrow." "D'you mean the lightning has struck Maxel himself?" "It were better so, boy! I don't grudge him his life--God knows I don't grudge it him--but if he might have confessed first, and not been in any mortal sin, I could say downright it were best for him if the lightning had struck him too." "Then he would be already up there in Heaven," I remarked. "Here, don't go paddling about in that wet grass. Keep close behind me and catch on by my coat-tail. About Maxel--I'll tell you something about him." The path sloped gently upwards. My father said, "It must be about thirty years since Maxel came. Poor people's child. At first he went out as herdboy among the peasants; later, when he'd grown up a bit, he went in for the woodcutting--a thorough workman, and always industrious and thrifty. When he became foreman, he asked the landlord to allow him to clear the Sour Meadow on the Gfarerhöhe and keep it for life, because he was so mighty set upon having his own little bit of land. This was willingly granted, and so, every day, when his woodcutting hours were over, Maxel was up there on the Sour Meadow, cutting away the undergrowth and trenching it, and grubbing up stones and burning the roots of the weeds; and in two years the whole place was drained; and there's good grass growing there, and he's even sown a little patch of rye. When he'd got on so far that he had tried it with cabbage and seen how much the hares relished it, he set about getting some timber. They couldn't give him that, like the Sour Meadow--he must purchase it with labour. So he let his wages stand, and he felled the trees and hewed them square and cut them up for building timber, and all that in the free time when the other workmen were long since lying on their stomachs smoking their pipes! And the next thing was he began to get some of the other woodcutters to help him at such work as a man couldn't do single-handed, and this way he built his house on the Sour Meadow. Five years he laboured at it, but there--you've seen for yourself how it stood there with the golden-red walls, with the clear windows, and the decoration all round the roof--something grand to see! There's quite a fine little property been made of the Sour Meadow; and how long ago was it that our pastor in the catechism class held little Maxel up as an example of energy and industry? Next month he was meaning to get married: and to think he's risen from being a poor pauper lad to the brave householder and house-father!--Take off your cap to him, boy--And now suddenly there's an end of everything; all the industry and toil of years has gone for nothing; Maxel stands again to-day on the same spot as he did at the very beginning." At that time I derived all my piety from the Bible, and so I met my father's story with: "Our Heavenly Father has punished Maxel because he was set upon earthly things like the heathen, and has probably taken too little thought for Eternity. Look at the birds of the air, they sow not, neither do they reap----" "Hold your tongue!" interrupted my father angrily. "The man who said that was King Solomon--it's easy enough for _him_ to say it: only let some of our sort try it! I wouldn't be sure of myself; if it happened to me like little Maxel, I should just lose all heart--I'd just turn idle and good for nothing. Why, if a man puts a match to a thatched roof he's put in prison, and quite right too--he doesn't deserve anything better. But when Someone throws fire down out of Heaven on a brand-new house that a poor, plucky working-man has built----" He stopped himself. We were now upon the height, and in front of us blazed the homestead of little Maxel. The house was just falling in. Several people were there with axes and pails, but there was nothing to be done but just stand and look on as the last charred bits tumbled into ruins. The fire wasn't raging, it didn't roar nor crackle, it didn't flicker wildly in the air: the whole house was just one flame rising, hot and steady, towards the Heaven whence it had come. A little way off from the conflagration lay the stone-heap where Maxel had carried the stones from the Sour Meadow. Thereon he was now sitting, the little brown, pock-marked man, and looking at the furnace, the heat of which was streaming towards him. He was half clad, had thrown his black Sunday coat, the only thing he had rescued, over him. The neighbours were holding a little aloof. My father greatly desired to utter a word of sympathy and comfort, but somehow he too didn't venture to go near him. Maxel went on sitting there in a way that made us think every moment, now, _now_ he would leap up and utter some fearful curse against Heaven, and then throw himself into the flames! And at last, when the fire was only licking the ground and the bare wall of the hearth was staring out of the ashes, Maxel got up. He walked over to the glowing mass, picked up an ember, and lighted his pipe with it. I was still very small at that time and didn't think much. But this I remember: when I saw little Maxel in that dawn-twilight standing before the burnt ruin of his home, sucking the blue smoke from his pipe and blowing it away from him, my heart grew suddenly hot within me. As if I felt how mighty man is, how much greater than his fate, and how there was no finer scorning of it than calmly blowing tobacco-smoke in its face. And when the pipe was well alight, he sat down again on the stone-heap and gazed away into the distance. You would like to know what he was thinking? So should I. Later, little Maxel went rummaging among the ashes of his house, and drew from them his great wood-axe, and made it sharp again on a grindstone of the neighbourhood and set to work again. Since then many years have passed, and to-day on the Sour Meadow there lie beautiful fields, and on the place of the burnt-out farm a new one has arisen. It is lively with young folk, and the house-father, little Maxel, teaches his sons to work--but also allows them to smoke. Not too much, but just a pipe in due season. VI Three Hundred and Sixty-four Nights and a Night The white kid was gone. But my father still had four big nanny-goats in the stable, just as he had four children, who always stood in close relationship to the goats. Each of the goats had her own little manger, out of which she ate hay or clover while we milked her. Not one of them would give milk at an empty manger. The goats were called Zitzerl, Zutzerl, Zeitzerl and Heitzerl, and were the property of us children--a welcome present which father had made us. Zitzerl and Zutzerl belonged to my two little sisters; Zeitzerl to my eight-year-old brother Jakoberle; Heitzerl was mine! Each of us faithfully tended and looked after his allotted charge; but we put all the milk together in a pot, mother boiled it, father gave us the slices of bread that went with it--and the Lord God blessed the spoonful of soup for us. And, when we had ladled up our suppers with our broad wooden spoons, which had been carved by our uncle and which, because of their size, would hardly go into our mouths in the first place or out of them in the second, we would each of us take our horsehair pillow and lie down, one and all, in the goats' mangers. These were our beds for a time; and the beloved animals used to fan our cheeks with their soft beards and lick our little noses with their tongues. But, when we lay thus in our cribs, we did not always go to sleep at the very first lick. My head was crammed with a multitude of wonderful stories and fairy-tales of our grandfathers. I would tell these stories in those evening-hours; and my brothers and sisters revelled in them and even the goats were fond of listening to them too. Only now and again, when the thing struck them as too incredible, they would give a little bleat to themselves or bang at the mangers impatiently with their horns. Once, when I was telling of the corn-wraith who blackens the oats when she cries at midnight in the fields, and eats nothing but the grey beards of old charcoal burners, my Heitzerl began to bleat so violently that the other three joined in until at last my brother and sisters burst into wild peals of laughter and I was shamefully obliged to hold my tongue like a convicted boaster. For a long time after that, I told my sleeping-companions no more stories and I resolved never to speak another word to Heitzerl so long as I lived. Then came Ascension Day, on which day mother made us the usual egg-cake, my favourite dish in all the world. That year, however, the hawks had taken our best laying-hens; the egg-basket would not fill; and, when the cake appeared on Ascension Day, it was only a tiny little loaf. I gave a woe-begone look at the wooden dish. My little five-year-old sister peeped up at me; and, as though noticing my longing, she suddenly cried: "I say, Peterle, look here! If you will tell us a short story every night for a whole year long, I will give you my share of the cake." Strange to say, the others all chimed in and echoed this noble renunciation on the little one's part; they clapped their hands; and--I entered into the bargain. So, suddenly, had I attained the object of my desire. I tucked my cake under my jacket and went with it to the dairy, where no one could see or disturb me. I bolted the door, sat down on an overturned tub and allowed my ten fingers and the well-ordered host of my teeth to work their will on the poor cake. But now came this anxiety. There could not be a doubt that my brother and sisters would insist strictly on their due. When I went out a-herding, I begged a story of every pitch-maker, every charcoal-burner, every keeper and every knowing little woman that I met in the wood and on the fields. They were productive sources, and I was able to meet my liabilities every evening. Meanwhile, of course, it was a daily misery until I hit upon something fresh; and, after a time, it happened not seldom that little sister would interrupt me and call out from her manger: "Look here, we know that one! You have told it us before!" I could see that I must think of new ways and I therefore struggled to improve my reading, so as to draw treasures from the many story-books which lay idling on the sooty shelves in our little house in the forest. Now I had new sources: the story of the Countess-palatine (Jakoberle always said, "The Countess-Gelatine") Genovefa; the four sons of Aymon; the Fair Melusina; Wendelin von Höllenstein: wonderful things by the dozen. And my brother would often say from his manger: "I don't mind going without my cake a bit! This is just _too_ lovely. What do you say, Zeitzerl?" Now the evenings grew too short; and I had to tell some of these stories in serials and sequels, a proceeding to which little sister refused point-blank to agree, for she stuck to it that a _whole_ story every night was what we bargained for. So the year went by. Little by little, I acquired a real skill in telling stories and even told them in High German, as they stood printed in the books! And it often happened that, during the telling, my listeners buried themselves in their coverlets and began to groan with fright at the stories of robbers and ghosts; but I was not allowed to stop, for all that! Ascension Day was very nearly there again, and with it, the completion of my bargain. But--it was like my luck!--just before the last evening, my thread gave out entirely. All my recollections, all the books which I could get hold of, all the little men and women whom I met were exhausted, drained, pumped dry beyond all hope. I implored my brother and sisters: "To-morrow is the last evening; make me a present of it!" There was a general outcry: "No, no, no presents! You got your Ascension cake!" Even the goats bleated their approval. The next day, I went about like a lost sheep. Then the thought suddenly came to me: "Deceive them! _Invent_ something!" But my conscience at once stepped in and cried aloud: "What you tell must be real! You really had the cake!" Nevertheless, an event occurred in the course of that day which made me hope that, in the heat of the excitement, it would release me from my duty. My brother Jakoberle lost his Zeitzerl. He went this way and that over the heath, he went into the wood and, crying and calling, hunted for the goat. But, at last, he brought her home, late in the evening. We ate our porridge quietly and went to our cribs; and a story was expected of me. All was silent. The listeners waited eagerly. The goats clashed their teeth together as they chewed the cud. "Very well, they shall have their story," said I. I reflected. I began: "There was once a great, great wood. And everything in the wood was dark. No little birds sang: only the screech-owl's cry was heard. But, even though the other birds had sung, all the boughs and all the leaves on the trees wept thousands and thousands of tears. In the middle of this wood is a heath, silent as the graveyard; and he who goes over it and does not turn back is never seen again. Once upon a time, two knees went over this heath; and inside those knees was blood." "Jesus Mar...!" gasped the elder of my little sisters; and all three crept under their coverlets. "Yes, two knees with blood inside them," I continued, "and they passed over the heath towards the dark wood, like a lost soul. But, all at once, the two bloody knees...." "I say, I'll give you my blue trouser-belt if you stop!" whimpered my brother in his fear and hid still deeper in the coverlet. "The two bloody knees stopped," I continued, "and on the ground lay a stone as white as a winding-sheet. Then two flickering lights appeared between the trees; and thereupon four more knees, _all with blood_--hovered to the same place...." "I'll give you my new pair of shoes if you stop!" Jakoberle panted in his trough and, for sheer terror, drew Zeitzerl to him by her beard. "And so they all six together passed through the dark wood and out upon the heath and over the oat-field to our house ... and here into the stable...." Now they all three cried out and whimpered; and there was no end to their terror, and my little sister timidly promised me her share of to-morrow's Ascension cake, which was expected this year too, if I would only stop. But I went on: "Well, ah, yes, I forgot to begin by saying that the first two knees--with blood--belonged to our Jakoberle and the last four to his Zeitzerl ... as they went about in the wood to-day." Suddenly, they all burst out laughing. "Why, everybody has two knees with blood in them!" cried little sister; and the goats bleated their share of the jubilation. I had played my part right out. For three hundred and sixty-four nights long, I had shone as a wise and veracious story-teller; the three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth had unmasked me as a deceitful humbug. The promise of the second Ascension cake was withdrawn; little sister declared that her offer had been made in self-defence. And I had shattered the confidence of my public for good and all; and, thereafter, whenever it wanted to express its doubts of anything I related, it cried, with one voice: "Ah, that's only one of your old knees again!" VII How the White Kid Died There was yet another time when I just escaped the birch. My father had a snow-white kid, my Cousin Jok had a snow-white head. The kid loved chewing stalks and twigs; my cousin loved chewing a short pipe. We--I and my younger brother and sisters--were ever so fond of the kid and of Cousin Jok too. And so we lighted upon the idea of bringing the kid and our cousin together. One bright, sunny day in July, I took my brother and my two sisters out into the cabbage-patch and there put this question to them: "Which of you has a hat without a hole in it?" They examined their hats and caps, but the sun shone through all of them, making little flecks of light in the shadow on the ground. Only Jakoberle's hat was without a flaw; so I took it in my hand and said: "Cousin's called Jok and to-morrow is St. Jokopi's[7] Day. Now what shall we give him for a present on his name-day? Why not the white kid?" "The white kid belongs to father!" cried little sister Plonele, shocked at this arbitrary suggestion. "That's just why I am sending the hat round," said I. "You, Jakoberle, sold your rabbit to Sepp, the Knierutscher, yesterday; you, Plonele, have had three groschen as a tip from your god-father; you, Mirzerle, got a present from father two days ago. Look, I'll put in the five kreuzer which I've saved up; and we must manage to buy the kid from father between us. And then we'll give it to cousin to-morrow. Now here goes for the collection!" They looked into the hat for a moment and then began to feel in their pockets. Then Plonele said, "Mother's got my money!" And Mirzerle cried, in alarm, "I don't know wherever mine's got to!" And Jakoberle stared at the ground and muttered, "There must be a hole in my pocket!" And so my plan fell to pieces. None the less, we petted and fondled the snow-white kid. It stood up and put its fore-feet on our knees and looked at us roguishly with its squinny eyes, as though it were mocking us for not being rich enough to buy it between the lot of us. It tittered and bleated at us like anything and showed us its snow-white teeth. It was hardly three months old and already had a beard; while I and Jakoberle were seven years old and more and had to make ourselves a beard of grey tree-moss when we wanted one. And the kid ate even that off our faces! In spite of that, each one of us was much fonder of the little four-footed creature than of all the others put together! And so I cast about for some other means of rejoicing my cousin with the gift of the animal. When father came home from the fields that afternoon, we all swarmed about him and tugged at his clothes. "Father," I asked, "is it true that 'The early morn has gold in its mouth'?" This being one of his own proverbs, he answered promptly: "Indeed it _is_ true." "Father!" the four of us immediately cried together. "How early must we get up every day for you to give us the white kid?" Father did not seem to jump at this business view of the matter. But, when he heard of our proposal to give the kid to Cousin Jok, he bargained that we should get up half an hour earlier every morning and thereupon made the dear little beast over to us. The kid was ours. We resolved with one accord to creep out of bed next morning before cousin's time for getting up--and that was saying a great deal--to tie a red ribbon round the kid's neck and to take it to old Jok's bedside before he thrust his body into his long grey fur, which he wore winter and summer alike. This was our sacred intention. But, next day, when mother called us and we opened our eyelids, the sun shone so fiercely into our eyes that we had to shut them again until she covered the window with her kerchief. Now there was no excuse left. But cousin had gone out long before, taking his fur with him. He had driven the sheep and goats to the meadow in the valley where he always tended them and where he sat all day smiling and chewing his pipe. And the little animals nibbled busily at the dewy grasses and shrubs and skipped and gambolled merrily on the sunny meadow. The little kid was among them. And had nobody reminded Jok that this was his name-day? * * * * * At the time of which I speak, lucifer-matches had not yet been invented and so the beloved fire was a precious thing. You could not carry it in your pocket as easily as to-day, without burning your trousers. It had to be knocked out of stones with hard blows; no sooner hatched, it must be fed with tinder, and it was long ere it derived strength enough from this to peck at coarser food and then become fledged. On every separate occasion, fire had to be formally brought into the service of man. It was a toilsome and ticklish piece of work; my own mother, who was usually so gentle, could get quite cross over it. The glowing embers, however carefully preserved overnight in the hearth, were generally dead by morning. Whatever pains mother might take to blow up the sparks in the ashes, it was all in vain: the fire had died during the night. And then the striking with flint and steel began, and we children were often quite hungry before mother produced the fire that was to cook the morning-porridge. So it was on the morning of cousin's name-day. We had heard the bellows-blowing and fire-striking for some time out in the kitchen. Then our mother suddenly exclaimed: "It's no good at all! One would think the devil had spat on the hearth! And the flint hasn't a spark of fire left in it, and the tinder's damp, and here's everybody waiting for their porridge!" Then she came into the room and said: "Come, Peterle, quick, and run across as fast as you can to the Knierutscher woman. Tell her that I beg her to send me a handful of embers from her hearth. And take her that loaf of bread over there for her kindness. Hurry up, Peterle, so that we can get our porridge quickly." I had my little white linen breeches on in no time and, as I was, barefoot and bareheaded, I took the heavy round loaf under my arm and ran off to the Knierutschers' house. "You old sunshine!" I said, as I went. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, that you can't even warm a mouthful of porridge, and here I've got to go running to the Knierutscher woman for fire--But just you wait: things will soon be bright and jolly on our hearth--the flames will leap over the sticks, the walls will light up red, the pots will bubble, the smoke will rush out of the hearth and the chimney and hide you from sight! And quite right too, for then we shall eat our porridge and our stew in the shadow, and the pancake, too, that's to be fried to-day for Cousin Jok, and you shall see nothing of all these nice things!" As I went down the hill after my lecture to the sun, I had a happy thought. My loaf was as round as a ball and as hard as if it had been turned out of larch-wood. In my part of the country, they let bread grow stale, because it makes it last twice as long; even though it has occasionally to be smashed up, at mealtimes, with a sledge-hammer. Well, seeing that my loaf was so round that there was nothing rounder on the face of the earth, I let it run loose down the slope, raced nimbly after it and caught it up again. That was a thoroughly jolly game; and I should have liked to call all my brothers and sisters to see it and share in it. But, as I was jumping up and down the slope in my delight, my loaf suddenly played me a trick and darted like the wind between my legs. Hurrying and hopping away it went, fleeter than a roe before the hounds--it bounded down the hill, leapt far over the edge into the valley below and vanished from my sight. I stood there like a block, feeling as if I should drop with fright and go rolling into the valley in my turn. I went to and fro and up and down for a while; and, then as I could nowhere see the loaf, I slunk with hanging head into the Knierutschers' house. There was a fine big fire burning on the hearth. "What have you come for, Peterle?" asked Frau Knierutscher, kindly. "Our fire's gone out," I stammered, "we can't cook a thing and so my mother sent me to ask for a handful of embers and she will return them very soon." "You little silly, you! Who ever heard of returning a few embers?" cried she, as she took the tongs and raked some into an old pot. "Here, tell your mother to make up a good fire and cook you a nice stew. But take care, Peterle, don't you let the wind get at them, or it will blow the sparks up to the roof. There, go now, in God's name!" So gentle was she with me, who had so lightly played away her loaf! It weighs upon my conscience to this day. When, at last, I got back to the house with my pot of fire, I was greatly surprised to see blue smoke rising out of the chimney. "You're one to send to fetch death and not fire!" cried mother, as I entered. And she busied herself about the fire crackling in the hearth and did not so much as look at me. My coals were now hardly flickering and looked wretched beside that fire. I put the pot down sadly in a corner of the hearth and slunk away. I had been gone much too long; then, by good fortune, Cousin Jok had come home from the meadow, and he had a burning-glass, which he held over a piece of tinder in the sun until it caught. And so the sun which I had slandered had stolen a march upon me and provided fire for the porridge before I did. I was heartily ashamed of myself and, to this day, am unable to look the benefactor straight in the face. * * * * * I slunk into the paddock. There I saw Cousin Jok squatting in his long grey, red-embroidered fur, with his white head. And, when I drew nigh, I saw why he was squatting here like that. The snow-white kid lay in front of him, with its head and its feet outstretched and Cousin Jok was stripping off its hide. At that I burst into loud weeping. Cousin Jok stood up, took me by the hand, and said: "There it lies and looks at you!" And the kid really was staring into my face with its glassy eyes. And yet it was dead. "Peterle!" whispered my cousin, gravely. "Mother sent the Knierutscher woman a loaf of bread." "Yes," I sobbed, "and it ran away from me, right down over the edge." "Since you own up, laddie," said Cousin Jok, "I will arrange things so that nothing happens to you. I have told mother that a stone or something came rolling down and killed the kid. (Somehow, I thought in my own mind that Peterle was at the back of it!) That loaf of bread came straight out of the air, down over the high edge, passed me and hit the kid right on the head. The poor little thing staggered and fell and was dead as a mouse at once. However, don't be afraid, we'll keep to the stone idea. I'll make things all right with the Knierutscher woman too; and now be quiet, laddie, and don't pull such dismal faces. To-night we'll eat the poor beastie, and mother will cook us a horseradish-soup to go with it." In such wise died the little white kid. My brother and sisters told me it had been killed by a naughty, cruel stone. To please me, mother added my coals to the fire on the hearth, and before this fire the kid was roasted. It was to have been a gift for Cousin Jok; and now he was to have roast kid instead. But he invited all of us to join him and gave us the best bits. I did not relish mine at all. The next morning, Jakoberle armed himself with a cudgel, followed Cousin Jok with it into the lower meadow and wanted to see the stone that killed the little kid. "Child," said Cousin Jok, chewing hard at his pipe, "it rolled further on and the water's running over it now: it's down in the glen." The dear, good old man! The stone that killed the little kid was lying on my heart. FOOTNOTE: [7] Jacob, Jacobus. The feast of St. James the Apostle is celebrated on the 25th of July.--_Translator's Note._ VIII Children of the World in the Forest Far more intelligent must he be, the peasant of the isolated mountain farm, far more versatile and capable than the villager, and infinitely more so than the townsman--_must_, or he could not exist! The townsman has an easy time of it: if he can write, or keep accounts; if, for instance, he has the knack of making leather, or keeps a grocer's shop; or even if he speculates and applies himself to cutting off his coupons, he has all that he requires; and all that a townsman requires everyone who is a townsman knows. The things which, in the towns, are produced by the divided toil of thousands of heads, hands, and wheels, in other words, the necessaries of life, the peasant in the far-lying mountains must make for himself, in his narrow circle, with his small, unaided means. He is a provider of natural produce, manufacturer, middleman and consumer, all in one. The bread which he eats comes from the corn which he flung into the earth last year with his own hand; the bacon which he enjoys on its bed of cabbage is cut from the pig fattened with the turnips which he has planted in his own ground. The shoe which he wears is made of the cow-hide which he himself has stripped from the animal's body and himself has tanned; the wool that forms his coat he has shorn from his own sheep, spun, woven and milled. The shirt on his back he saw last summer shimmering in the sunny fields in the blue flax-blossom; and the milking-pail into which his cow sends her milk streaming was, but a year ago, hiding in a fir-trunk in his woods. And I could in like manner string out a long list of matters in which the farmer must be his own breeder, gardener, miller, baker, smith, saddler, carpenter, weaver, wheelwright and so on. And a household in which one and all of these trades are put in practice need not even be a very large one: it is the ordinary farmhouse in the mountain valleys to which the world of exchange and barter has not yet fully made its way. Isn't it true, then, that such a peasant-farmer needs to have a head on his shoulders? This head, again, is of home production, and a good thing too; for the Jew pedlar, who is always prepared to bring any requisite from town for cash, could hardly be expected to supply that. But nowadays this, like most things, is changing; and, since gold and silver have taken to rolling to and fro, in such a momentous fashion, between the houses of town and country, the peasant no longer has the same joy in his farm, where he must always be labouring for others. Besides, he need not work out in the wilderness nowadays; he can do much better, they tell him, on rented land or in the factories; he sells or lets his property and goes after money. And there at last you have the stupid peasant! I only speak of these things because my father's house, concerning which I have something to tell, was one of those farms in which we ourselves produced nearly everything that we wanted. And yet, even at that time, money played us a trick. My father was particularly clever at tanning hides, at weaving, at grinding corn and at pressing linseed-oil. In the last case, I assisted him to brave purpose, as a boy of ten, by dipping a slice of white bread into the oil that ran from the gutter of the press and then transferring the bright yellow slice to my mouth. One day, while we were thus engaged, Clements, the timber-merchant, walked into the pressing-room. He had once been forest-ranger at Alpel; but he had made such a huge amount of money in the timber-trade that he lost all interest in our mountains and went down into the broad Mürzthal, where he displayed a restless activity in acquiring more and yet more money. He had grown quite lean at this unedifying occupation; but otherwise he continued in fairly good fettle. Well, when Clements saw the oil bubbling in the wooden pail, he asked, was the cider sweet? My father invited him to taste it; but, when Clements lifted the pail bodily and took a draught from it, he fell back as though someone had struck him in the face and lost no time in spitting out what he had swallowed. "It can't hurt you," said my father, to console him. "It is pure linseed oil." "Forest-farmer," said Clements, gradually recovering himself, "here I am, bringing all sorts of good things to your house; and this is the way you treat me!" "You're the first I ever met that did not like flax-wine," replied my father. "It's just like a wine, so golden and clear. And you couldn't find anything better for one's precious health. I am in the doctor's debt to the price of a couple of oxen; and even then I should be under the sod to-day if Our Father in Heaven had not made linseed-oil to grow." "And, as you, forest-farmer, are still, thank God, above the sod," drawled Clements, "you'll be needing money, I'm thinking. Look, it's your guardian angel's brought me here: I'm bringing you some." "Oh, my gracious!" replied my father, leaning his whole weight upon the lever, so that the oil-cake in the press had to yield its last drains, which, however, were received into a separate little pot, for these dregs are not quite so clear and mild as the first stream. "Oh, my gracious!" said he. "I could do with the money well enough; but you can just take it away again: I know what you want for it. You want the six old fir-trees that stand outside my house. Things are a sight worse with me than they were a year ago, when you came and asked to buy the trees, but I have no other answer for you than I gave you then: the six trees outside the house are a memory of the old days; and, if I had to sell field and meadow and the cattle in the stable, those trees shall stay where they are; and, if they have to lay me in the grave without a coffin, those old trees shall stay where they are until God's lightning cracks them or the storm fells them." The last words were spoken with violence; and, with that, the last drop of oil left the press. But Clements said: "Forest-farmer, you shall not sell a field, nor a head of cattle from your stable; you shall have a coffin of good white ash-wood: God grant that you may not need it for a long time to come! You shall have good days yet in this world. You shall not sell the old fir-trees, but you shall sell the larch in your wood that are fit for felling. Have you your pocket-book on you? If so, just open it." I got a fright, when I saw the figure on the bank-note which the tempter had now drawn from his leather case and which, holding it between his finger-tips, he sent fluttering to and fro, like a little flag, before my father's blinking eyes. Misfortune had cleared the way in our house for the timber-merchant: we were no longer able to get all we wanted for our ten heads and stomachs out of that eighty yoke of mountain land; the doctor was sending us letters which I could not read soft and low enough to make them bearable to my father: "The forest-farmer is hereby summoned within fourteen days to ... failing which...." "As my patience is at last exhausted, I have placed the matter in the hands of the imperial and royal courts, and if, within eight days ... execution and distraint...." Those were more or less the first sentences which I was given to read in our dear High-German language. And there was a certain book, too, with its "date of debt" and "date of payment," which gave me an idea of the force that lies concealed in the language of Schiller and Goethe. It was a real live "hundred" which the timber-merchant held by the corner between his two fingers. Did not a chill shudder, at that moment, go over the tops of the larches that were dotted here and there in the pine-woods outside, I wonder? Nor any anxious foreboding trouble the hearts of the little birds that had built their nests there? My father did not put out his hand for the money, but neither did he hide it in his pocket; he did not busy it with the lever of the oil-press; he just kept it, half-open, as nature had bent it, on his knee, while he sat exhausted with his labour. Clements dropped the rare bit of paper into it; then the lank fingers closed softly--instinctively--and held it tight. The larch were sold. "I have only one condition to make," said the timber-merchant, when he saw that the poor small farmer lay duly under the spell of the money. "I shall have the trees felled late in the autumn, when the snow comes. You will be astonished, forest-farmer, when I tell you that the emperor will ride over your larch-trees! Yes, yes, we shall use them for building the railway. My condition is that my wood-cutters shall be allowed to cook their meals and sleep in your house as long as they are working in the woods." "Why not?" said father. "That'll be all right, if it's good enough for them under my roof." What mischief those good-natured words brought down upon our peaceful forest home! Clements went away happy and contented, after presenting me with a bright new groschen for myself. I remember being surprised at this: it was obviously for us to be contented, seeing that we had the money! Father took his up to the loft and hid it in the clothes-press: it was very soon to come out again. Then the days passed, as usual, and the larch stood in the woods and rocked their long branches in the wind, as usual, and got ready their twigs for next spring, as usual. "They don't know how soon they are to die!" my father said to me once, as we were coming from the meadow through the woods. But I comforted myself with the hope that Clements the timber-merchant, who lived out in the merry Mürzthal and never came back to our neighbourhood at all, would forget all about the larch. My mother, to whom I confided this view, said sharply: "Oh, child, that fellow forgets about his soul, but he'll never forget the larches!" And, one day, when the earth had frozen hard and the moss cracked and broke underfoot, we heard the rasping of the saw in the woods. When we looked across the brown tops of the firs, we saw the yellow spire of a tall larch-tree soar high above them. The rasping of the saw died away, the blows of the axe rang out; then slowly the spire bent over, dipped; and thunder echoed through the forest. That evening the wood-cutters came to our house. There were only two of them; and, at first sight, we were all pleased with them. One of them was already well on in years and had a long red beard, a bald pate and a sharp, crooked nose. The man's little eyes looked smaller still because the red eyelashes and eyebrows were hardly visible against the colour of his skin; but the eyes were full of fun and devilment. The other was quite twenty years or so younger, had a little brown beard, but otherwise was rather pale and thin in the face. Anyone, however, seeing his powerful neck and his broad chest would take him to be much more of a wood-cutter than the red one, who only looked such a warrior because of his beard, but, in other respects, was much slighter in build than the pale one. Both wore stiff leather aprons and smelt of rosin and shavings. Our cooking was soon done; so mother left the hearth to them. And, upon my word, they knew how to make use of it! What they cooked was not the regular wood-cutter's game, such as stray foxes, sparrows and such-like dumplings as are prepared with flour and fat, but real meat and bacon and grill; and it all simmered and frizzled in the pans until our stomachs, which had to be satisfied with bread-soup and potatoes, were driven frantic. But the red one tore off a whole piece of bacon for us to taste. They had a wooden jar with them, wound round with straw, out of which one and the other took long draughts. The red one invited my father to try their wine. He did; and his experience was worse than that of Clements with the linseed-oil: the jar contained that hellish stuff, brandy. The wood-cutters now feasted in our house day after day. We children lost all liking for our daily food, at the sight of luxury and abundance. We became discontented; and our household, consisting of two half-grown servant-girls and a half-blind woman, heaved many a deep sigh. But the red one knew how to amuse us. He talked of towns and other countries; for the two men had been about a good deal and had worked in large factories. Then he regaled us with funny stories and tricks; in the early days also with riddles and droll plays upon words, at which the maids tittered a good deal, while father and mother sat silent and I did not rightly know what to make of it all. Then came songs, in which, to the great delight of our household, country courtship in all its forms found full expression. When this began, it was high time for us children to go to bed; but our straw bundles happened to be in the very room in which these merry things were going on. True, we closed our eyes, and I really had the firm intention to go to sleep; but my ears remained open, and the tighter I closed my eyes, the more I saw in my mind's eye. The pale wood-cutter was quiet and proper in his behaviour and did not remain so long in the parlour, but always went betimes to his sleeping-place, which was outside in the hay-loft. But even the girls could not follow this decent example: they let the red one go on and were wholly absorbed in his chattering. My father once observed to the red fellow that the younger was more serious than the old one, whereupon the red one asked if the farmer disliked jolly songs: in that case, he would be pious and pray. And he began to recite comic sentences in the tone of the Lord's Prayer; got on to the hearth and, mimicking the preaching of a Capuchin, mocked at the holy apostles, martyrs, and virgins, until my mother went to my father with uplifted hands. "I do beg and beseech you, Lenzel--throw that godless being out of the door, or I shall have to do it myself!" "Do it yourself, little woman!" cried the red man and jumped off the hearthstone and tried to catch hold of mother and fondle her. This was something unheard of. That this should suddenly happen in our house, where, year in, year out, no unseemly word was ever spoken! My father was downright paralysed with astonishment; but my mother seized the frivolous wood-cutter by the arm and cried: "Now you get out of this, foul-mouth, and never enter my house again!" The wood-cutter refused to budge an inch. "If forest-farmer folk are so pious," he continued, still in his preaching tone, "as to forget what they have promised our employer, I shan't leave this roof for all that. Women and wet rags shan't drive me out." "Perhaps men and dry logs will!" cried my father. And with a swiftness and determination which I had never before beheld in this mild-mannered man, he snatched a log of wood from the stack. The red one made a furious rush at his arms; and they wrestled. Mother tried to protect father; my brothers and sisters in their straw set up a cry of murder; I flew to the door, with nothing on me but my shirt, and called to the maids, who were already sleeping peacefully in their beds, to come and help. The blind one was the first to come hobbling safely across the yard, while one of the two who had the use of their eyes stumbled over the pigs' trough. And the youngest girl, terrified by my cries and the uproar in the house, came clattering down the step-ladder that led from the hay-loft to the yard. Without considering, at the time, the far-reaching effects of this last incident, I rushed back into the house, where the two men were engaged in a violent struggle, panting and groaning and going from one wall of the room to the other. The wood-cutter's long beard was flung in wild strands around my father's head; but father seemed to be gaining the upper hand; then came the younger wood-cutter, clad, it is true, in nothing but his shirt and his blue drawers, but with the full weight of his body. The women did what is their office on such occasions: they wrung their hands and wailed. Only, my mother, when she saw that all was lost, snatched a blazing fire-brand from the hearth. "I'll drive you out, you ruffians, that I do know!" she cried and flew, with the brand, to the wooden inner wall. "The fury means to set fire to us! And to the house with us!" yelled the wood-cutters and rushed out at the door, through the curling smoke. We were rid of the nasty fellows, but the flames were leaping merrily along the wall. In hot haste, we succeeded--I no longer remember by what means--in smothering the fire. That evening--the most terrible in my life--passed into a still and fearsome night. We had barred and bolted the door of the house; and, when we put out the rushlight, father took a last look at the window, to see if they were still outside. It remained quiet; and not till the next morning did the young wood-cutter come to fetch his tools and his mate's. Then they built themselves a hut in the woods out of planks and bark; and here they lived half through the winter, until they had finished their work on the larch-trunks. We felt convinced, however, that they must be plotting some mischief against us, whereupon the youngest of the maids remarked, with an air of great wisdom, that it might be best always to keep on good terms with that kind of people. "It's easy for you to talk, wench," retorted my father. "What do you know?" After that ... she said no more. I had a fresh fright at that time. Prompted by curiosity to see the godless fellows once more and to spy out whether the devil, in the guise of a wood-cutter, was helping them with their work, I peeped one day from the forest path and through the thicket at their work-place. Then I saw that they were making coffins. I announced the fact at home and caused the greatest excitement in consequence. "As I said, they have some fresh thing in their minds!" said my mother. Father suggested: "Boy, you have been dreaming again, in broad daylight. Still, I will go and see." We went into the woods. My father peered through the thicket at the wood-cutters; and then I saw him turn pale. "You half-wit!"[8] he said; and then he groaned. "They're burying every peasant of us at Alpel!" The coffins were stacked in great piles; and the men were still chopping and trimming new ones with their axes. We rushed away to inform the local magistrate, who, at that time, lived on the mountain on the other side of the Engthal, and tell him what we had seen. On the road to his house we met Michel the carpenter, to whom my father said that he had better have all his knives and choppers ready, for it looked as if we were in for bad times. The strangers who were working in his wood did nothing but make coffins. "Yes," said Michel, "I've noticed that too: it's a good thing the coffins are not hollow!" And the man of experience told us of the shape of the railway-sleepers, which were usually cut from the block in pairs, before being sawn asunder, and which, with their six corners, looked not unlike a coffin. We turned back then and there, and as we went along the edge of the field, where the grass was nice and smooth, my father said to me: "This gives us a good chance of laughing at ourselves, lest others should. That's the way things go: when we've fallen out with a man, we put down everything that's bad to him and are as blind as if Satan had stuck his horns into our eyes. When all is said, even those two wood-cutters are not so black as they appear to be. Still, I shall be glad when they have cleared out. And this much I do know: Clements buys no more larch of me." "Because you have none left," was my wise comment on that. Father did not seem to hear. The wood-cutters went at last and the larch-wood sleepers with them. The red-brown stumps remained behind; and in their pores stood bright drops of rosin. "It shows that they were not Christians," I remember my father saying, "that they did not cut a cross in a single stump." For, at that time, it was still the custom, in the forest, for the wood-cutters to carve a little cross with the axe into each stump as soon as the tree had fallen. Why, I was never quite able to discover: it was probably for the same reason that makes the blacksmith give two taps with his hammer on the anvil, after the red-hot iron is removed. These things are intended to thwart the devil, who, as everybody knows, is never idle and interferes in all the works of man. My father, whose whole life was bound up with the cross, went afterwards and cut crosses in the larch-stumps. And so things in the forest were once more in order and peaceful, as they used to be. And that is the story of the strange wood-cutters, the children of the world, who had penetrated into our far-away forest-nook like the first wave of the turbulent sea of the world. How small this wave was and what an amount of unrest, discontent, and vexation was washed up with it! Gradually, the strange elements were forgotten: even mother ended by overcoming her indignation. Only our little serving-maid remained restless and wistful, even after the wave had flowed back again, and her eyes were often red with crying. FOOTNOTE: [8] _Halbnarr_: half-fool. According to German folk-lore, it is only the half-idiots who are really dangerous.--_Translator's Note._ IX How Meisensepp Died At home we had a book called _The Lives of Jesus Christ, Our Lady, and of many of God's Saints: a spiritual treasure by Peter Cochem_. It was an old book, the leaves were grey, and each chapter began with wonderful big letters in black and red. The wooden cover was worm-eaten in many places, and a mouse had nibbled away one of the leathern flaps. Since my grandfather's death there was nobody in our house who could have read it; no wonder, then, that these creatures had taken possession of it, and thus gained their bodily sustenance from the spiritual treasure. Then came I, the little book-worm, chasing the little beasts out of the book and devouring it myself instead. I read out of it daily to the members of our household. The younger farm-lads and girls did not care much for this new custom, for they dared not joke and yodel during the reading; the older people, however, being rather more God-fearing, listened devoutly and said, "It's just as if the parson were preaching; so solemnly done and with such a loud voice!" I got quite a reputation as an able reader, and was much sought after. Whenever anybody in the neighbourhood lay ill or dying, or was even dead already, and there was watch being kept by the corpse during the night, my father was asked to let me go and read. On such occasions I took the weighty book under my arm and set off. It was hard work carrying it, for at that time I was but a little shrimp of a fellow. Once, late at night, when I was already asleep in the sweet-scented hay-loft where I sometimes had my bed in summer-time, I was awakened by one of our men tugging at my coverlet. "You must get up quickly, Peter, get up! Meisensepp has sent his daughter, and begs that you'll come and read to him--he's dying. Get up!" Of course, I got up, dressed myself hastily, took the book, and went with the girl from our house up across the heath and through the forest. Meisensepp's hut stood quite alone in the midst of the forest. Meisensepp had been gamekeeper and woodward in his younger years; latterly he occupied himself mostly with sharpening saws for the wood-cutters. Then suddenly this severe illness overtook him. While the girl and I were going through the wilderness in the still, starlit night neither of us spoke a word. Silently we went on together. Only once she whispered, "Let me have the book, Peter; I'll carry it for you." "You couldn't do it," I answered; "you're even smaller than me." After a two hours' tramp the girl said, "There's the light." We saw a faint gleam coming from the window of Meisensepp's house. Going nearer, we met the priest who had administered the Last Sacrament to the dying man. "Father, is he going to get well?" asked the girl, fearfully. "He is not so very old," said the priest. "God's will be done, children; God's will be done." And he went on, while we went into the house. It was small, and, after the manner of forest huts, living-room and bedroom were all one with the kitchen. On the hearth in an iron holder a pine-torch was burning which veiled the ceiling in a cloud of smoke. Near by, on a bundle of straw, two little boys lay sleeping. I knew them well, for we had often gathered mushrooms and berries together in the woods and lost our herds while doing it: they were a few years younger than I. By the wall of the stove sat Sepp's wife, giving the breast to the baby and looking with wide-open eyes into the flame of the pine-torch; and behind the stove, on the only bed in the house, lay the sick man. He was sleeping; his face was wasted, the greyish hair and the beard round the chin had been cut short, which made the whole head appear smaller to me than formerly when I had seen Sepp on the way to church. Through his pale, half-open lips fluttered the broken breathing. On our entrance his wife got up gently, made some apology for having had me disturbed in my sleep, and invited me to sit down and eat what the priest had left of a dish of eggs which still stood on the table. And so, seated on the chair that was still warm from the holy man's sitting, I was soon actually eating with the same fork which he had carried to his mouth! "Now he's sleeping fairly well," whispered the woman, indicating the sick man. "A little while ago he was constantly pulling threads from the coverlet." I knew it was looked upon as a bad omen when a sick person pulled at and dug into the coverlet: "He's digging his grave," they say with us. I therefore answered, "Yes, that's what my father did, too, when he had typhoid fever; still, he got well again." "I think so, too," she said; "and the priest was saying the same thing. I am so glad my Sepp has always gone to confession so regular, and I feel quite hopeful about his getting well again. Only," she added very low, "the light keeps flickering to and fro the whole time." According to popular belief, when the light flickers, it is an omen that someone's candle is burning low in the socket. I believed in this sign myself, but to reassure the poor woman I said, "There's such a draught coming through the window, I can feel it too." She laid the sleeping baby upon the straw--the girl who had fetched me had already gone to rest there--and we stopped the cracks of the window with tow. Then the woman said, "You'll stay with me overnight, won't you, Peter? I shouldn't know how to get along otherwise; and when he awakes you will read to us? I am sure you'll do us this kindness, won't you?" I opened the book and looked for a suitable piece, but Father Cochem has not written much that would be of consolation to poor suffering mankind. Father Cochem's opinion is that God is infinitely just and that men are unutterably bad, and nine-tenths of them are bound straight for hell. Maybe it is so, I used to think to myself; but even if it is one ought not to say so, because people would only worry, and for the rest would most likely remain as bad as ever. If they had wanted to mend, they would have done so long ago. Terrifying thoughts went like a hissing adder through Cochem's book. Whenever I had to do with indifferent people, who only listened to me on account of my fine loud preaching voice, I thundered forth all the horrors and the eternal damnation of mankind with real pleasure; but when by a sick-bed I used to exert my imagination to the utmost while reading out of the book, in order to soften the hard sayings, to moderate the hideous representations of the Four Last Things, and to give a friendlier tone to the whole thought of the zealous Father. And now again I planned how, while apparently reading from the book, I would speak to Meisensepp words from another Book about poverty, patience, and love towards our fellows, and how the true imitation of Christ consisted in the practice of these, and how--when the last hour should strike--this would lead us by way of a gentle death right into heaven. At last Sepp awoke. He turned his head, looked at his wife and sleeping children, then, seeing me, he said in a loud, clear voice, "So you've come, Peter? God reward you for it! But we shall hardly have time for reading to-day. Anne, please wake the children up." The woman shuddered, her hand went to her heart, but she said quietly, "Are you worse again, Seppel? You've been sleeping so nicely." He saw at once that her calmness was not genuine. "Don't you fret, wife," he said, "it must be so in this world. Wake the children up now, but gently, so that you don't scare them." The poor woman went to the bed of straw, and with trembling hand shook the bundle, and the little ones started up only half awake. "Anne, I beg you don't pull the children about so," the sick man reproached her, with a weaker voice, "and let little Martha sleep, she doesn't understand things yet." I remained seated by the table, and my heart burned within me. The little family gathered round the bed, sobbing aloud. "Quietly now," said Sepp to the children; "mother will let you sleep all the longer to-morrow morning. Josefa, draw the shirt together over your breast or you will get cold.--Now then, children, you must always be brave and good and obedient to your mother, and when you are grown up you must stand by her and don't leave her. All my days I've toiled and moiled, but for all that I've nothing else to leave you beyond this house, with the little garden and the ridge-acre with the stacks. If you want to divide it up, do so in a brotherly way; but it is better to keep the little property together, and keep the home going, somehow, and till the ground. Beyond that I make no will. I love you all alike. Don't forget me, and now and then say an Our Father for me. And you four boys, I beg from my very heart, don't start poaching--it leads to no good. Give me your hand on it. There, that's right! If one of you would like to learn saw-sharpening--I have earned many a penny with it and the tools are all there. And then, as you know already, if you plant potatoes on the ridge-acre, you must do so in May. It's quite true, what my father always used to say, 'Of potatoes it is said: "Plant me in April, I come when I will; plant me in May, I'm there in a day."' Bear that saying in mind! There, now go to bed again, or you will catch cold; always take care of your health; health is everything. Go to sleep, children." The sick man became silent and fell to plucking at his covering again. Turning to me the woman whispered, "I don't like it, he's talking too much." When a very sick person becomes suddenly talkative that too is looked upon as a bad omen with us. Then he lay quite exhausted. The woman lit a death-taper. "Not yet, Anne, not yet," he murmured, "a little later; but give me a drop of water, will you?" After drinking he said, "Ah, fresh water is a good thing after all! Take good care of the well. Yes, and don't let me forget, the black breeches and the blue jacket--you know--and outside behind the door, where the saws hang, there leans the planing board; lay it across the grindstone and the bench--it will serve for the three days. To-morrow early, when Woodman Josel comes, he'll help to lay me out. But mind that the cat isn't about; cats are attracted and know at once when there is a corpse anywhere. It's all arranged what they'll do with me down at the Parish Church.--My brown coat and the big hat, give them to the poor. And to Peter you must give something because of his coming up here. Perhaps he will be good enough to read to-morrow. It will be a fine day to-morrow, but don't go far from home, for fear an accident might happen, when there's candles left burning in the entrance. Later on, Anne, look in the bedstraw and you will find an old stocking with a few gold pieces in it." "Seppel, don't exert yourself with talking so much," sobbed the wife. "Well, well, Anne--but I must tell you everything. We'll not be much longer together now. We have had twenty years, Anne. You have been everything to me; no one can repay you for what you have been to me. I shall never forget it, not in death, nor in heaven neither. I am only glad that in my last hour I am still able to talk to you, and that I am clear in my head to the last." "Don't fret yourself, Seppel," murmured the wife, bending over him. "No," he answered quietly, "with me it's just as it was with my father: content in life, content in death. You be the same, and don't take it too much to heart. Even though each of us must go as we came, alone, still we belong to each other and I shall keep you a place in heaven, Anne, close by my side. Only, for God's sake, bring the children up well." The children lay quiet. It was very still, and it seemed to me as if, somewhere in the room, I could hear a slight whirring and humming. Suddenly, Seppel called out, "Now, Anne, light the candle, quick!" The woman ran about the room looking for matches, and yet the torch was still burning. "Now he is going to die!" she moaned. When at last the red wax-taper was alight, and she had given it him and he held it clasped with both his hands, and she had taken the vessel of holy water from the shelf, she became apparently quite calm and prayed aloud: "Jesus, Mary, help him! Oh, Saints of God, stand by him in his direst need, do not let his soul be lost! Jesus, I pray by Thy holiest suffering! Mary, I call upon Thy seven Sacred Dolours! And Thou, his guardian angel, when the soul must quit the body, lead it at last to heavenly joy!" And she prayed long. She neither sobbed nor cried now; not a single tear stood in her eye, she was wholly the devout petitioner and intercessor. At length she became silent, bent over her husband's face, watched his weak breathing and whispered, "God be with you, Seppel; greet my parents for me and all our kinsfolk there in Eternity. God bless and keep you, my dearest man! May the holy angels attend you, and the Lord Jesus in His mercy await you at the heavenly door." Perhaps he no longer heard her. His pale, half-open lips gave no answer. His eyes stared at the ceiling. The wax candle, held upright in the folded hands, was burning; it did not flicker. The flame was still and bright as a snow-white bud, his breath moved it no more. "Now it's over--he's dead and gone from me!" cried his wife in a shrill, heartrending voice; then sank down upon a stool and began to weep bitterly. The children, now again wakened, wept with her, all except the baby, who was smiling. The hour weighed upon us heavy as a stone. At last the poor woman--the widow--rose, dried her tears and laid two fingers on the eyes of the dead. The wax candle burned until the morning dawned. A messenger had passed through the forest. Then came the Woodman Josel. He sprinkled the dead with holy water, murmuring, "So they go, one after the other." Then they dressed Meisensepp out in his best clothes, carried him into the porch, and laid him on the board. I left the book on the table for the vigil of the following nights at which I had promised the poor woman to read. When I was ready to go, she brought a green hat on which was fastened a spreading "Gemsbart."[9] "Will you take the hat with you for your father?" she asked; "my Seppel has always been so fond of your father. The Gemsbart you may keep yourself as a remembrance. Say an Our Father for him now and then." I uttered my thanks and cast one more timid look at the bier. There lay Sepp stretched at full length, and his hands folded across his breast. And I went away down through the forest. How bright and fresh with dew, how full of the song of birds, full of the scent of flowers--how full of life the forest was! And in the hut, stretched on the bier, lay a dead man. I can never forget that night and that morning--that death amidst the forest's infinite source of life. To this day I keep the Gemsbart in memory of Meisensepp. And whenever a desire for the pleasures of this world gets hold of me, or when doubts of God's grace to man, or fear of my own possibly far-off, possibly quite near end assail me, I just stick Sepp's Gemsbart in my hat. FOOTNOTE: [9] Gemsbart: a little tuft of hair on the chamois' breast. X The Corpus Christi Altar When the triumphant Saviour passes through the village in the shape of bread, they greet Him with palms. The palm of the alps is the birch. Even as the little fir-trees are doomed to lose their lives at Christmas-time, so do the birches at Corpus Christi. They are dragged to the village by the hundred, on great drays, and planted in rows on both sides of the streets through which the procession is intended to go. And, as they stand there in the fresh-turned earth, with their graceful branches rustling in the soft wind, it is as though they were still leading the young and happy lives of their brothers and sisters in the woods. And no one notices that the trunk stands in the earth without its roots, chopped off by the axe, that the sap no longer courses through its veins, that, in a few days, the pretty little notched and heart-shaped leaves will turn yellow; nor does the caterpillar on a yielding branch, as it dreams of its coming butterfly existence, suspect that it is rocking upon a corpse. Life is fulfilled: lo, the Lord cometh. At the Corpus Christi procession, the gospels are read in the open air at four different spots. For this purpose, the people set up four altars, so that "the Lord God may rest on His journey." By ancient custom, it falls to him upon whose ground the altar is to stand to erect this altar. Its several parts, all nicely carved and painted, have rested during the year in a dark corner of the loft and are now brought forth, cleansed of their dust and cobwebs and put together in the open. The result is often a noble building of the chapel order, with altar-table, tabernacle, worshipping angels, candlesticks and all. Farm-labourers, who but yesterday were digging manure, to-day prove themselves accomplished architects, building the altar before the sun-down and surrounding it with a little wood of birch or larch. The head of the house places all the images of the saints which he possesses on the altar, or fastens them high up on the pillars. The farmer's wife brings gaudy pots of crimson peonies to adorn the altar; and the little girls strew flowers and rose-leaves as a carpet for the steps. The bells begin to ring, the mortars boom, music swells far and wide over the roofs, lights burn in every window; and the time has come for the farmer to light the candles on his altar too. Soon the first pennants come in sight, the hum is heard of the men's prayers and the echo of the women's singing; and the long lines of children approach, the girls in white, carrying gaily-coloured banners above their heads. Finally, the band, with shrill trumpets and rumbling drums, and then the _baldachino_, the red canopy upheld by four men, and, under it, surrounded by ministrants and acolytes, the priest, carrying the gleaming monstrance high before his face. The monstrance, as we all know, is the house in which the Host resides surrounded by a wreath of golden rays, resting on a crescent-shaped holder and protected by a crystal glass. The most important factor in this procession is faith; and that is present in abundance. They worship not the bread, but the symbolic mystery in whose lap rests our eternal destiny. It is really incorrect to speak of the worship of images, or of the idolatry of the heathen: they all mean one and the same thing, the symbolic divine mystery which each represents to himself after his own fashion and feels according to his nature. And the power to transfer the intangible, endless mystery to a substance which our senses can apprehend and thus to enter into more intimate relations with it: that power is the gift of faith. The files of people reach the open-air altar and the foremost have to pass along until the priest arrives at the spot. When there, he places the Sacrament in the tabernacle and reads some verses from one of the four gospels. Then, to the booming of the cannon, he lifts the monstrance, turns with it to the four points of the compass and blesses the meadows, the fields and the air, that the summer may be fruitful and no storm destroy the husbandman's labour. And the procession moves on. This is in the larger villages. In the small mountain districts, the feast is celebrated more simply, but no less solemnly. As, in such places, all the lanes and streets are formed of live trees and shrubs, there is no need to set up birches, except at the wayside crucifixes, where they keep holy guard, one on the right and one on the left. As the people of small places have not four altars to erect, there is a small, portable altar, a little four-legged table with a white cloth to cover it and a tabernacle with angels painted on a blue ground kneeling before the "Holy Name." Above this is a little canopy with gold tassels. Behind are straps by means of which a boy can take the altar on his back and carry it, during the procession, from one gospel-place to the other. They have one of these little altars at Kathrein am Hauenstein. Should you care to see it, it stands, in summer, in the church, in front of the great picture of the Fourteen Helpers.[10] It has stood there as long as I can remember; and, in my young days, it was the duty and the privilege of Kaunigl, him with the hare-lip, to carry it from gospel-place to gospel-place. As soon as one gospel was read and the procession starting on its way again, he strapped the altar to his back, took the candlesticks and the hassock in his hands and hurried over the hill by the short cut through the woods, so as to obtain a lead and set up the altar in the next place. He would fix a stone or two under the feet of the little table to prevent any rocking, put the hassock in position and light the candles; and, by that time, the first banner was once more in sight. Now it happened, one day, that this was the occasion of my being mixed up in a business that threatened the destruction of my immortal soul. I had just reached the age when nobody knows how a young scamp is going to turn out. He may develop into a more or less decent fellow, or else into a lout of the first water: who can tell? None but God really; and even He leaves the choice to the lanky, pale-faced lad himself. On the day in question, I had either overslept myself in my forest home or had more trouble than usual in getting my lace-boots on; or perhaps breakfast was not ready in time. Anyhow, by the time I reached Kathrein church, everything was in full swing, with the red banners waving and the candles twinkling between the trees. I stole round to the back, for I was mortally ashamed to do the right thing and simply go straight up to the procession and mix with the people. Here again God left the choice to me, to join the worshippers or slink away through the bushes like a gaol-bird. I slunk like a gaol-bird through the bushes and there met Kaunigl with the altar. He at once asked me to help him carry it. This suited me perfectly, for it justified the roundabout road which I had taken. I relieved Kaunigl of the hassock and candlesticks; and we hurried through the young trees up to the Föhrenriegel, behind the church, where the last gospel was to be read. We worked together loyally; and soon the little altar was fixed against the rock, with the candles burning upon it. The procession was not yet in sight, for it had taken a longer road through the green fields; but this Kaunigl boy was not the fellow to let time slip by and be wasted. He thrust his hand in his trousers-pocket, produced a pack of cards and flung it on the altar so that the candles flickered before the fluttering bits of pasteboard. Silently, as though what he was doing were a matter of course, he dealt himself and me a hand at _Brandel_. It was not the first time that he and I had "taken each other on"; so I picked up the cards and we played a strict game on the Corpus Christi altar, by the light of the wax candles burning solemnly. There was time for a second "bout"; and then, while Kaunigl was dealing the cards again, the men at the head of the procession appeared round the corner, praying aloud with heads uncovered. No cat could have pounced upon nimble mouse quicker than Kaunigl gathered up those cards and shoved them in his pocket. Then we took up our positions on either side, in all innocence, and pulled off our caps. Soon the musicians hove in sight: Eggbauer with the bugle-horn, his son with the first trumpet, Naz the tailor (who afterwards became my master) with the second, Erhard's boy with the clarionet, Zenz the smith with the kettle-drum, while long-nosed Franz carried the big drum on his back, to be pounded with might and main by the Haustein innkeeper. Ferdl the huntsman handled the "tinklers." Behind this loud music came the _baldachino_. The old white-haired parish priest carried the Most Holy high in front of him and held his head bowed low, partly in veneration and partly because age had already greatly bent his neck. He walked up to the little altar to place the monstrance on it. He was on the point of doing so when suddenly he stopped and stood for a moment with a stare upon his face. He had caught sight of the ten of clubs peeping from between the folds of the white altar-cloth! The confounded card had remained there hidden and unperceived! To decorate the Corpus Christi altar with "green" of this kind[11] could hardly seem correct in the eyes of his reverence. Without a word, without a sign of displeasure, he turned to the rock and placed the monstrance on a projecting stone. Only a very few people had realised why this was done. The gospel was read and the benediction given without further incident, but I peeped through the hazel-bushes and saw that the old priest was white to the lips. Had he shown anger at his discovery on the altar, had he stormed and ordered the culprit to be taken by the ears, I should have thought it no more than just; but his humble silence, his look of sorrow, and the fact that he had to place the Saviour, rendered homeless by that sacrilegious game at cards, upon the bare rock: these were things that cut into me as with a knife. He cannot have known who the accomplice was, but he could easily have found out by my conscience-stricken face, however much it might try to hide itself behind the hazel-bushes. Afterwards, when high mass began in church, Kaunigl pulled me by the skirt of my jacket and invited me to climb into the tower with him, where we could toll the bell at the Sanctus and the elevation and play cards in between. He had recovered possession of the ten of clubs. True, I did not accept; but I remained lost, for all that. From that day forward I no longer ventured into the confessional. Kaunigl did venture in; but it was not quite so simple as he imagined, as he himself told me afterwards. "I have played cards," he confessed. "Once." "Well," said the priest, "card-playing is no sin in itself, as long as you do not play for money." "No, I didn't play for money." "Where did it happen?" "On a table." "What sort of a table?" "A wooden one." "Was it on the Corpus Christi table, by any chance?" asked the priest. "Oh, no!" said Kaunigl. And then he received absolution. "Then you lied in your confession!" I said to Kaunigl, reproachfully. "That doesn't matter," Kaunigl replied, promptly. "I can easily mention the lie next time: I'll get that through the grating right enough. The thing is to have the card-playing off my chest. Hang it all, though, I was nearly caught: Old Nick might have grabbed me finely!" I based my own inferences upon this experience. If card-playing was no sin in itself--and we did not play for money--then there was no need to confess the story. Nor is it stated in either the Lesser or the Greater Catechism that man shall not play cards on altars. However, this subtle interpretation helped me not at all. When I thought of that Corpus Christi sacrilege, in which I had so foolishly taken part, I often felt quite ill. I dreamt of it at nights, in the most uncomfortable way, and, sitting in church on Sundays, I dared not look at that little altar-table, which stood there so oddly, as though at any moment it might burst into speech and betray me. Moreover, about this time, I read in an old devotional book the story of a blasphemous shoemaker's assistant who had mimicked the elevation of the Host in a public-house and how his upraised arms had stiffened in the act, so that he could not bend them back again and had to go about with his arms sticking up in the air, until he was released by receiving absolution from a pious father. It was much as though I were doomed to go about with arm uplifted, holding the best trump in my hand, while the people laughed at me: "Now then, Peter, play! Why don't you play?" and as though I played the card, at last, and, in so doing, played my poor soul to perdition. That was the sort of thing; and a nice thing too! I could never manage to settle it by myself: that was quite clear. So, one evening, after working-hours, I went to see the parish-priest at St. Catherine's. He was standing just outside the house, beside his fish-pond, which was covered over with a rusty wire netting, while a fine spring bubbled away in the middle. The priest no doubt thought that I was merely passing by accident, for he beckoned to me with his black straw hat to come to him. "What do you say, Peter?" he cried to me, in his soft voice. "Nine and five and seven: doesn't that make twenty-one?" I was never much good at mental arithmetic; however, this time, I hazarded, on the off-chance: "Yes, that should be about right. Twenty-one." "Now then," he said, "just look here." And he pointed to the fish-pond. "A fortnight ago, the Blasler boy sold me nine live trout and I put them in the pond. A week ago, he sold me five more and I put them in too; and, to-day, he sold me seven and I put them in as well. And how many are there now, all told? Eight, eight; and not one more! And I know all about it: they are the same which he brought me a fortnight ago; and it must be so: the scoundrel, I was almost saying, stole the fish each time out of the pond and sold them to me over again. It's a ... a ..." And he shook his fist in the air. The fact was that the Blasler boy must have stolen the trout to begin with, before he sold them for the first time, for Blasler had no fishing licence. This, I dare say, hardly occurred to the good priest's mind: he was thinking only of his fast-days. The commandments of the Church allow fish on Fridays and Saturdays,[12] but do not say whether the fish may be stolen or not. It was not a favourable opportunity to confess one's sins. So I forbore for the present, kissed the sleeve of his coat, because the clenched fist did not look inviting for a kiss of the hand, and passed on. On the way, I pondered the question at length, which was the greater sin, the Blasler boy's or mine. His appeared to me in the light of a piece of roguery, whereas mine might easily be a sin against the Holy Ghost; and those sins are not remitted. A few days later, Cap Casimir, of Kressbachgraben, was driving a grey nanny-goat with two kids along the road. The old goat had a full udder; and the young ones skipped around her and wanted to have a drink. But Cap Casimir hissed, in his sloppy brogue: "Sshh, shtop that now! We musht bring the full udder to hish reverensh!" I was at once curious to know what it meant; and Casimir, who was an immigrant Tyrolese and still wore his pointed "star-pricker,"[13] said: "It'sh like thish, you shee, my wife'sh dead. 'The goat,' said she, 'and the kidsh,' said she, 'I leave to the parish-priesht of Kathrein. For prayers and masshes.' That was her will; and then she died. Sho now I'm driving the animalsh to the reverend gentleman'sh." "All right," thought I to myself. "And I'll follow in an hour's time. He'll be in a good humour to-day; and I shall never find a better opportunity." So far, the thing was well thought out. I went off that same afternoon. The old gentleman was quite jolly and invited me to have a cup of coffee with him, telling me that there was fresh milk in it from Kressbachgraben. And it was in the midst of the coffee that I suddenly said: "I've had something on my mind for ever so long, your reverence!" "You, something on your mind?" he laughed. "Well, that's a nice state of affairs, when even little boys have things on their minds!" I stirred my cup of coffee vigorously with my spoon, so as not to have to look his reverence in the face, and told him the story of the game of cards on the altar. Contrary to all my expectations, the priest remained quite calm. Then he asked: "Did you do it wilfully? Did you intend to mock the holy altar?" "Good God, no, your reverence!" I replied, thoroughly shocked at the mere thought. "Very well," said the old man. Then he was silent for a little while and finished his coffee, after which he spoke as follows: "It was not a proper thing to do; let me tell you that at once. And I will let Kaunigl know also that what people take to church is prayer-books and not playing-cards! But, if you had no bad intention in doing this silly trick, we will say no more about it this time. At any rate, you did quite right to tell me. Would you like a drop more?" As the Corpus Christi incident was now closed in the best possible way, the second cup of coffee tasted twice as good as the first. When, presently, I got up to go, the old man laid his hand on my shoulder and said, kindly: "I feel easier now that I know exactly what happened on that Corpus Christi Day. But you must never do it again, Peterkin. Just think,--our dear Lord!..." FOOTNOTES: [10] _Die vierzehn Nothelfer_, often mentioned in the German hagiology. "Emergency saints" has been suggested as an equivalent rendering.--[_Translator's Note._] [11] The clubs are printed in green, in the cheap packs of cards used in the Tyrol, and the ten of this suit is called _der Grühnzehner_: the ten of greens.--[_Translator's Note._] [12] In some parts of Southern Austria, the practice prevails of abstaining from flesh-meat on Saturdays, as well as on Fridays, in honour of the Blessed Virgin Mary.--[_Translator's Note._] [13] The popular nickname for the pointed Tyrolese, "sugar-loaf" hat.--[_Translator's Note._] XI About Kickel, who went to Prison You were on for a bit of gipsying, were you, Peterkin? Home, everlastingly home, isn't very cheerful--always having the green-glazed mug to drink from, always having your face wiped over by the mother with a wet rag, always having to sleep in the little box-bed by the stove--it's no fun! One can't help wanting sometimes to gather a dinner from the whortleberry plants and drink from the brook, to roll on the ground sometimes, and even to walk about in mud; and now and again one wants to sleep in an old hay barn, with water never seen before rushing along outside, in an unknown gorge, with quite strange trees standing in the red sunshine when you wake up in the morning, and unknown people mowing the grass in the meadows. Suppose you long for this, and then your father forbids it! "Children belong at home!" And, "After school, you will come home by the shortest way!" The shortest way! There isn't such a thing in our high lands, especially if Zutrum Simmerl is in school, and if Zutrum Simmerl says, "Peterl, come with me; at home, in Zutrumshaus, there are all sorts of jolly things; a spotted white yard-dog, who's got puppies; cherry-trees, which are all just red and black; and behind the house is a charcoal-burner's hut with straw that one can lie on, and in the stream you can catch trout and crayfish with your hand, which your mother can bake and cook afterwards." The Zutrum family were far-away cousins of ours, so that when young Cousin Simmerl said "Come with me," one naturally went. It was a whole hour's walk from my parents' house there, and as the school where we, from Alpel and Trabachgraben, met together, lay just half-way, the world became stranger and stranger to me with each step of my way to Zutrum. And when the sun sank down over the black saddle of the wooded range, and the sycamores threw long shadows across the newly mown meadows, I felt very strange. The hay smelt, the grasshoppers chirped, the frogs quacked as they did at home, but all else was different, the mountains much steeper, the coombs much deeper. I was oppressed. We looked down at last on the grey shingled roofs of the farm, from whose whitewashed chimneys thin smoke was going up. It was already dusk, and the homely smell of charcoal-burning, which I knew so well, came from among the tall pines. On the road we made many halts by ant-heaps, foxes' holes, hedge-stiles, little streams and puddles; but now Simmerl hurried up. I did not want to go on, I wanted to turn back. I should be going into a strange house for the first time in my life--my courage gave way. But Simmerl gripped me quickly by the arm and led me into the farmyard and through the great door into the house. The air was cool in the entrance and scented with fruit; the kitchen was plastered and had nearly white walls, like an inn. At the open hearth women were busy with pots and kettles, and to one of them, who had a pale, pretty, kind face, went Simmerl, gave her his hand and said, "God greet you, mother!" It was in this house that I first heard children reverently greeting their parents at coming in and going out, just as if they were going to a distant country or were coming back from one. In our district at home we ran out like a calf from its stall, and the most that I ever said in the morning when I was off to school was, "I'm going now," and the mother answered, "Well, go, in God's name." That was certainly something, but it was not so cordial and fine as when the Zutrum children said "God greet you!" or "God keep you!" and clasped their parents' hands. In short, this entrance into the Zutrums' house appeared very splendid to me. "And that is my school-friend, Peterl, from the Forest farm," so Simmerl introduced me to his mother. "Now, that's nice!" she said; wiped her right hand on her blue apron and held it out to me. I was not quite sure if my little paw ought to be stretched out too, hesitated, but finally did it. "Mother," called Simmerl, "we are running down to the brook." "Not too far--it will soon be supper-time." We were in the open air again, and it had all gone off very smoothly. We did not get to the brook that evening, for there was the white, spotted yard-dog with puppies! These last were all together in mottled heap, which constantly surged and twisted, while every now and then a tiny creature hardly bigger than a rat got loose and rolled clumsily away. These things were absolutely all head, and the head again was all muzzle, and the muzzles burrowed to the teats which the old white dapple placed ready for use. All that, and the anxious growling of the old dog and the frightened whimpering of the young ones, and the doggy smell which came out of the kennel, nearly stupefied me with sheer delight. "Does she bite?" I asked Simmerl; for I wanted to stroke the puppies. "Not now, so we have taken the chain off her. My father says, 'She has no enemies now, she is just a mother now.'" But still, when he wanted to lift one of the young ones, she snapped at his finger. "Have you got a church?" I asked, for a little bell rang. Simmerl laughed, for it was the house-bell, and it was calling people to supper. In the room, where it was already nearly dark, stood two great square tables. When grace had been said out loud by everybody and all together, and the great big soup-tureens were sending up their warm, savoury clouds, about twelve young men, older men, young girls and old women sat themselves down to the one table. At the other table right in the corner the house-father took his place, a stout, comfortable, cheerful man with a smooth-shaven face and a double chin; then came his children, from the merry grown-up Sennerl right down to Simmerl, and still further down to two quite tiny babies, who had their milk-soup spooned into their little mouths by the servant-maid. I was allowed to sit by Simmerl, and, because the common bowl was rather a long way from us, we received a little special basin, out of which we ladled the pieces. It was wheaten bread, which was not every day to be had at home with us! The house-mother went to and fro, looking after the tables, and now and then she sat down with us for a short time, just to eat a morsel as she passed by. Ah, yes, that was like my mother at home. "Who cooks needs nothing to eat," say overwise people. I was obliged to keep thinking of home, where just then they would be waiting for me with supper, and wondering why that boy didn't come home and where he could possibly be. Then, probably, it would occur to one or other of them, "Oh, he has gone home with his school-friend to Zutrum." After the milk-soup came a bowl of salad in vinegar. That again was something new for me; at my home there was only salad in butter-milk, which is acid and wet and can therefore well take the place of expensive vinegar. At home we ate the greenstuff with a spoon, here one did it with a fork. I several times stabbed my mouth with the strange tool, but dared make no noise; whereas at home if such a thing happened there would have been a fine outcry. After the salad came the largest dish of all, and this contained stewed cherries in their own juice. Now I might use the spoon again. If only it had been a bit bigger--for this black cherry stew was delicious! The company was very ceremonious. They squeezed the stones out of their mouths and put them back either on to a plate or into their fists. At home we ate the stones with the cherries. I do not know what was talked about at table, and I was certainly quite indifferent to it, because mere talk is nothing to eat. They were louder and gayer at the servants' table than we were over at the house-father's table, because there was an old man amongst them who said the strangest things in the gravest manner at which they all laughed, until a maid said, "No, no; one must not laugh so at Kickel. It isn't right that Kickel should be laughed at." "Who's laughing at _him_?" laughed a boy. "We're only laughing because we please to." I must have overheard that, as otherwise I should not have known it. I know also that suddenly the old Kickel jumped up from his place, and with his shirt-sleeve fluttering from his wide, strong arm, chucked a cherry-stone at the door opposite, which fell back again into the middle of the room. At that he cried "Bang!" and shouted with laughter. He did this several times, whereupon the others said, "It was quite right, and he must make a hole in the door so that one could look out into the kitchen to see whether or no stew was being cooked to-day." Then Kickel raised his other arm, and "Bang!"--he threw the entire handful at the door, so that it rattled like a hail-storm. At the same moment the old man wrinkled up his wizened face and shouted out an angry curse. Then the house-father got up from our table, went to the infuriated old fellow and said soothingly, "Now, now, Kickel, don't be so vexed. Sowing so many cherry-trees in the rooms! None of them will grow, you know. Be sensible, Kickel." At my home the father would have talked very differently if such a person had strewn the room full of cherry-stones! Then the old servant stood before the house-father with folded hands, and in a voice of groaning anxiety he cried, "Zutrum, Zutrum, I don't know how to help myself, it's coming on again!" "Michel! Natzel!" said the house-father to the other two men, "take Kickel to bed. It is time for him to go to sleep." Then they led Kickel away. Whatever did it mean? "It's time for the children to go to sleep also," added the house-father. "The Forest-farm boy must sleep in the top room." The disappointment was bitter. I had thought that Simmerl and I would have been able to lie near each other on a pile of hay, and this was actually the reason that I had come with him into this strange house. Tears came into my eyes in proportion to the anguish of finding out that it was all up with the hay, and that I had to sleep by myself in a dark little room. The house-mother must have noticed something, for she said, "He can very well sleep in the little room with Simmerl; there's a bed empty there." "Well and good, but don't talk long, boys." So the house-father, after which Simmerl went to his parents, kissed their hands and said "Good night." This custom pleased me mightily, and I resolved to introduce it also into my home. I never got so far as that; I had always been ashamed of being entirely naughty to my parents, but also of being quite good, and in particular it had been impossible to me to show certain courtesies, much as I liked them. I gathered from the order "not to talk long" that we had permission to talk, and as we lay, each in his little bed, having put out the light, so that nothing more was to be seen than the two faintly lighted square windows, I asked Simmerl, "What was wrong with that fellow Kickel?" "Cherry-stones," answered the lad. "Why did he get so wild?" "Oh, poor old Kickel!" said my comrade. "Don't you know that he was in prison for ten years? Last year they let him out." "Why?" "Because the Kaiser was married." "What, they locked him up for that?" "No, that's why they let him out." "But, good Lord, I want to know why they put him in prison," I cried. "If you shout like that father will come with the strap. He killed his son." This was horrible. I did not know whether Kickel or House-father Zutrum had killed his son. I dared question no farther, and when I did try it later Simmerl gave no answer, for he was asleep. Next morning we were awakened by a clear voice, "Schoolboys, it's time!" A bough of elder swayed about in front of the heart-shaped opening in the shutter, and through it the sun shone hot and bright on to our snow-white beds, and the house-spring splashed outside. I should have liked to dress at the same time as Simmerl, but was shy about drawing my legs from under the coverlet. With a long arm I drew my trousers from the bench into bed, and slipped them on to my limbs with a suggestive slickness, and so out to the spring. After the washing the morning prayers. Simmerl, out of consideration for his guest, would have gone out during these, suggesting that he would then take me to the grey horse in the stable; but his mother said, "He will see enough grey horses during his life; you need the Holy Spirit in school. Now say your morning prayer. Both kneel together." We knelt on the bench before the table, and each said an Our Father to himself, while it occurred to me, "We are not so strict at home." Certainly, our mother said one ought to say one's prayers, but she did not order one straight away on to the bench. Now I was to see too what came of the prayers. We had hardly raised our elbows from the table when it was spread with a white cloth, and set with white platters and with white bread, and a brown soup was poured out of the spout of a bright tin pot. At home it was just the other way round, everything else brown and the soup white. There was no milk-soup for breakfast here, but coffee! I had already heard about it, that the grand people ate coffee, but that an old charcoal-burner had said, "My dear people, I am certainly black. Look at me and see if I'm black or no! But I'm not so black and bad as the black broth from Morocco. The devil has invented it, and the peasant will come to an end if he eats it." I do not know if the charcoal-burner knew how wisely he had spoken, and I do not know if they had believed him. I only know that everyone was crazy for coffee, and that I could not help putting my spoon into the black soup--Ugh! that isn't good, that is as bitter as gall! The devil has certainly invented it---- "You haven't put any sugar," laughed Simmerl, and threw some pieces out of a cup into my bowl. Now it was a little different. Simmerl looked at me and grinned to himself. I should have liked to know why. After breakfast it was "God keep you!" to the Zutrum people and off to school. I had become quite brave and held out my right hand when saying "Good-bye and thank you," just like a well-mannered, grown-up man, and it occurred to me, "How easy it is to be good when one is not at home!" As we went along the hill-meadow old Kickel was to be seen with a wooden fork spreading haycocks out so that they should dry better in the new sunshine. To-day I saw, for the first time, that he was very decrepit, bent double almost to cracking-point, and swaying and limping at every step. His knee-breeches had certainly once been leather, but now they had many, many patches of other stuffs stuck on with large, ungainly stitches. His feet and very brown ankles were bare. Breast and arms were covered by a coarse brown shirt; the old felt hat sat like a battered inverted kettle on the little grey head, but all the same it was decorated by an eagle's feather, which stood up high into the air. Knees, elbows and fingers were all so terribly bony that one felt as if the old man would never be able to do anything properly for the rest of his life; he was like a deformed and twisted oak tree up on the high land where the storm-wind cripples everything. When he caught sight of us he raised his hat politely and then he went on working. "Oh, I say," I questioned my schoolfellow, "what is the matter with Kickel?" "When we are higher up I'll tell you," answered Simmerl, and when we came into the wood, where the ground became more level, he put his arm in mine, and said, "He had a son, and he shot him." "By accident? On purpose?" I asked, horrified. "On purpose--quite on purpose." "What had he done then--the son?" "Nothing; he was a thorough good fellow, my father said." "Good God! And did he hate his son so dreadfully then?" "He loved his son ever so much; much too much." "And therefore shot him down?" "Well, I don't know myself how it was," acknowledged Simmerl. "So Kickel is mad?" I put in. "Not mad, but a bit crazy, certainly; a bit crazy all his life, and people say one can't imagine how sharp he used to be, and what a fine keeper he was up there, and how well educated! But the people say that the many books he read must have sent him silly." I quickened my steps. "Why do you hurry so, Peter?" "Supposing he runs after us!" "Oh, Kickel won't do anything to us. People say he would not have killed his son if he hadn't been so fond of him." "Oh, Simmerl, supposing he is fond of us?" "Oh, not so fond as he was of his son!" "But, Simmerl, I don't understand." "Some time I'll ask father just how it all was." Nothing more. On that particular day I was not much use in school. Just think!--My father is very fond of _me_. He certainly has never told me so, but mother has said it to me. If things are like this, one will never trust oneself again with people who are fond of one. "What is the matter with Peter?" asked the schoolmaster, "he is so absent-minded to-day." In the afternoon I came back to my parents' house. I stood awhile rooted to the sandy ground behind the pines. What was going to happen next? My father came towards me with a clacking wheelbarrow. "Go in and eat," he called to me, "and afterwards come out into the wood. We must cut down some wood for firing." "Did you sleep at Zutrum last night?" asked my mother, as she set before me the dinner which had been saved for me. "Mother, Simmerl wouldn't let go of me until I went home with him." "It's quite right, child. Just lately Mistress Zutrum was complaining to your father that you did not come to see your cousins and aunt and uncle. My mother and the mother of Mistress Zutrum were sisters." The danger was quite over. Out in the forest I asked my father whether he knew the Zutrums' old servant, Kickel, and what was the matter with him. "It isn't the time for gossip now, it's the time for cutting firewood,"--that was his answer. A few weeks later I was with my father in the cattle pasture. It was already dusk, and the oxen, who had been yoked to the plough all day, thrust their muzzles into the food and grazed busily. We stood by and waited until they were satisfied. It occurred to me that now was the time for gossip, and I asked him again about Kickel. "Child, let Kickel be," answered my father. "He's never harmed you--and may God Almighty preserve from all craziness! See--they won't eat the grass--they're not hungry any more." Soon after, we led the oxen into the farmyard. If I had died at that time, reader, you would hardly ever have learnt anything about Kickel. Meanwhile, I grew into a thin, but sadly tall lad, too narrow for a peasant, but long enough for a town gentleman--well, you know all about that! And once on a time, in summer, as I was going to visit far-away Alpel again, in the forest on the way I overtook a peasant lad--a young, handsome but earnest fellow, in Sunday clothes although it was a work-day. He had an upright carriage, and moved his legs lightly and regularly in walking, so that I thought, "He has been a soldier, or is one still." His auburn hair, too, was cut short and shaved behind in such fashion that his round, fresh-coloured neck was bare for a couple of inches down to his shirt-collar. The long face, with the somewhat thinly modelled nose, the very fair little moustache and the open, shrewd eyes, suggested that he was by no means one of the most foolish and simple of people. In those days I was as glad to have company on such a road as now I am to go alone. So I tried it on with him. My question was, where he went? He was going home to his wood-cutting in Fischbacherwald. "Where had he been?" In Krieglach, in the churchyard. "What had so lively a young fellow to do with the churchyard?" "Well, it's just what happens often enough," answered he. "It was on account of old Kickel." Old Kickel! I had often heard the name mentioned. Ah, yes! it was the old servant at Zutrum, who----"We'll go together, so that it will be more entertaining. I am Peter from the Forest farm." That was my introduction. "I've known you before," was his answer. "I have often met you in Graz when I was with the soldiers, but you have never recognised me." "And why have you never made yourself known since you were from home?" "I wanted to speak to you once, but I thought, 'A common soldier! Who knows if he'd like it?'" "Naturally--you a common soldier--and I absolutely nothing." "Ah--not that," he rejoined. "You are already somebody. I know it well." "So they have buried Kickel to-day! And where are the others, then?" "The few people have already gone on. Not many of them followed him. He was only a poor pauper." "You have surely been one of the bearers?" "No," said he; "I have only followed on after. There has been no praying even, because they said he had been a heathen. I thought to myself that he wasn't any worse than most other people, and that he had had bad luck--it was certainly his fate. Now in God's name he has rest." "What bad luck did he have, then?" was my question. I believed that I was at last near to the satisfaction of my old and now re-awakened curiosity. "You will have heard of the story before," said my road companion. "Yes, just rumours; but never knew where they came from. Do you know anything exactly?" "I know all about it," said he. And I had led him on so far that he began to tell me everything. It is again many years since then, but one never forgets such things, and now I will tell the story of Kickel. * * * * * "Isidor Kickel was the only son of a steward at the Schloss of Prince Schwarzenberg, in Muran. He had to study, and wanted to also, but suddenly dropped it all in his seventeenth year, just when he should have repeated his annual course. After that he tried an agricultural school, learnt forestry and became a forester. But he only got as far as being a forester's assistant or huntsman, and as this he was placed in the Imperial forests at Neuberg. He ought, perhaps, to have been a scholar, for there was something speculative in him, and he read many books in his spare time. He was much too much in books. He said such things oftentimes, and kept so away from church, that the people said: 'Huntsman Kickel has fallen away from the Christian faith.' That often happens to-day," commented my travelling companion. "At that time it was something novel. No one knew how he felt about it himself inside; the people said it could not feel quite right. Otherwise he was not a bad man. Once when he was in the church during a feast, he took money out of his purse and wanted to give it to the bell-pocket man, but the man passed by him as if to say, 'You monster, your money is too bad for me.' Whereupon Kickel gave the coins to a poor little old woman; they were not too bad for her, and the people laughed no end! Once a swallow flew into the church and could not get out again, because the windows have wire-netting and the door was at the far end. And no one could catch her, either. So Kickel went into the church every day and the sacristan thought he had been converted. Kickel, however, was only taking in bird's food so that the swallow should not starve. And as to conversion, there was nothing of that sort at all. In spite of everything, people liked him well, and nobody could accuse him of anything wrong. Then he married a schoolmaster's daughter from the Veitsch, and had seven children; and of these he lost six by death while they were quite little, three at one time, and his wife also through consumption. Only one single child remained to him, a boy called Oswald. One often sees that people who are unable to believe in a future life are all the more thirsty for life here, and for love too. It was just that way with Kickel. His love for this only child became an overwhelming passion, and all and everything which lay in his power that could make life lovely for the handsome, merry young Oswald, he gave him. He had him taught, and when he was twelve years old wanted to send him to an Institute in Vienna; but, on the other hand, Oswald wanted to stay among his home mountains, and the huntsman had to force himself to thrust him out. A few years later he secured him a clerkship in the State Forestry Office at Neuberg, and a few years after that there was a wedding. "Oswald's choice was a pretty daughter of a burgher of Mürzzuschlag. The love-story apparently was just like other love-stories, and went much the same road as they. Oswald became master-woodman in the Hochschlag, behind Mürzsteg, on the high Veitsch. After barely a year, naturally enough, the 'little lad' was there, and Oswald could say to his father, 'I can wish nothing better for myself, and only fear lest things should become worse!' So he must have been a much more contented man than his father, and no one ever heard how he stood with regard to religion. His wife," continued my lad, "has often told me since, that he laid his arm round her neck and said, 'God be praised and thanked that I have you!' So he must have believed _something_. And his father, Kickel, just revelled in joy because all went so well for his Oswald. "Huntsman Kickel lived in an old dismantled farm-house, in the only room which was still habitable. At that time he was suffering with a wound in his foot, which he had got by leaping from a rock, and for months he had been unable to go into the coverts. As Oswald on Sundays went up to his mountain-hut from the valley, his way led him past, and he spoke to his father to ask him how the sick leg was, and to bring him this thing or the other and to chat with him about his wife and his dear boy. He often brought the boy with him, too, and then Huntsman Kickel would throw his boxes and cupboards open and invite son and grandson to take with them anything that particularly pleased them. "'Take--just take them all,' he would always say; 'they're mere nothings. The little bit of pleasure in this world! I've had my share, and there's nothing beyond. And if things get worse--end it!' "Then that Sunday came. It was in August, and so hot in the morning that the young master-woodman Oswald begged a glass of water of his father on his way to church. "'When I come back after noon,' he said to his father, 'I will pay you for the well with St. John's blessing.' He meant by that he would bring wine with him. The old man answered that he ought to take it up to the little wife and the laddie. But they were in want of nothing; the little wife sang from dawn onwards like a lark, and little Anderl had laughed in his sleep as he, Oswald, before going out, had kissed him. "'Ah, you poor burdened fellow!' Huntsman Kickel said again, and clapped his son on the shoulder and then 'Good-bye till this afternoon.' "About midday a storm arose over the Hochschwab Mountain. It did not rain much, but the thunder crashed heavily several times. An hour later a woodman came down from the hill, who called into the open windows, 'Huntsman Kickel, look up if you want to see the smoke!' "'What's the matter? What are you shouting for?' asked Kickel, who was quite alone in the house. "'The mountain-hut is burning--the lightning struck it.' "'What do you say, woodman?' "'When the master-woodman comes home he will find nothing left. Everything has gone!' "'The wife? The child?' "'Everything's gone. If your son goes home, prepare him for it. I must go to Niederalpel.' "That was what the woodman said--and then he was off." I cannot repeat as my fellow-wayfarer told it; it went straight into my heart like a knife. But the young fellow remained unmoved, and went on telling: "No one knows what Huntsman Kickel thought of this message. At first he wanted to go up to the heights where the black smoke was making the whole heavens dark. But he was unable, because of the bad foot. 'His wife and his child! His wife and his child! His wife and his child!' The whole time just that. 'End it!' Kickel went into the parlour and stared out of the window. 'Now he's coming--and now he's coming.' He took the gun from the wall and stood in the middle of the parlour and looked out through the window to the path outside. At last he came, Oswald, out from the green wood; he did not look up, and still did not know anything about it, and came so quickly and gaily to the house where his father lived. And Huntsman Kickel aimed through the window and shot him down." "Jesus Christ!" I cried. "Had he gone mad?" "One cannot say that," answered the lad. "When his old housekeeper came home, he sent her at once for a cart, went to the police, and when examined he said he could not endure that his Oswald should have trouble and go on living, and he had thought to himself, 'He knows nothing, and needs to know nothing. That useless grieving for many a day and year is quite unnecessary. A quick death, and you are after them, you are set free from everything--and I, your father, can do you no better service than that.' He said, 'I did not aim badly; and now, your honours, please make an end of me.' I believe they gave him fifteen years, but when the Kaiser married in fifty-four they let him off the rest." I went thoughtfully along the woodland path, and said: "It's almost beyond belief." "It was best," continued my companion, "that they fetched him away at once and took him to Loeben. He couldn't have lived after knowing the worst of all." "What the woodman said--was it not true, then?" I asked it with my breath stopping. "Yes, the lightning had certainly struck the hill-hut and it was burnt down, but nothing had happened to Oswald's family." * * * * * It's awful to think of the fate of some men! We went on together for a while; neither said a word. At last I stood still and asked, "When did he learn it?" "When after nine years he had been free for half a year, and he came home and was always laughing in the air, then I told it him myself." "How did you say it to him?" "'Father Kickel, your daughter-in-law and your grandson Anderl are still alive, and all is well with them.'" "And what did he say to that?" "'So,' said he, 'they are still alive? And I had always dreamt that they were all dead, all! God, what tales the young people tell!' And then he laughed again." "Ah--mad then!" "It must have been so," said my companion. "For a while after that he tried to earn his bread as a farm-servant, but later on, as he couldn't succeed in that, he came on the parish. As a rule, one saw nothing amiss with him, but many a time one did--many a time one did." "You knew him quite well?" I asked the young fellow. "Well, naturally," was his answer; "he was my grandfather." XII How I Came to the Plough This is one of the very shortest, but also one of the most important chapters in my story. It takes me out of my first childish youth and my herding time, and brings me to the days of my young manhood and of work filled with conscious purpose. It needed many an artful trick before I managed to get promoted from cowherd to ploughman. I had to sprain my foot, so that I could not run after the cattle properly; I had to find birds' nests in the meadow, which inclined my younger brother to take over my herdsman's duties in my stead; lastly, I had to coax Markus the farm-hand, who had driven the plough till then, into declaring that it was an easy-going implement, as simple to handle as a pocket-knife, and that I--the callow lad--was fairly strong enough and fit to guide the plough. And I stood there and drew myself up until I reached at least as high as long Markus's shoulders, and I shook one of the fence-posts until it groaned--as a proof of my fitness for the plough. But my father laughed and said: "Get out, you're a little swaggerer! What you need is a good breeches-dusting given you every day. And now he's pretending to be grown up. Very well, take hold; it won't last long!" We were in the fields when he spoke. Markus stood back; and I took the plough by the horns. The plough in the neighbourhood of my home is different, certainly, from the bent bough of the savage, but it remains a clumsy, imperfect implement. The farmer puts it together himself out of birch-wood, fetching only the iron portions from the smith and the wheels from the cartwright. The chief parts of the plough are the coulter, or plough-iron, which cuts the turf vertically, and the share, which slices it horizontally, thus creating a grassy sod which has four sides to it, and is about a span wide and half a span thick. Then there is the mould-board, which lifts the cut sod out of the furrow and turns it over, so that the grassy side comes to lie at the bottom. Further portions, by means of which these chief parts are fastened to the body of the plough, are called the coulter-beam, the sill-beam, the "cat." All these appliances have to be in duplicate, as required by the progress up and down the hilly field, turn and turn about. In front is the beam, lying on the axle-tree, to which a pair of oxen are usually harnessed. At the back of the plough, three "horns" or tails stick out; these are the handles by which the plough is driven by a powerful man. It depends upon the driving of this ploughman whether the sod be made wide or narrow and the furrow deep or shallow; it is this man's duty to fix and lift the plough at the edge of the field; he must also be able, on stony ground, to pull the plough out of the way of any larger stone than usual, for the oxen cannot be brought suddenly to a standstill; and the plough, if left to itself, would soon go to wreck and ruin. Over and above this ploughman, the vehicle also needs a driver, who leads the oxen in such a way that one of the pair is always stepping in the furrow and the other on the sod. Then, lastly, there has to be a "follower." This is usually a girl, who comes after the plough with a hoe, presses down the sods that have not been well turned, cuts out faulty furrows, and, in short, acts as the corrector of the plough. You see that the thing is far from simple. It means a long day's work to dig an acre and a half of sloping land with one plough. Well, how did the young ploughman fare? I had taken the bull firmly by the horns. But it really was a bull. The apparatus had allowed Markus to handle it like a toy; it looked as though he only held on to the handles for fun. It was quite a different business with me. The cattle pulled. I was plunged to right and left by the handles; the plough tried to jump out of the rut; and my little bare feet got caught now and then under the clods. "He's too short in the buttocks!" I heard father and the labourer say, laughing. This speech roused me. My honour, my manhood were at stake. I no longer wanted to be the duffer who had to sit at the bottom corner of the table, who dared not put a word in edgewise, who, if he knew of anything that had happened, was free to go and talk it over with the sheep and calves outside. I had the most ambitious views; I wanted to be big and strong and independent, like the farm-labourer. And behold, the higher a man aims, the taller he grows! I drove the plough and cut a passable furrow. The earth-worms, disturbed by the plough, lifted their heads in surprise and looked up to see who was ploughing to-day! My father's fields had tough, yellowish-red earth, interwoven with grass-roots; and the sods formed an endless gut, and were hardly once in a way interrupted throughout the tract of land to be ploughed. I was glad of that, for it made the plough remain always evenly in position, and the furrow became more regular than any pond-digger's work. But my father was not so glad; he would rather have had black, soft sods: "Black earth, white bread!" says the proverb. When I was driving the plough across the field for the third time, I took a peep to see how high the sun stood in the sky. Alas, that clock had stopped! There were clouds in front of it. Suppose God should be angry and refuse to let it become noon to-day!... It seemed a long time before mother, when dinner was ready, appeared in the loft at the top of the house, as my grandmother had done before her, put two fingers to her mouth, and sent forth the shrill, peculiar whistle which I knew so well. I let go the handles and confessed that mother had never whistled so musically before. Then came dinner. I took good care not to wipe the earth from my hands, for even this crust gave me a certain air; I was no longer the duffer, I was the ploughman, I enjoyed equal rights with the labourers. I sat down beside the head man and did my best to talk in a weighty fashion. They spoke of my performance; then I was silent, for my performance spoke for itself. It is a small incident in one's youth, it is hardly big enough to be worth mentioning; but, for the farmer, it is a great and momentous day when he puts his hand to the plough for the first time--it is a sacred act. The sword, the Cross, are objects of respect; and I look upon the plough also as a symbol of the redemption of the world. The grey earth-dust which clung to my hands that time, and with which I went in to dinner--I have not wiped it off to this day--was to me what the golden pollen-dust is to the bee. And so I may be permitted to add that, in that same year, I tilled the whole of that field; that my father sowed the seed there with a pious hand; and that, next spring, the corn stood glad and green and glorious. "I haven't seen such a field of corn these ten years past," said my father, when he saw it. XIII The Recruit Never in my life shall I forget that February morning. It was only to be expected; and yet it took us by surprise. I was a little over twenty years of age. Though I already felt a regular young man and did my very best to act as such, still I always looked upon myself as a child, for I was ever so considered by my parents and to a certain extent so treated by my teacher. I had to stoop nowadays, when I entered the house through the door; and, when I stood by the table-corner in the parlour, my head reached up to the Holy Trinity on the wall, to espy whose mystery I had so often, as a boy, scrambled up chair and table. But people still always called me by my short pet name; and I still answered to it. And so, silently, that February morning came upon us. It was a Sunday. I had come back from a long job,[14] and meant to have a pleasant rest. When I awoke, my father was standing by the bed and said it was high time for me to get up, he wanted to speak to me. "Do you owe any money to Bürscher the innkeeper at Krieglach?" he asked, and waited anxiously for my answer. I asked him why he put such a question to me: what I had drunk at Bürscher's I had always paid for. "So I should have thought. It's only because Bürscher has sent me a paper to-day, which belongs to you, I'm thinking." He gave me the paper: it was grey; and I turned red. Father noticed this and said: "Seems to me there's some disgrace about it, for all that!" "Not a disgrace," said I, with my eyes fixed on the lines, which were part in print and part in writing. "An honour rather. _Present myself_, that's what I have to do." The paper ran: "MILITARY SUMMONS "Take note that you, Peter Rosegger, living at house No. 18 at Alpel, born in the year 1843, in the parish of Krieglach, are hereby called upon to fulfil your military obligations by presenting yourself for inspection, at 8 o'clock in the morning on the 14th of March, 1864, at the appointed place at Bruck, clean-washed and in clean linen, failing which you will be treated as a deserter and undergo the usual consequences prescribed by law. "KINDBERG, 15 February, 1864. "For the Town Council, "WESTREICHER, "_Chairman_. "Lot No. 67. Age-class I." By this time, my mother was there too. She could not believe it. Why, it wasn't so long since I was just a little bit of a chap! And now, all at once, a soldier! "He's not that yet," said father. "Give them time. And look at him. They won't send _him_ home in a hurry. Jesu, Mary! And the chest is spreading, too, now! That narrow little chest of yours was always my comfort. And to think that you have grown so broad all in a year!" I had jumped out of bed, but did not know how to defend myself against my disconsolate mother's reproaches. My father said to her: "Thank your stars that he's healthy. Do you want a cripple for a son? Would you rather have had that than a fine, well-set-up soldier?" "You're right, of course, Lenzel:[15] if only I could keep him with me, though. Sooner or later, he'll have to go to the front; and I simply can't bear to think of that." She wept. "Get back into bed again," said father to me. "You could have stayed in bed, if you'd wanted to." I didn't care about bed now. I was glowing in every limb. True, I had been secretly awaiting this summons, in fear and trembling; but, now that it had come, I had an ever so pleasant and cheerful feeling inside me. I was filled with joy and pride. The Emperor had sent for me! I rushed to the door; I could have shouted from house to house, from hill to hill: "I'm a recruit!" There were many weeks yet before the 14th of March. Mother wanted me not to go on any more jobs, but to stay at home so that she could have me with her for that short time. My master, indulgent as ever, yielded to her. She gave herself up to thinking and planning how to make this time, the last that I should spend with her, pleasant to me. She called to mind all my pet dishes. She asked the market-woman to get beetroot for her and dried cherries, two things which my palate specially relished at the time. She scattered more and more oats before the hens and tried to explain to them that they would be dispensed from duty the whole of next summer if only they would lay eggs now, at this great time; otherwise there would be nothing for it but to cut off their heads; for a soldier, if he got no eggs to eat, was not averse to roast fowls, however old and tough--they never saw such teeth as a young fellow had who was just going for a soldier! Dear mother-heart, once so warm and true, can it be possible that you are now but a cold bit of clay? How I yearn for you these days! How I pray that you will let me love you, as you once prayed to me! You are almost colder to me now than I was then to you. I never thought what endless loving-kindness and cheerfulness and self-sacrifice lay hidden in the little gifts and pleasures which you prepared for me! I took you, O my mother's heart, as a man takes the breath of the morning and the sunshine, without so much as a "Thank you"! So, at that time, with the conscription near at hand, I accepted my mother's tenderness rather casually and, instead of staying at home with her, went about the neighbourhood and forgathered with the lads who had received their summons like myself. True, there were some among them for whom I had but little fellow-feeling--I did not care much for the lads of my neighbourhood, our tastes lay too far asunder--but the common lot now united us, we consorted together, we drank together in the taverns; and, full of esprit de corps as I was, I behaved just as wildly as the rest. Everybody smoked; and it was no longer pipes, but cigars, to make people think that the Emperor already had sent army tobacco on ahead for his young recruits. Everybody strove to walk grand and straight and upright, though, as I presently found, this resulted rather in a sort of strut or swagger. Whether everybody had a sweetheart I can't quite say; but this much is certain, that everybody sang about his sweetheart. There are songs about the pretty and the ugly, the faithless and the deserted, the cold and the warm-hearted; songs for daily use and songs for special occasions. I joined boldly in every ditty, as though I owned girls of all sorts and descriptions. And yet, all the while, I was secretly afraid because of my recruiting-favour. Here let me explain that every lad who is called upon for conscription gets a many-coloured bunch of ribbons pinned to his hat by his sweetheart. The ribbons are mostly red and wave in the breeze--when their wearers bluster as they should--like flags. The rose or bud-shaped favours are generally cut out of coloured linen or paper and have the advantage of always keeping bright and fresh and not drooping, as real flowers do;--for a drooping air won't do for recruits. Only, there is just one green sprig of rosemary with it, forming the heart of the favour; and in this green spray the beloved talks to her lover, saying I know not what sweet and good things! So long as the beloved has to do with rosemary, it is the May-time of love. Now where was _I_ to get my favour from? A sweetheart! I knew of one, but I had none: I had never reflected how indispensable the sweetheart is to the recruit. Must I, while all the others marched away with fluttering top-knots, trot favourless behind? And what was the good of marching and what the good of going for a soldier, if I left no sobbing girl behind me? The day arrived. My mother made as if she were calm, at times even cheerful, but she had always red eyes. Once she went to my master and wept and was surprised that he did not cry too. But he only laughed and said that he did not see what there was to grieve about: Peter need not be afraid of soldiering; he would have a good time; he had learnt tailoring; he might even become a cutter in the army tailors' department; and then he could laugh at all of them. But my dear mother wouldn't hear about laughing, for the time being; she remained disconsolate: under the circumstances she felt better so. She got ready for me the finest linen she could lay hold of and marked each garment with a little cross; but nothing further was said about the recruiting, until the last moment, when I was starting and mother wished to go with me as far as Krieglach. "For God's sake, don't!" I cried; for how would it have gone off if I had marched with mother by my side and the lads in front of us with their wild songs and chaff! Pretty badly: such young devils are lads that there are times when the gentlest mother's son of them all blushes for his parents. "Nay, nay, mother," said father to her, "you can't go; you're no good at that; and they would only poke fun at the boy." My mother did not say another word. She did not even come as far as the front door with me, for fear of getting me laughed at by the passers-by. Inside, in the parlour, she dipped her finger in the holy-water stoup and made a cross with it over my face and then hurried into the next room, to let her tears flow freely. I felt just a queer sort of choking at the throat, but did not let it master me. And I won't warrant that, when, in the dark passage, I made a quick movement over my eyes, I did not at the same time wipe off the wet mark of the cross. We all met at Stocker's inn on the bridle-path. Everyone, as I expected, had his hat full of finery; my head alone was smooth as that of a poor little ram that has grown no horns yet and has just to be content with its long ears. Therefore I was still mortally unhappy at the first glass; at the second, however, I thought of the shako with the flaunting imperial eagle on it, which I was as certain of wearing as any of the rest. There were pretty fellows among them, but also wretched pigmies who needed their streaming ribbons to hide their humps, their goitres, and even--if I may be allowed a little exaggeration--their weedy spindle-shanks. Now where had _they_ got their sweethearts from, that they sported such fine favours? They all had their hats on; I alone had flung mine into a corner, to avoid the scorn with which, for that matter, they had already overwhelmed me. When we broke up at last and I was obliged to fish out my hat again, I could not find it. For in its place was another, with a splendid rosette and two ribbons, one red and the other white; and I now saw that it _was_ my hat which had been so gloriously favoured by an unknown hand. Perhaps I had a sweetheart after all! I reflected, but could hit upon none whom I thought capable of liking such a "Marry-me-not" as myself. Stocker, the innkeeper, had nice-looking daughters, but they were all married. His old wife was reported to have once been young herself, but the ribbons and that wonderful, dainty sprig of rosemary could not possibly date back to that period. And the old woman played no other part in the business than to whisper to me that someone had been past the house and secretly prigged a rosette for me. Anyway, I had it--that was the great thing--and it looked finer and grander than all the rest. Goodness, how I racked my brains under that favour! To the others, however, I behaved as if I knew right well from whom it came, and I even carried this plan to such a pitch that I myself began to fix on a definite person and believed and was soon convinced that it was she I loved. It's inconceivable how soon a certainty of this sort makes a man of one! I was now the liveliest of them all as we went along; and more than one of them said they never knew that Lenzel's son was such a devil of a fellow. Which made me feel not a trifle flattered. One of our numberless jokes was to "make the railway-train stop." We posted ourselves outside the station and, as the train came up, yelled and shouted: "Hi! Stop!" Then the train stopped and we laughed. But things did not always end so harmlessly. We were seated in the railway-carriage--the Krieglach Town Council had given us our fares, which, as we believed, were sent direct by the Emperor--when one of us, Zedel-Zenz, proposed that we should all examine our tufts of rosemary: he whose spray was beginning to fade had lain oftenest in his sweetheart's arms. And then it turned out that the green sprig in my hat was clinging a little wearily and languidly to the red linen flowers. This, of course, caused me a fresh inward alarm. Could this sprig of rosemary know more about her and more about me than I myself did? Had I really been favoured already? "Yes, that goes without saying!" I laughed, swaggering like anything. But instead of impressing the others, I only brought down ridicule upon myself. They spoke of rocking the cradle and drew all sorts of conclusions from the fading of the rosemary, until at last I protested angrily. What had it to do with them? I asked. If anybody had anything to complain of, let him come on! For it at once occurred to me, a real recruit must put up with nothing, must know how to be rude and raise a brawl in due season. And so I blustered away until I had blustered myself into a regular, genuine rage, stamping my feet, waving my arms and actually managing to shatter a window-pane. The guard at once appeared. Who had broken the glass? "Lenzel's son!" crowed one. "The tailor!" But the others shouted that it wasn't true and that we mustn't tell who had done it. "I want no hushing up from any of you!" I broke in. "I smashed the pane. What's the damage?" "We'll see to that at Bruck," answered the guard. "I'll speak to the captain; the army'll soon tame you, my lad!" "Now you've done it," thought I to myself; "now you're a soldier, Lenzel's son." And I became quite quiet, as if the wintry air, rushing in through the broken window, had cooled me to good purpose. At the station at Bruck there was no more said about that pane of glass; and, when we went shouting through the town, I slung my arms round the necks of my companions on either side of me and felt grateful to them for their willingness to screen the felon that I was. From the windows of the houses, the town misses looked down upon our mad doings; and we were convinced that they must all be in love with us and that, the more rudely we behaved and the more wildly the ribbons streamed from our hats, the more ardent their love must grow. We had a lurking suspicion that even a farmer's lad from the mountains, bawling with brag and arrogance and marching away as the champion of his country, may, when all is said, possess some little interest for the city dame. Now escorted by corporals, we marched back into the town by the other side and up to a building standing by itself. Then we went indoors. All of us were a little flurried; none knew in what condition he would leave this house again. And here, in the town, the soldier's life no longer looked so glorious as at home in the still woods. Most of us--even though we were not the most pious--sighed an "In God's name!" as we blundered up the steps. We went into a large hall which was almost like a barn and in which over a hundred young men were already gathered. There was a tremendous buzzing and pushing; and it was a very curious sight. Some, filled with the gaiety of despair, were jumping up and down on their stocking-feet or barefoot; others tied up their clothes and sat down on the bundles and were sad as death. Others again leant or stood against the walls, like carved saints, with the cold sweat on their foreheads. One might say even of the dwarfs and cripples that their hearts sank into their trousers, had they still had their trousers on! I walked round the hall, meaning well by everybody, but caring to talk to none. They were surprised that I could keep so indifferent; of the great excitement bubbling inside me I gave no sign. Suddenly the entrance-door was locked, which made one of us whisper: "Look, the trap's snapped to!" On the other hand, a door opposite opened; and a couple of soldiers--but these were full-blown soldiers--walked about among us and pushed one after the other into the inner room. I then saw some of the palest faces I ever beheld in my life. Most of them, however, strode quite bravely through the fateful gate. But we were numbered. To prevent unfairness in any given age-class, the order of the muster--for it is usually to the recruit's advantage to be one of the last--the order is always arranged, a few weeks beforehand, by lot, which every man liable to military service can draw in person or allow to be drawn by such persons as he pleases. My number had been drawn by the Krieglach Town Council; and it bore the favourable number of 67. Nearly half of the numbers up to 30 did not come back. A sergeant fetched their clothes. But those who did come back wore an all the gladder look, dressed themselves as quickly as they could, or, for fear lest the gentleman inside should repent of having let them go, bundled their clothes under their arms and slipped out through some hole or other. Numbers 51 to 65 all came back. Number 66 did not reappear. The sergeant came for his things. Then, at last, Number 67 was called. I walked with the utmost composure--rather too fast than too slow--into the lions' den. What was there so extraordinary? Three or four gentlemen in black coats, with shiny buttons, silver collars, clattering swords and warlike moustaches. The blades were smoking cigars. My first thought was, could they be bribed with a civil "Good morning"? But I had heard from the men before me that the gentlemen had not said so much as "Thank you" to this greeting. We were just "things." And who is going to exchange greetings with a _Number 67_? So I bit my teeth together and held my tongue and sported my most defiant air. I was at once put against an upright post. One of the officers, with a soft pressure of the hand, pushed my chest out and my knees in and said: "Sixty-four and a half!" Another seemed to write it down. "Chest sound. Muscles might be more developed." "Give him another year to run about in," said a third. "Go and dress yourself!" That was the whole proceeding. I hardly know how I got back to the front room. As I went out by the steps, the soldiers on duty stuck their bayonets in my way: that means a request to the lucky ones for a tip. It did not need the bayonets: everyone gives, for it is the moment when he is free to leave the fatal building, with its often harsh consequences, and return to his dear home. Those who are "kept" are mostly also allowed to go home once more and there await the muster-call; but they remain in custody on the day itself, until the gentlemen are finished with the inspection. Then they are drafted into the regiments and made to take the military oath; and then they are--soldiers. We waited for them in the Bruck taverns. They were received with loud shouts and cheered with wine and song; and, if many a "kept" one felt like falling in the dumps because his glad young life in the green mountains was over to-day and because he had to march away, perhaps to a foreign country, perhaps to the distant battle-field, and because he, who was as fond of life as another, had to risk his young blood, the hurrahs of his boon companions soon roused him to fresh tavern joys; and, at last, all began to feel as though this were but one long day, without an end to it, sinking into the night and the night into wine. But hours come and pass away; and so do drinking-bouts. The next day we separated; and to Krieglach-Alpel went what from Krieglach-Alpel came. Of our lot, two men had become soldiers: a bloodless, but very good-looking charcoal-burner's son; and a labourer. The labourer put on a jovial and almost wild air and tried to pick a quarrel with more than one stranger who greeted us in the street. The charcoal-burner's son was steeped in melancholy. We did not know what he was losing through a military life, nor he either: he just gazed at the great mountains and the glorious forest trees.... We others and the inns on the road took all the greater care to keep the mad recruiting-spirit alive. By the custom of our fathers, the rosette and ribbons are worn on the hat by the recruit who goes home a soldier and by no other. But we acted differently that day: we all kept our rosettes, so as to create a greater sensation and compel respect. "Look, look! Expect we'll be having war soon," said many a little peasant, "for they're keeping them all now, every man jack of them. It'll be true what the old folks say, that the women will fight for the chair on which a he once sat." Beyond the village of Fressnitz we came up with a beggar-man carrying a hurdy-gurdy on his back. One of us at once demanded the use of it; and, while a second led the old man like a bridle-horse, a third ground out on the beggar-man's back all the tunes which the organ contained; and we others danced and jumped about on the frozen road. In this array, we arrived at Krieglach, where we took our musical team to the tavern with us. The old man was in fine fettle and assured us that we were angels of recruits compared with those of his day. He had been one himself; and once they took a peasant who was sitting in a cart, letting his donkey pull him uphill, and harnessed him between the shafts and put the donkey in the cart instead; and they had done saucier things than that. He drank our healths and praised the days of old. There was lots of singing as we crossed the mountain by the bridle-path. I should be sorry to repeat the songs. We sang ourselves warm, we sang ourselves hoarse. On the upper ridge, a hawker, known as Egg Mary, met us, carrying to Mürzzuschlag her baskets filled with those little things of which the songs says: It's an oval fortress, Has no towers, no portress But lordly food inside. And the words came to my mouth: "Raw eggs are good for hoarseness!" "We'll make sure of that at once!" cried the others, took the woman's basket and sucked out all her eggs--the charcoal-burner's son with the rest of them--and I too. All that Egg Mary could get out in her wrath was: "You're a pack of scoundrels!" "Never mind," answered Zedel-Zenz. "We'll pay as soon as we have any money." Then she went back with an empty basket, grumbling and uttering her various views of us and our behaviour. We started singing again, and the eggs did their duty. At Stocker's inn we once more gave rein to our spirits. I did not fail to renew my inquiries about my benefactress with the ribbons and was firmly determined, if ever I came across the girl, to love her with all my heart and soul. The old hostess blinked significantly with her little grey eyes, but I got nothing more out of her. We lads parted outside the inn in the steadfast belief that, after these days spent in one another's company, we would remain the firmest of mutual friends. A farewell feast was ordered of the innkeeper for the day when the two who had been kept were to join the colours. When the spree was over, I felt a sinking inside, as I wended my way home. A laughing face looked out at me from every window. My father walked slowly up to me and knocked the hat off my head with his arm, so that the ribbons rustled against the frozen snow. For the moment I did not know what this meant; but my father did not leave me long in ignorance. "Is it all the same to you," he said, "that you come home with a blazing lie on your hat? As to _who_ gave you that besom, we'll talk about that later. All I ask you now is, how can you do a thing like that to your mother? I dare say you don't know--you blackguard young puppy you!--how her heart is torn with anxiety at the thought of losing a child. But that you could give her such a fright! I wouldn't have thought it of you! If Egg Mary hadn't happened to come and tell us that you had a lucky escape this time, you might have had a nice business to answer for, with that damned rosette of yours. And your mother so poorly this long while past and all!" I trembled in every limb. My recruiting giddiness was gone; I suddenly saw my whole baseness. My heart cried out for my mother. And that same Egg Mary, whom we--not to mince matters--had robbed on the high-road, had gone on ahead, in her good nature, to tell my people, to whom she owed many a little kindness, that they must not be frightened at the soldier's favour with which I should most likely come home, and that I had come out of it with luck. My mother's joyful, loving grip of my hand only deepened my contrition. But father was wagging the rosette under my nose: "And now, boy, perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me where you got those fine feathers from! Are you walking out with somebody, young as you are? That's what I want to know!" Many and sweet as were the thoughts of pretty girls that filled my mind, fond as I was of talking of it to fellows like myself, the thing looked very different in my father's presence. I assured him that I was walking out with nobody and that I did not know who had given me the favour. He laughed out loud and then flew at me angrily because of "the silly impudence of trying to make him believe a fib like that." My mother interposed and said that they could rejoice that I was home again, and that they must not begin by scolding me so hard. "Now you're backing him in his wickedness," he cried, "when he's lying straight in my face! But did you ever see such a booby as not to know from whom he got the ribbons in his hat?" "Now it's my turn to laugh," said my mother. "This time the boy really can't tell, for _I_ had the favour stuck in his hat on the sly, so that he might have a bit of colour about him, as good as the rest of them." She had done it secretly, because she suspected that her son was longing for a rosette from strange hands, and could easily have despised his mother's gift. She had prevented his ingratitude beforehand. And her home-coming son might have smitten her to the heart with that same rosette!... The murder was out; father said nothing; and I ... I also did my share of thinking.... That children must always be striving after strange and far-away joys, hungering for love and yearning for love, which they will never find so pure and rich and endless as at home, in that perennial spring of tenderness, their mother's heart! FOOTNOTES: [14] Peter Rosegger was at that time a travelling tailor's apprentice. [15] Lorenz, Lawrence. XIV A Forgotten Land I always say that the world is becoming too small. There is no room left for hermits. I frequently receive enquiries, from correspondents abroad, for cool summer resorts,--for nature resorts. Would I please--so runs the request--suggest a corner in the Alps where they will find clean rooms and good food in a farm-house kept by simple, kindly people. Added conditions: no railway, no telegraph, no post, no newspapers. A place where they can feel safe from meeting English people or people from Berlin and--forgive the imputation--Vienna. They want to have nothing but woods and fields around them, and, oblivious of all town luxuries and refinements, at least for a few weeks to bathe body and soul in the dew of a primitive life. This is the wish which--O curious sign of the times!--grows ever louder and louder. Is the return to nature, yearned for by the poets, at last beginning in earnest? If only the company-promoters do not seize upon this need and found a colony for hermits! It is not so easy to recover nature once wantonly deserted. Our alps contain no valley, however secluded, into which artificial wines and brandy and American meat-extracts and cigars have not by this time made their way, in which the fences are bare of railway timetables and mineral-water posters and upon which some _News of the Day_ or other does not force its huge weekly doses of "culture" and information. This is the case by now even in those districts whose "unfavourable" situation has hitherto for the most part spared them the two well-known "blessings" of civilisation. The floodgates are opened; and even those parts cannot be spared the deluge.... My forgotten land! He who would still bathe for a little in "the dew of a primitive life" may do so! I hasten to draw a fleeting picture of the land and its people before the floods of the world come and inundate it. The region is locally and colloquially known as Sanct-Jakobs-Land, or "the Jackelland." It lies in Styria, between the Mürzthal and the Wechsel mountain-chain. Its river is the clear-running Feistritz, rich in trout, with its countless tributaries. When one crosses the top of the watershed over the Wechsel, or the Pfaffen, or from the Mürzthal, everything at once wears a different look. The mountains are lower, the forests more scattered, because they are broken up on every hand by cornfields. The farms lie isolated in the fields, on the skirts of the forests, often very high in the mountains. In the valley are the bright green pastures, with running brooks and corn-mills. The air is calm and peaceful, disturbed by the whistle of no locomotive, the chimney of no factory. The old farm-houses are humbly built; and the kitchen, living-room, hen-house and so on often form but one general room. This makes the new sort of houses, which are springing up on every side, look all the grander, with their sundry apartments and numerous windows,--from which many a pretty, fair-haired face peeps out at us, for it is an event when a stranger comes that way. The farm premises are, for the most part, extensive, built of wood, straw-thatched and enclosed within a plank fence. Every farm has its open-air crucifix, often artistically carved, sometimes, I admit, adorned with a figure of Christ which faith alone can save from ridicule. On the spreading mountain-heights lie wide forests, such as Teufelstein, Fischbacherwald, Vorauerwald, Feistritzwald, Rabenwald. There are no work-houses, except the few on the Wechsel. For the rest, the region is well-populated and rich in compact villages and beautiful churches. The mountain-village of St. Jakob im Walde, which gives the Jakobsland its name, lies on a spur of the Wechsel, some four thousand feet above the level of the sea. The inhabitants do not call themselves Jacklers: they are only so-called by the people in the districts round about; for the name does not stand for anything very fine, though it has grown old in honour. They simply call themselves after their parishes: the Rattners, the St. Jakobers, the Miesenbachers and so on. Almost every village has its own peculiarity. The Kathreiner goes in for finery, the Rattner for disputes and litigation; the Wenigzeller is a great man for backbiting and quarrelling; the Fischbacher is a notorious brawler. The people are powerfully built and have tall and slender figures; they are mostly fair-haired. The men wear clothes of dark stuff, in the summer, and, in winter, the so-called _Wilfling_, a mixture of thread and sheep's wool; on workdays they tie on long blue aprons, a practice which prevails even among the schoolboys. The women favour a bunchy style of dress; and when one of them wants to look particularly smart (and this applies to many), she puts on three, or five, or more petticoats, one over the other. Many villages are already infected with the fashion of dress introduced from the Mürzthal. A peculiarity of the Jackler is his love for flax, which he cultivates in great quantities; and the hackling, in autumn, gives rise to regular popular festivals. _During the winter, both men and women occupy themselves in spinning, and do so until late at night, passing the time as they work in telling stories, asking and guessing conundrums, and singing._ Only there is no spinning after supper on Thursdays: from flax spun at such a time the weaver weaves shrouds. Their food is simple and consists mainly of milk, flour, pulse, potatoes and linseed-oil. The everyday beverage is new cider. In some places they grind dried pears, and from the flour thus produced, which is mixed into a pulp with milk, they make the so-called _Dalken_. Apples are also dried; and so are plums and cherries: these are all made into soup in the winter. The cattle are reared, fattened and sold; sheep or pigs are slaughtered for holiday needs. The fare is very rich on feast-days; and there is a tradition that, on Twelfth Night, nine different kinds of stews should be consumed in every house: formerly the Jacklers used to eat no fewer than three meals on that night, so that "Three Kings' Night"[16] is known as "Three Meal Night" to this day. The population, which reminds one, in its habits and customs, of the inhabitants of the Böhmerwald, is descended from Bajuvar stock and immigrated in the sixth and seventh centuries. It is German by origin and German by nature. Settled here for over a thousand years, the individual members of this race have become so rooted to the soil that they never leave it, and only with difficulty admit anything foreign to the land. The cell of the first German monk who began to convert the heathen is said to have stood in the desert where the little village of Mönichwald now stands. The mission was afterwards continued by the monasteries of Vorau and Pöllau. The living is in the possession of the population to this day; in many places, the parish-priest fills at the same time the offices of parish-councillor, guardian of the poor and district school-inspector. One can easily, therefore, picture the peace that reigns between church, school and municipality. Generally speaking, the clergy--in the absence of any defiant antagonism--are more liberal-minded here than in those outlying districts where they feel called upon to defend their compromised rule by the exercise of intolerance and severity. The Jackler is favourably distinguished in one particular from the agricultural population of some other parts: he is not neutral. In the surrounding districts the peasant is apt to be indifferent towards matters of religious practice and equally indifferent towards other ideals and spiritual things. The Jackler is not like that. Gorgeous festivals, which he loves to celebrate in his stately village-churches, festivals which remind one of the Tyrol in their splendour, their often dramatic form, their mediæval love of God and veneration of the saints, delight him, stimulate him, give sustenance and substance to his spiritual life. A priest who is not prepared to celebrate the anniversaries of the church's patrons with due pomp and ceremony and to invite half a dozen neighbouring priests to read Mass and preach (and he must provide them with a good dinner into the bargain) would soon find himself at loggerheads with his flock. The district is often visited by fanatical missionaries, who promptly arouse excitement for miles around. The parish-priest is not always filled with the friendliest feelings towards these hunters of souls, but he has to invite them for fear of offending his superiors. The costs of the mission are more than gladly covered by the parishioners. The Jackler is notable not only for his pious tendencies, but also for his business subtlety; and he will swindle his parish-priest over a deal in oxen, to-day, after being moved to tears by his sermon yesterday--and this without the least prejudice to his own religious sentiments. "If I can't cheat my best friend," says the Wenigzeller, "whom _can_ I cheat? My enemy doesn't trust me!" The so-called lesser "holidays," of which there are over thirty in the year, are also conscientiously kept: in the morning, by a sung Mass in church; in the afternoon, in the tavern or on the bowling-green. Many servants work on those days on their own account; and, if their employer needs their services, he must pay them a special wage. The Jackler is quick in his work and moderate and discreet in his pleasures. There are rich and poor in this region as in others, but not in the ordinary sense. The householder is "rich" who is not in debt in respect of his real or movable estate; "rich" is applied to the carrier who has saved a little silver, to a farm-girl who has flax and linen in her trunk and perhaps hides a savings-bank book beneath it, with the amount of her reaping pay. "Poor" are the debt-ridden cottager, the landlord whose property is mortgaged up to the hilt, the incompetent salter or pickler. No one is ruined by privation: people, it is true, are often harsh to the poor man, but they help him. Nearly everything that the peasant needs is produced by his industry; there is little ready-money in the district; but, for that reason, it has two or three times the value as compared with the prices ruling in the railway districts. "A thousand gulden!" That expresses their utmost conception of wealth. The occasional stranger who happens to have strayed into this region is surprised when he finds himself charged no more than eighty kreuzer for a good night's lodging and an excellent supper and breakfast. On the other hand, when a Jackler, for once in a way, travels on the railway, his wonder never ceases at the high fares which he is called upon to pay; and he considers that the shorter time the train takes to cover a distance, the less the charge should be. The inhabitants of the Feistritz district supply the Mürzthal with poultry, eggs and fruit at a very cheap rate; and the women who carry and deliver them earn barely twenty kreuzer a day. Wood and coal also find their way into that ravenous and industrious valley; and the Jackler artisans make their bit of money there. They have the making of good masons, carpenters, shoemakers, tailors, smiths, watchmakers, gunsmiths and so on. These workmen from the Jackelland are greatly appreciated in the Mürzthal and round about; they work hard, well and cheaply, and are not particular in the matter of board and lodging. Many maid-servants, who enter a farmer's service for a year at Christmas, do so for a trifling annual wage of fifteen or twenty gulden. On the other hand, they stipulate with their employers that, in summer, when there is hardly any pressing work to be done at home, they shall be allowed to follow their own business for a few weeks. The lasses then go reaping. In the month of June they wander away, with bundle and sickle, to the lowlands or the Mürzthal, where the corn is ripe early; and they find plenty of work and amaze everybody by their eager and indefatigable diligence. This done, they cheerfully come home again with their reaping wages and once more apply themselves briskly to the needs of field and garden. It is very seldom that one of them, lured by love or other worldly advantages, remains away; they like home best, where they form part, so to speak, of the family of their employer, with whom maid and man alike live on fraternal terms. A fine characteristic of this little land is the cohesion that reigns among neighbours. If one of them is visited with misfortune, the others stand by him fairly and squarely; do his urgent work for him, if he be ill; come to his aid with building materials, carpenters and masons, if fire or water have destroyed his house; send in food as well; and generally put the sorely-tried one on his legs once more. Again, in certain forms of labour, such as copse-cutting, flax-scutching, corn-mowing, they gladly work for the common cause--on this farm to-day, on that to-morrow--with the result that everything goes sociably and cheerfully. One for all and all for one! The young lads stick together for their particular objects. They form clubs--each district according to its own requirements--through which they mutually support one another in their feuds and love-adventures. They help and protect one another in "window-haunting" and "street-strolling," as the nocturnal love-walks are called; they humbug the father, when one of them is after the pretty daughter; they help to defeat the rivals; and, in addition, they play all sorts of practical jokes, which their brains are very quick at inventing. The youth of one parish will often hatch deliberate plots against that of another; and bloody fights take place on many a Sunday and holiday. Amorous relations between unengaged couples do not, as yet, occur to the same extent in the Jackelland as elsewhere; morals are stricter, opportunities fewer and frivolity less marked. Manners, upon the whole, are more serious and sober, a fact which is in no way detrimental to the pleasure of living, but, on the contrary, increases it and keeps it fresh and clean. The lover of a healthy and intelligent people must needs feel himself at home and stimulated in the Jackelland. When, on a Sunday, he sits among the peasants in the Tafés, or inns run by the church, he will not be bored; he will rather be soon inclined to join in the conversation. But the stranger--if he think for a moment that he is ruling the talk--must be on his guard lest he be made a butt of! They have at their command an exceedingly witty and subtle form of ridicule, which often is understood only by the natives themselves. Many a townsman who has tried to preach wisdom to the Jacklers has been delightfully hoaxed by them and ultimately laughed out of court. Place-hunting, party-hatred, pessimism and such-like flowers of our time have not yet blossomed in the Jackelland. The people there are people in whom hard bodily labour rouses no complaint, in whom pleasure is not marred by a subsequent reaction, people whose life, usually a long one, is spent peacefully, rich in great toils and small sins. Thanks to their moderation and contentment, they are free lords, who can easily make fun of others who have fettered themselves in the chains of worldly advancement. The only sinister inhabitants are the civil engineers, who for years have been exploring the length and breadth of the little land, in the hope of sooner or later turning the iron horse to graze in those green pastures. FOOTNOTE: [16] _Dreikönigsnacht_, the German name for Twelfth Night.--_Translator's Note._ XV The Schoolmaster It was getting dark; the autumn mists were sinking over the wooded mountains. The herdsman was trudging his way home to the tinkling bells of his cattle. For some time longer the farm-hand was heard beating the oat-stalks over a beam that lay on the threshing-floor, until the last grain was separated. The barn door closed at last; and the little houseful of people gathered in the parlour to eat their rye soup and potato mash. Then they betook themselves to their straw beds. The children were soon asleep. A rushlight burnt in the room, and the farmer's wife kept putting it straight on its spike. Peter wound up the smoke-browned clock on the wall. Just as husband and wife were about to get into bed, the watch-dog in the yard began to bark. There came a light tapping at the window-pane. "Who's that?" cried the farmer. And his wife added crossly: "There's no peace for us to-day!" "It's someone begging for a night's shelter," said a hoarse voice outside. "I expect it's a poor man," said the farmer's wife. "That's quite a different thing. Go and unbolt the door, Peter." Soon after a man stumbled into the room, weary and bent, grasping a long stick in his right hand and carrying a little bundle in his left. A wide-brimmed, discoloured, crushed felt hat was on his head, and under the brim hung snow-white strands of hair. Peter took the rush in his hand and threw a light upon the stranger's face. Then he exclaimed: "Heavens! It can't be possible----! Why, it's the schoolmaster of Rattenstein!" "Aye, aye, my dear Heath--Peter," said the old man, recovering his breath, "that's so. With your permission, I will sit down at once." The farmer's wife pulled on her dress again and hurried into the kitchen to warm some soup; then she called back into the parlour: "Go and light a candle, Peter. The rush won't burn properly, and the smoke makes one's eyes fairly smart." Then, when a tallow candle was burning on the table and the old man had wiped the sweat from his careworn face, Heath Peter almost shyly offered him his hand and said: "Well, how do you come wandering into the Wilderness like this, Schoolmaster?" "It had to be," replied the old man. "It's a case, with me, of 'Forsaken and beat, like the stones in the street.' I just turned up a footpath and went on over hill and dale as the Lord willed. And so, in the end, I came to you people in the Wilderness." "And, if I may ask, where do you mean to go, Schoolmaster?" The old man made no reply. His head sank down upon his chest. His fingers clutched at his blue handkerchief; but, before he could raise it with trembling hand to his face, he burst into heavy sobs. "Lord Jesus! Schoolmaster!" cried Peter, springing to support him, for the old man threatened to collapse. "Never would I have thought," he sobbed at last, "that such an hour as this would come to me in my old days. God above, Thou knowest, that I have not deserved it!" "There must have been some great misfortune," the farmer said. "But Schoolmaster must not take it too much to heart. And if there is anything I can do he must let me know." "God bless you, Heath Peter! You are a good soul, and I've known you this many a long day: why, it must be nigh on five-and-thirty years. It was I pushed back your little bonnet when the priest christened you. Ah me, if the same priest were only still alive! He was a good man, indeed, and would not have discharged me like a day-labourer at the end of his day's work, no, not though I _did_ ring ten bells for Louis the herdsman. True, I'm old now, and can't look after the school as I used to. Also I can't get accustomed to the new church government. You know how the new provisor called me a prophet of Beelzebub? I knew that I had done nothing wrong, for all that, and went on holding my extra classes. Lastly, you also must have heard that poor crazy Louis the herdsman took his own life lately. The provisor refused to have the passing-bell tolled for the poor wretch; and then the dead man's mother came to me--for I am sacristan as well--and begged me, for God's sake, to toll the bell for her son. Louis had always been an upright man; the old woman had all her life long thought the world of a Christian burial-bell; and my soul was filled with pity for her when she cried so bitterly. Then thought I to myself, 'The provisor has gone to see a colleague at Grosshöfen, so I will take it upon myself and, as she asks me to do it for God's sake, I will ring the bells: surely it's the best consolation we can offer the poor woman in her distress.' Louis was buried in the ditch where they found him; and, when the bells rang out, the mother ran to the grave and said an Our Father for his soul. The provisor did not hear the bells nor the prayer, and he didn't feel the sorrow nor the joy of that mother's heart either; but folks' tongues told him all about the bell-ringing. Yesterday, as I was helping him on with his chasuble, he gave me a smile, and I thought, 'Aye, the provisor is a good enough gentleman, after all; and I shall get on with him well enough!' Thereupon I went off to collect my corn dues from the farmers. (The people are well disposed toward me, and look after me finely: I did not have to buy a single slice of bread for myself all last winter!) It's a couple of hard days' work for one like me; but that's nothing--who wouldn't willingly cart away a heap of stones if he knew there was a treasure underneath? It had begun to grow dusk when I reached the village with my last load. Then, as I stood outside my door and was taking the key from my pocket and looking forward to my rest, I said to myself, 'Goodness, what's that? Who's been having a game with me?' The lock was sealed up. I put down my load to have a closer look at the thing. Yes, Peter, I was quite right, the school-house was sealed against me with the parish seal. 'Well,' I thought to myself, 'this _is_ a pretty business!' I threw down my carrier and ran to the presbytery, which is now also the municipal offices. I called out for the provisor. 'Not at home,' cries the housekeeper, tells me to look under the stone-heap if I have lost anything, and slams the door in my face. Then the blood rushed to my heart." The old man was nearly choking, and the words came half stifled from his throat. "But I did not remain standing outside the presbytery door, and I did not knock either. I ran down to the stone-heap, and there I found my Sunday washing, my black coat, and my fiddle. And in between the strings was a little tiny bit of paper. Well, here it is; you can read it, Heath Peter." "So I would, and gladly," said Heath Peter civilly, "but there's just this about it, that I don't know one letter from another." "Well, well, in that case reading would certainly be a miracle," said the schoolmaster. "However, sometimes it's better not to know how to read. Here's what the note says to the old man that I am: 'We sincerely regret to have to make the following communication to you in the name of the honourable Consistory and of the local parish. Whereas you, Michel Bieder, school teacher in the aforesaid parish, have repeatedly, in the instruction of the youth entrusted to your care, acted contrary to the regulations, and whereas, but recently, you took it upon yourself, in an unprecedented manner, on your own responsibility, to perform an ecclesiastical function, and this, moreover, in favour of a suicide, so now take note and be it known to you that we have relieved you of your post. Given at the presbytery at Rattenstein.'" The old man ceased. Peter snuffed the candle in great perplexity, and then said: "Yes, Mr. Schoolmaster, you might have known that it does not do to toll everyone promiscuous-like into the grave. That much would have occurred even to me, Heath Peter." "And so there I sat upon the stone-heap, and I wanted nothing to make me a complete beggar but a stick and wallet. The stars were out by this time, and an owl hooting in the forest was hooting at me it seemed. Then I did not know what to do. There I was cast out, a poor old man, that had buried a parish and christened one. So I lay down upon the stone-heap and my white hairs were wet with dew. And the church clock ticked just like a bird pecking the naked grains in a field in autumn, that clock ticked away second after second from the little bit left of my life. 'Tick on, tick on, you honest pendulum,' thought I. 'It's late.' And then, suddenly, I wondered, 'Who will ring the vesper-bell to-night?' I darted up and on, over the mound, to the church, and into the belfry, took hold of the ropes, and rang all the bells at once. And that was my farewell to my dear church and to the congregation. I should have liked to wake the dead in their graves and tell them all about my unfair treatment. But they slept on in peace, while I rang in my beggarhood. Then I cut myself a stick from the bushes by the churchyard walls and went on and on. Oh, I can walk right enough still! It took me barely three hours here to the Wilderness." The old man bent his head and held his hand before his eyes. "What nonsense!" said the farmer's wife, who had been standing some time by the table with the soup-plate in her hand. "And you are going up to the wilds next, Schoolmaster?" "Must I go to the wilds?" cried the old schoolmaster. "God! what should I do in that stony place?" He hid his face again. "'It's a proper cross, and no Lord upon it,' says the old proverb. And the old proverb's right," said the wife. "Only eat your soup now, in Heaven's name, Schoolmaster, and get some warmth into your poor body. God will put things straight; don't let that fret you. I say, Peter, come into the kitchen for a minute; I want you to shut the chimney-slide; I can't quite manage it." But it was nothing to do with the chimney-slide, really. When the pair were in the kitchen the wife said: "You must see, Peter, that we can't let the schoolmaster go like this. I went to him for schooling, and he taught me to use my Prayer Book. As long as I live I should never relish a morsel of bread again if I had to say to myself, 'Your old teacher's had to go a-begging!'--What would you say to having the top room fitted up for him? He could cut the rushes for us in the winter; and he could look after the children in the summer, when we were out in the fields; and he could teach them a bit too. You see, it would be just as well if they knew how to read a little, and the boy would love it so and writing too; and I shan't rest content till he can write his name." "There's no need for that, Klara," answered Peter. "Who is there in the Wilderness that knows how to write his name? Not a soul. Besides, working men's hands are too rough for that kind of thing; and, if it comes to a pinch, we can always make our cross." Whereupon his wife: "After that, I don't wonder that we have so many crosses to bear in the Wilderness! But I don't hold with it, and I think that with the schoolmaster's help we might rise a bit." "You're looking at only one side of the question. You know quite well that we only grow enough corn to make a bushel and a half, and that we have no milk and no bacon in the winter; you know that we have no meat in the larder, that we have no proper bedding, and that we are poor all round, in every nook and corner. And now you want to take the schoolmaster in as well! There can't be any question of it, good wife." And she: "Well, if you're beginning to grieve about the bit of bread and the morsel of bacon which the schoolmaster would eat, I'll save it out of my own mouth, and lie on the bare straw, in Heaven's name, and think it an honour if I can have the old teacher under my roof." And he: "Yes; and by the time you've done you'll sew a beggar's sack for him and one for me and one for yourself, and we'll fasten the children on to each other's backs." "Because you have no trust in the Lord!" answered the farmer's wife, a little nettled. "My mother always used to say, 'Every good action done on earth is engraved by the angels in heaven on God's golden throne.' But I am beginning to think that you can't want to see _your_ name there." "Who _has_ nothing can _give_ nothing," said Peter resignedly. "How can it help a beggar-man if I offer him an empty hand?" "Well, he can take hold of it and have a support." "Go on! One _must_ look to one's own children first and not to strangers. And, lastly, we should most likely get into trouble with the priest; and how would that suit you?" "You're a regular old silly, that's what you are!" cried the wife, and banged a saucepan on the stove till it rang again. "It wants a special grace of God to argue with you. How glad you would be if one day your guardian angel came and said to God, 'Here is Heath Peter, who was good to the poor; and he also took the unfortunate schoolmaster of Rattenstein into his house and looked after him and cared for him in his old age, but he did it for love of Thee, O God our Father, and therefore do Thou mercifully forgive him, if he had other faults, and lead him into Thy heaven, and his children with him and his wife as well!' Wouldn't you be glad, Peter, if that ever happened?" Peter had been scratching his head a little, and, at last, he answered in a softer voice: "You're shouting so loud you'll wake the children, and the schoolmaster himself will hear.--You can keep him for all that I care; I say no more." There was not much to be done with Peter with arguments based on worldly logic; you could say white or black, but he invariably followed his own nose. But his wife knew him inside and out, as well as she knew her own nightcap; she took a higher standpoint, and when, in her clever way of talking, she held up heaven and God before him, he came kneeling, as people say, to the cross--to the matrimonial cross. When the couple returned to the parlour Klara said: "One would think that chimney-slide wasn't meant to be reached; one has to stand on tip-toe to get at it. Well, don't you like your soup, Schoolmaster? I did my best to make it good, and I put plenty of caraway seeds in it, against the cramp. Ah! and now there's something else to discuss. I don't know what's come into my Peter's head, but he wants to keep you in the house, here and now, Schoolmaster, so that you can teach our children a bit of reading! What I said was, 'Schoolmaster won't stay with us. A man like that,' said I, 'has something better to do. Even if we were to fit up the top room for him and wait upon him as an honoured guest, he wouldn't stay with us.--And then we can't give him any school fees,' I said, 'and only such poor fare as we have ourselves.--If that's enough for him, I shall be delighted if he will stay.'" The old man rose from his seat and, in a voice of deep emotion, said: "Oh, you dear, good people! As you yourselves were the first to suggest it, I now venture to implore you. I have nowhere to go, and I hardly dare risk myself in the wilds. Only give me a roof over my head and a spoonful of soup for a few days and I will go back again to Rattenstein and start my entreaties. The people will take pity on me; and surely the parish provisor will not be stony-hearted." "I wouldn't throw myself on his mercy exactly, that I wouldn't," said the farmer's wife. "And Heath Peter here was thinking that it would be all right, and that you had better make the house on the heath your home, Schoolmaster, as long as the Lord does not order things differently." Then little Gabriel suddenly called out something in his sleep. "There, the child's got the nightmare!" said Klara. And she went to the little bed and, with her thumb, made the sign of the cross on the boy's forehead. Peter fixed up a bed in the barn for his guest to sleep in that night; and soon all was dark and silent in the house on the heath. XVI The Stag on the Wall[17] Heidepeter's[18] house was the very last in the Wilderness. It stood on the heath where the forests began, lying very high on a piece of almost level ground. The grey stones showed through the grass in many places before the house. Upon the heath lay numberless rocks patched and traceried with moss. Here and there on the sandy ground between the rocks stood a silver-birch tree whose leaves were for ever whispering and trembling, until in late autumn they were blown away and lost over the moor. This moorland house bore upon the king-post of the big living-room the date 1744; it was the first house ever built in the Wilderness. Peter's forefathers must have been well-to-do, for they possessed much forest and were cattle-breeders as well. The trees had all been cut down and had grown up again, but now Count Frohn--who possessed a fine castle, the Frohnburg, on the other side of the hill, and, neighbouring the heath, a great deal of forest and its hunting, and hitherto a feudal right to the peasants' service--was gradually possessing himself of the squatters' forest as well; so that it had now come to this--that without his permission no tree might be felled nor branch broken. The poor outlying folk of the Wilderness were neglected by all the authorities and courts of justice--indeed, almost forgotten. So they clung to their grain-growing--to the scanty husbandry possible to the place. To the moorland house was now left only the steep fields sloping down to the ravine, and a narrow strip of meadow. Everything else, such as rights of wood and pasture, was heavily burdened with taxation and feudal duty. On the weather-stained wooden wall of the house, facing north, and beneath the deep, overhanging roof, was the figure of an animal, carved out of wood. Any stranger, when now and again such a one passed by the house on his wanderings among the mountains, came to a halt before this thing and gazed at it. Pedlars with their packs, Carniolas with sieves and all manner of wooden wares, glass-cutters, old-clothes men, who were always glad to go about the Wilderness in summer-time, would prop their back burdens against their sticks and have a good look at the figure before they entered the house. Even the beggars did the same, with a benevolent expression on their faces, as if admiring the man who had carved it. But as to what the object represented opinions were very various. One said it was a cow, another a donkey, another a chamois; some, however, said it must be a stag. This last supposition was well founded. From the creature's head protruded two little bits of wood, notched saw-like on top, which just conceivably stood for the antlers. Heidepeter was very decided about the matter: the animal really was a stag. All sorts of sayings and proverbs about the stag had become bound up with the household life inside the walls. When Peter said to his little son Gabriel, "Laddie, we must hunt the red stag to-morrow!" he meant nothing else than that the child must get up at sunrise next morning. The stag was always glowing red at that hour. When the wind blew from the north the figure beat its feet upon the wall, and the people inside would say, "The stag is knocking again; there'll be a change in the weather." Through one whole summer Gabriel had been watching how two sparrows built their nest between the wooden antlers. (At that time a new bird's nest was the greatest joy on earth to Gabriel.) He could no longer resist the temptation, leant a ladder against the wall, and was going to climb up. Then, by chance, his father came along, and he, usually so mild, gave the boy quite unmistakably to understand that he must, once and for all, leave the stag in peace. About this carved figure there clung a curious memory for Heidepeter. While still in the early days of his married life there came some bad years, and there in the Wilderness nothing would grow or ripen save turnips and cabbage. Rye and oats started hopefully enough in the spring, greening and gathering strength for an output of ears. Then, in the heart of summer, came rain and cold, and the mists hung about the hills for weeks. The corn grew pale and stooped, as if it would rather creep back into the sheltering soil. There followed a few weeks of sunshine after that, but before even the grain could mature the snow had fallen. And so it happened several years running. The people lost heart and hardly cared to sow in the following spring, or had no seed to sow with. And Peter's grain-chest became empty, and he was unable to lend his neighbours seed, as he used to; indeed, he was barely able to provide for his own household. But he was not discouraged, for he had a young, careful, industrious wife in the house--a happy state of things which will always render bad years more bearable. His wife had proposed that they should grow more turnips than usual, and a big plot of cabbages, to make up to some extent for the lack of grain. Peter followed her counsel, and by June new beautiful seedlings were set out. In July down came the rain and mist on the Wilderness again, but the garden stuff went on slowly, steadily growing. During the raw days Clara stayed a good deal within doors, because Peter, mindful of her condition, would not have her out in the cold. But one day he came to her room, saying: "I don't know what it means, Clara; there must have been some animal about--a whole row of the best cabbages has been eaten." The farm-hand said he had that morning seen a stag running from the kitchen-garden towards the forest. Heidepeter set to work and heightened the wooden paling round the garden. When, very soon after, he saw Count Frohn crossing the field with his gun and gilded powder-horn and proudly curving cock's feather, he called to him, "Your honour, I humbly beg pardon--but there's a stag that's always coming out of the forest, and he'll eat up all our cabbages." "Indeed?" answered the huntsman, laughing, and whistled to his dogs and went on. A night or two later the beast came again and ate a whole row of cabbages. And so the next time Peter met the Count he said, for the second time, and with his hat under his arm, "I hope your honour won't be angry with me--but I've no help for it, save this. There's been so many bad seasons, and we've hardly anything left to eat. Please rid us of that stag, for he's eating up our food-stuff, leaf and root and all." "Aha!" remarked the Count facetiously. "You'd prefer eating the stag with your cabbages to that, wouldn't you, eh?" He whistled to his dog and went on. Quite downhearted, Peter went home, sat down on the bench, and for some time did not say anything. Suddenly he struck his fist upon the table and sprang up. Before he went out again, however, he went to his wife and said quietly: "Clara, I'm the sort of man that people can twist round their finger--they call me a milksop; but it may be I'm going to pick a quarrel for once. Don't you take on about it. I thought it'd never have to come to this, but now I see quite plain that it must." Then he went out and made the garden fence higher still, and plaited thorns in and out, and chained the house-dog at the corner of the garden. But the stag still came and ate the cabbages. Then Heidepeter got up, and took the road under his feet, and climbed over the steep slope until he came to Castle Frohnburg on the other side of the mountain. There a great shooting party were assembled, noblemen and gentlemen, and all drinking out of foaming beakers "Good luck to the sportsman!" Peter strode through the midst of them and right up to his master. He seemed like another man than himself to-day. "I must defend my bread, sir," he said in a stifled voice; "but so that I mayn't do any wrong, I've come all this way to tell you I'm going to shoot the stag." Then the Count roared with laughter and called out: "You little fool! why do you put yourself to the trouble?" He whistled for his two bulldogs. Heidepeter said never another word, but went away. And that night he shot the stag. Early next morning the huntsmen came to his house and clapped irons on his hands. He suffered this quietly, and said to his inconsolable wife: "Don't you take on about it--don't you take on. The Lord will come and do justice yet!" And so Peter was taken away and thrown into prison as a poacher. Week after week he sat there. He was thinking neither about his cabbages, nor the stag, nor the Count, but only about his wife. "Perhaps her hour will come to-morrow, perhaps even to-day, and thy wife is giving thee thy first-born. She is holding him out to thee, but thou dost not hold out thy arms to take him! Or there may be some difficulty about the sponsors, and thou art not by her side to help her in her great need; and when thou returnest to thy house thou wilt find a mother without her child, or an orphan--or perhaps neither mother nor child"---- In his anguish he could have dashed his head against the wall, but he remained quiet, only constantly murmuring to himself as he stared at the brick floor: "The life of a man is a wheel. To-day I'm down and you're up; to-morrow it's the other way about. Yes, Count Frohn, round and rolling--that's how God has made this world!" At last, when his time was up, Heidepeter was set free. He hurried to his home, and found his wife and child both doing well. The very next day he went into his workshop and planed and carved a stag out of some boards. And this he nailed to the weather-stained grey wooden wall of his house in everlasting remembrance. The dwellers of the Wilderness had by now come to respect the determined Heidepeter, because he had been brave enough to tackle the old devil--as they called the Count under their breath; they had never expected this of the good-natured man. It was, however, the first and last time it happened: Peter saw there was nothing to be gained that way, and the burden of years and oppression took the heart out of him. He came to the conclusion this world is a valley of sorrow, and who can better it? The reasonablest thing is to endure. He no longer opposed himself to the Count; indeed, he used to say it was better to suffer wrong than do wrong. And he went on in his own quiet way, and the people, because of his gentle, submissive bearing, called him a milksop.[19] FOOTNOTES: [17] This is a chapter out of Rosegger's _Heidepeter's Gabriel_: a book which is largely autobiographical--Heidepeter being undoubtedly the author's father--and which gives a picture of the small peasant community in a poor mountain district called, from its bare and lonely character, the Wilderness. [18] Heide-Peter means literally Moor-Peter, or Peter of the Moor. [19] _Dalkerd_: a South German word, evidently meaning milksop. XVII Forest-Lily in the Snow (A chapter from _The Forest Schoolmaster_) A load is off our hearts. The storm has fallen. A soft wind came and gently relieved the trees of their burdens. There were a few mild days; then the snow settled and we can now go where we will with snow-shoes. Nevertheless, something has happened lately over in the Karwässer. Berthold, whose family increases from year to year, and from year to year has less to eat--Berthold has turned poacher. A wood-cutter is a better hand at this than any of us, who remain faint-hearted humbugs all our lives long.--Poor people need not marry, says the wood-cutter. Well, according to custom and practice, they have not married, but they have kneeled before me in the forest ... and ... and now they are all starving together. So Berthold has turned poacher. Wood-cutting brings in far too little for a roomful of children. I send them all the food I can, but it is not enough. He must have good, strong soup for the ailing wife and a piece of meat for the children; so he shoots the roe that comes his way. To this, then, has passion brought him, until Berthold, who once, as a herd, was such a good and jolly fellow, has, through poverty, pride, and the love of his own, grown into a pretty criminal. I have once already pleaded with the gamekeeper for God's sake to be a little, just a little lenient with the poor husband and father: he was sure to mend his ways, I said, and I would go bail for him. Up to the present he has not mended his ways; but the events of these wild winter days have made him weep aloud, for he loves his Lily-of-the-Forest above everything. It happened on a murky winter evening. The little windows are walled up with moss; outside new flakes are falling on the old snow. Berthold is sitting up with the children and with his sick Aga, only waiting until the eldest girl, Lily, comes back with the milk which she has gone to beg of a neighbouring hermit on the Hinterkar. For the goats at home have been killed and eaten; and, if only Lily would return, Berthold means to go into the forest with his gun. For the roe cannot be far to seek in this weather. But it grows dark and Lily does not return. The snow falls thicker and heavier, night draws in and Lily does not come. The children by now are crying for their milk; the father is eager to be after his game; the mother sits up in bed: "Lily!" she calls. "Wherever are you, child, trotting about in that pitch-dark forest? Come home!" How can the sick woman's weak voice reach the wanderer through the fierce snowstorm? As the night grows darker and stormier, Berthold's craving to go poaching grows deeper, while his fears for his Lily-of-the-Forest rise higher and higher. She is a frail little twelve-year-old girl. True, she knows the precipices and the wooded mountain-paths; but the paths are hidden by the snow and the precipices by the darkness. At last, the man leaves his house to go in search of his child. For hours he roams and shouts through the storm-swept wilderness; the wind fills his eyes and mouth with snow; he has to put forth all his strength to get back to his hut. And now two days pass. The snow keeps on falling; Berthold's hut is almost snowed in. They do their noisy best to console themselves: Lily is sure to be at the hermit's. This hope is destroyed on the third day, when Berthold, after struggling for hours over the snow-clad landscape, succeeds in reaching the hermitage. True, Lily was at the hermit's three days ago, but left early on her way home with the milk-pot. "Then my Lily-of-the-Forest lies buried in the snow," says Berthold. Whereupon he goes to other wood-cutters and begs, as no one has ever seen this man beg before, that they will come and help him look for his dead child. They find Lily-of-the-Forest on the evening of the same day. Down a lonely forest-glen, in a dark and tangled thicket of young pines and larches, through which no snowflake can make its way and upon which the loads of snow lie heaped and arched till the young branches groan again, in this thicket Forest-Lily is found sitting on the ground, on the dry pine-needles, amid a family of six roe-deer. It is a very wonderful story. The child, returning home, lost her way in the forest-glen; and, as she was no longer able to cope with the masses of snow, she crept into the dry thicket to rest. She did not long remain alone. Hardly had her eyes begun to close, when a herd of deer, old and young together, came up to her and sniffed at the little girl and looked at her with gentle eyes of pity and understanding, and were not the least afraid of this human thing, but stayed and lay down and gnawed the little trees and licked one another and were quite tame: the thicket was their winter home. The next day everything was muffled up in snow. Forest-Lily sat in the dark, which was only tempered by a faint twilight, and refreshed herself with the milk which she was taking to her people, and nestled up against the kind animals so as not to become quite numb with cold. Thus passed the grim hours while she was lost. And, when Lily-of-the-Forest had already laid her down to die and, with her simple fancy, asked the animals to stay with her faithfully in her last dying hour, suddenly the roe-deer began to snuffle very strangely, and lifted their heads, and pricked up their ears, and broke through the thicket with wild bounds, and darted away with shrill cries. And now the men work their way through the snow and underwood and see the little maiden and hurrah for joy; and old Rüpel, who is among them, shouts: "Didn't I tell you to come and look in here with me,--that perhaps she was with the deer?" And so it was; and when Berthold heard that the beasts of the forest had saved his child from being frozen to death, he yelled like a madman: "Never again! As long as I live, never again!" And he took the rifle with which for many years he had killed the beasts of the forest and smashed it on a stone. I saw it myself; for I and the parish priest were in the Karwässer to help look for Lily-of-the-Forest. This Lily-of-the-Forest is almost as soft and white as snow and has the eyes of a roe-deer in her little head. XVIII The Sacred Cornfield (_The translation of a chapter from "Jakob der Letzte," in which tragic story Rosegger tells how a rich man comes to a poor upland community, and gradually bribes and tricks all the peasants except Jacob--who after a dignified and then desperate effort to save the place, breaks his heart and goes mad--to part with their homes and holdings to him for deer-forest._) Again and again Jacob sought refuge in his work. It was a good thing for him that it was pressing, and left little time for his heartache. The field must be tilled, the garden manured, and the meadows watered. In the early part of the year the melted snow rushes wildly down, often tearing up the earth as it goes; then comes the hot sunshine on the slopes: so that to-day there is too much moisture and to-morrow too little. Hardly had the first blades sprouted when the cattle were driven to the higher pastures, for the winter's supply of fodder was nearly all devoured before the spring gave its new green. Living through the winter on moss and brushwood, the beasts were in such poor condition when at last they came out into the open that they could hardly climb the slopes, and many a one would slip and break a leg. And yet there was a new motto in Altenmoos: up with cattle-breeding and down with agriculture! Jacob could not make up his mind to alter his method of farming: he loved his fields, all his heart was in them, and their tending was a ritual to him. When, as sower, he trod the long furrows, casting the seed abroad in the earth, it was in an earnest, almost solemn manner, as if he were about some sacred business; and then before his eyes the miracle of the divine love began to fulfil itself. This man, with all his anxiety, his hope, his silent grief, knew nothing better than to watch the resurrection of the buried grain. In the peaceful time, after his working day was over and he sat alone, utterly alone on his stone-heap, he would give himself up to blessed contemplation. Before him the brown fields stretch away, the larks blow trumpets, and in tender, reddish blades the dead arise and look up to heaven. Then gradually everything begins to grow green, the tiny leaves curl and bend earthwards again as if they are listening for any good counsels about life that the Mother may have to give them. Then they aspire upwards, rolling themselves into sheaths, out of which, little by little, emerges the stalk and the inmost being of the corn. By the time Ascension Day is there the corn is looking skywards even in the mountain districts, as if gazing in loving gratitude after Him who called it to life, and who will come again to waken the human seeds that are sown in all the churchyards. In the young summer breeze the cornfield ripples like a blue-green lake, with the cloud-shadows gliding graciously over it. And the single blade is now in its full glory. The four-sided ear, in which the still tender grains lie scale-like over each other, hangs its blossom out like tiny flags wherever a grainlet lies in its cradle, which flutter and tremble without ceasing, while the high stalk rocks thoughtfully to and fro. God keep us from storms in this blessed season! From rain, too, with the sun shining through it, for that breeds mildew. Wet seasons cause a growth upon the ears, for which the local name of Mother-grain is far too pretty for truth. The sky-climbing youth of the corn soon comes to an end, the hot summer whitens its hair; then, still conscious of its strength and its virtue, it yet bows its head in humility before Him who has given it virtue and strength. Deeper within this forest of grain, thistles and the parasitical couch grass, the fair-seeming darnel, and every sort of tangled rubble and lawless company thrive rankly enough in the shadow of the corn and are nourished upon its roots. There, also, the wanton corn-cockle is to be found, whose seed later makes the flour--if not already red with shame--such a dirty bluish colour; there the will-o'-the-wisp poppy, and the kindly, patriarchal cornflower, whose crown is made of many little crowns. Many a time, while a thunderstorm was raging over Altenmoos, Jacob would stand under the heavy eaves over his door, looking out quiet and resigned. Man cannot alter things, God is almighty; what is the good, then, of trembling or complaining? When it grows light, he sees his whole cornfield, now nearly ripe, beaten down. Jacob says, "Thanks and praise be to God that there was no ice in it--all the stalks lie in order and flat on the ground, not one lifts so much as a knee! The heavy rain has laid the corn low, the wind will dry it--lift it up again." But there are years when it does not get up, when the rain beats it down again and again; then it is that the alien, lawless rabble get the upper hand--they rise up from between the prone stalks, and weave a trellis overhead, and begin a godless blooming and bragging above the poor imprisoned corn. When, however, God does give rain and sunshine in due season (just as the folks who go pilgrimages pray to have it), the fields are glorious. Strong and slender the stalks grow up from joint to joint. The lance-shaped, dark green leaves that lorded it at first, have nearly vanished, the stalks droop their heavy heads, which give back the sown grain thirty or forty-fold, one stalk laying its golden head on the shoulder of another. In the sun's heat by day, at night in the light of the moon and the stars and the glimmer of glow-worms, they are ripening towards harvest. At last come the reapers. Every grain is armed with a sharp spear for defence or offence, but the reaper does not flinch before the fine-toothed saws that allow no hand to glide downwards, but only upwards from below,--only from lowly to lofty. When Jacob, always first and last in the heat and burden of the day, rests in late evening beneath a corn-stook in the harvest-field, his dreaming begins again. The breath of grass and flowers makes him drowsy: he watches the antics of a jolly grasshopper, hears the chirp of a cricket--then it all fades away. He is looking out over a country where there is no blue forest, no green meadows, no mountain crags, and no clear streams. So far as ever the eye can reach is one great golden sea, an immeasurable field of corn. Above it, a cloudless sky presses hot and heavy on his heart. Then it comes to his mind: "Say thy grace, Jacob, for this place is the table of a mighty people. Those who live in the mountains must tend their poultry and their cattle, and fetch the bread of corn from this table." Then Jacob awakes, pulls himself up by the stook, and says into the night, "It'll have to come to that. And yet the cornfield is beautiful--more beautiful than anyhow else--when it lies between the forest and meadow! And a home, if it's a real home, should yield its children everything that they need." Besides, the soil in Altenmoos is not less rich than elsewhere! When the last wagon-load of sheaves has gone swaying home to the barn, there's always something for the poor woman who comes gleaning the scattered ears among the stubble. Then the cattle are pastured there, and a fine grass springs up; only the beasts must not mind a stubble-prick in the nose for every mouthful they get. At last, it may be, the plough comes again, still unwilling as ever to grant the fields a rest; but then comes Winter, and says, "Enough!" and covers the tired earth with its white mantle. Even under that cover there is no peace. A little grain fell out of the sheaf at harvest-time; the earth takes it to herself, lets it silently decay, and gives it back again, all new-made, in the sunshine of the following spring. With such dreams, whereby, as on Jacob's ladder, he climbed up and down between earth and heaven, this lonely man pleased and edified himself; and when the shadow came over his spirit, he would say to himself, "In God's name, Jacob, if it must be, thou mayst well entrust thyself willingly to the faithful and undying earth. Perhaps thou wilt rise up again, and find better days in Altenmoos." XIX About my Mother I It was high carnival in Gratz city. In the evenings, a mad thronging in the streets, a well-nigh deafening rattling of carriages, a yelling and shouting, a flaring and glaring from the shops and stalls and from the hundreds of lamps and numberless transparencies in the windows. Gold and silver, silks and damasks gleamed in the shop-fronts. Masks of every hue and shape grinned beside them. Ha, what a mad thing life can be! I hurried through the crowd. The clock on the castle hill struck six: six strokes so clear that they outrang all the din and re-echoed from the tall, light-pierced walls of the houses. The summons of the clock is a stern admonisher: let man play as childishly as he will with tinsel pleasures and light dalliance, it counts the hours out to him and gives him not a minute's grace. I went home to my quiet room and was soon in bed. Next morning, the winter sun lay shining on the snow-clad roofs; and I was jotting down the fairy-tale of the Lost Child, when someone knocked at my door. A man entered and handed me a telegram: "Dear son, yesterday evening, at six o'clock, our dear mother passed away. Come home, we are expecting you in the greatest affliction. Your father." Last evening it had happened, in the poor cottage, while I was striding through the worldly turmoil. And at six o'clock! Early next morning, I was in the parish village. I entered on the road alone, over hills glittering with snow and through long woods, far into the lonely mountain valley. I had walked that road endless times before, had always delighted in the glistening snow, in the sparkling icicles, in the snowy mantles of the boughs, or, if it was summer, in the green leaves and the blossoms and the fragrance, in the song of the birds, in the drops of light that trickled through the branches, in the profound peace and loneliness. How often had I gone that way with mother, when she was still well and in her prime, and, later, when, crippled through illness, she tottered along on my arm! And, on this forest road, I thought of my parents' life. He had come to the forest farm a young man. People called him Lenz, not because he was young and blooming and joyful as the _Lenz_, or spring, but because his name was Lorenz. His father had been severely wounded in a brawl, lain ill for but a little while and died an early death. So now Lenz was the owner of the forest farm. To recover in a measure from his sadness for his father's sake, he did a capital thing: he looked about him for a wife. He took almost the poorest and the most disregarded that the forest valley contained: a girl who was frightfully black all through the week, but had quite a nice little white face on Sundays. She was the daughter of a charcoal-burning woman and worked for her aged mother, but had never seen her father. One year after the wedding, in the summer, the young woodman's wife presented her Lenz with a first-born. He received the name of Peter and now runs all over the world with it, an everlasting child. Her life was so peculiar, her life was so good, her life had a crown of thorns. Our farm was no small one and its days were well-ordered; but my mother did not play the grand farmer's wife: she was housewife and servant-maid in one. My mother was an educated woman: she could "read print"; she had learnt that from a charcoal-burner. She knew the story of the Bible by heart; and she had no end of legends, fairy-tales and songs from her mother. Moreover, she was always ready with help in word and deed and never lost her head in any mishap and always knew the right thing to do. "That's how my mother used to do, that's what my mother used to say," she was constantly remarking; and this continued her rule and precept, long after her mother was laid to rest in the churchyard. No doubt, there was at times a little bigotry, what we call "charcoal-burner's faith," mixed up with it, yet in such a way that it did no harm, but rather spread a gentle poetry over the poor life in the houses in the wood. The poor knew my mother from far and wide: none knocked at her door in vain; none was sent hungry away. To him whom she considered really poor and who asked her for a piece of bread she gave half a loaf; and, if he begged for a gill of flour, she handed him a lump of lard with it. And "God bless you!" she said, in addition: that she always said. "What will be the end of us, if you give everything away wholesale?" my father often said to her, almost angrily. "Heaven, perhaps," she answered. "My mother often used to say that the angels register every 'God reward you' of the poor before God's holy throne. How glad we shall be one day, when we have the poor to intercede for us with Our Lord!" My father believed in fasting on Saturdays and often did not take a morsel of food before the shadows began to lengthen. He did this in honour of the Blessed Virgin.[20] "I tell you, Lenz, that sort of fasting serves no useful purpose!" my mother would sometimes say, in protest. "What you go without to-day, you simply eat to-morrow. My mother always used to say, 'What you have through fasting left, give to the poor so sore bereft.' I somehow think it does no good otherwise." My father used to pray in the evenings, especially at "rosary-time," and on Saturdays prayed long and loud, but often did odd jobs at the same time, such as nailing his shoes, patching his trousers or even shaving himself. In so doing, he not seldom lost the thread of his prayers, until my mother would snatch the things from his hands and cry: "Heavens alive, what manner of praying is this! Kneeling beside the table and saying three Our Fathers with application is better than three rosaries during which the evil one steals away your good thoughts while you're playing about!" At times of hard work, my mother was fond of a good table: "Who works with a will may eat with a will," she said. "My mother used always to say, 'Who dares not risk to lose a tittle, dares not either win a little.'" My father was content with scanty fare; he was always fearing that the home would be ruined. These were the only differences in their married life; and even those did not go deep. They uttered them only to each other: when father talked to strangers, he praised mother; when mother talked to strangers, she praised father. They were of one mind as regarded the bringing-up of children. Work and prayer, thrift and honesty, were our main precepts. I only once received a proper thrashing. In front of the house was a young copse of larch--and fir-trees, which gradually grew up so high that it shut out the view of the mountains on that side. Now I loved this view and I thought that father would be sure to thank me if I--who was an enterprising lad in those days--cut down the little trees. And, true enough, one afternoon, when everyone was in the fields, I stole into the little wood with an axe and began to cut down young trees. Before long, my father appeared upon the scene; but the thanks which he gave me had a very queer look. "Lend me the hatchet, boy!" he said, quietly. I thought, "Now he'll tackle to himself: so much the better"; and I passed him the axe. He used it to chop off a birch-switch and flattened it across my back. "Wait a bit!" he cried. "Do you want to do for the young wood? It has more rods for you, where this came from!" I had a thrashing just once from my mother too. I liked sitting by the hearth when mother was cooking; and, one day, I knocked over the stock-pot full of soup, half putting out the fire and nearly burning my little bare feet. My mother was not there at the moment; and, when she came running in at the sound of the mighty hissing, I cried out, crimson in the face: "The cat, the cat has upset the stock-pot!" "Yes, that same cat has two legs and tells lies!" mother retorted. And she took me and thrashed me for a long time with the rod. "If ever you tell me a lie again," she cried, when she had done, "I'll cut you to pieces with the flue-rake!" A serious threat! Thank goodness, it never had to be fulfilled. On the other hand, when I was good and obedient, I was rewarded. My reward took the form of songs which she sang to me, tales which she told me, when we walked through the forest together or when she sat by my bedside in the evening. All that is best in me I have from her. She had a worldful of poetry within her. When my brothers and sisters came one after the other, mother loved us all alike and favoured none. Afterwards, when two died in their childhood, I saw mother for the first time crying. We others cried with her and thenceforth always cried whenever we saw mother shedding tears. And this was quite often, from that time onwards. Father lay sick for two years on end. We had ill-luck in the farm and in the fields; hail and murrain came; our corn-mill was burnt down. Then mother wept in secret, lest we children should see her. And she worked without ceasing, fretted, and ended by falling ill. The doctors of the whole neighbourhood around were called in to advise: they could do nothing but charge fat fees; only one of them said: "I won't take payment from such poor people." Yes, in spite of all our jollity, we had become poor people. The goods and chattels were all gone; of the once big property nothing remained to us but the taxes. My father now resolved to sell the encumbered farm as well as he could. But mother would not have it: she worked on, ill as she was, with trouble and zeal, and never gave up hope. She could not bear to think of giving up her home, the house where her children were born. She denied her illness, said that she had never felt better in her life and that she would work for three. My brothers and sisters also considered that they could not leave the homestead; besides, none of them had one good pair of shoes left to put on. And mother, when, once in a way, she wished to go to the parish church, had to borrow a jacket free from patches from some journeyman-woodman's wife or other. And the greatest pain of all was people's arrogance and their scorn if ever they did lend any assistance. They had forgotten the kindnesses which my mother had once shown to one and all according to her power. At that time, she was the most honoured farmer's wife in all the houses in the forest. But--misfortune destroys friendship! As, indeed, her mother, the charcoal-burner, had often said. I will relate an experience of that sad time, when my mother was ailing. It begins with a bright and sunny Whitsuntide. That bright and sunny Whit Monday was her thirty-ninth birthday. It was a gladsome day. The crops were green in the fields; and the herds grazed in the high meadow: true, they did not belong to us, but to our neighbour; and yet we delighted in them, because they were fat and jolly. My father had already paid last year's taxes; the financial position, which had been disturbed during father's long illness, seemed gradually coming to rights; and consequently we were once more rising in people's opinions. On this day, we walked through the meadows together; and the little ones picked flowers and the grown-ups praised God's works with a cheerful word or a song. Then mother sat down on a stone and was like to die. We dragged her home, we put her to bed, where she lay for long: weeks long, months long. All the neighbours came and brought their well-meant sympathy; all the doctors from near and far came and brought their well-meant medicine. The patient, as they admitted behind her back, had had a stroke; she was languishing. But, when the cool autumn came, she grew better: she now no longer lay in bed by day, but sat on the bench by the fire or at the table, where the children played, or by the hearth, where she instructed clumsy father in the art of cooking. She was not cheerful, nor was she cast down; she took things as they came and did not complain: only, between whiles, when she was alone, she heaved a deep sigh. Thus winter passed. The delightful Whitsuntide came again and mother was ill. At this festival, the old woman from the Riegelberg came to see and brought a few rolls with her. She suggested all sorts of household remedies and reckoned up a number of hale and hearty people who had become hale and hearty through taking the aforesaid remedies. And at last she asked, hadn't we been to Stegthomerl--Tom of the Footpath--yet? No, we confessed, we had not been to him as yet. Then how could we have been so remiss and however could we have neglected to go to Tom of the Footpath? He was the very first to whom one ought to send in that sort of illness! But it was such a distance to get there, father objected. "And, if it was a three days' journey, it is not too far for health's sake." "That's very true, I grant you: it would not be too far for health," said father. "And think you, Riegelbergerin, that he could cure her?" "Curing, my dear woodman, is in God's hands," answered the woman from the Riegelberg, with her wonted superiority. "Even the best doctors cannot work miracles. But he knows, does Tom of the Footpath, and he'll tell you whether a cure is still possible or not." The very next day, a messenger was sent over the mountains to the valley where Tom of the Footpath lived. He went off early and he came home late and he brought the answer that Tom of the Footpath had said he could say nothing at all as long as he did not see the invalid for himself. The next day, another messenger went off (for the first had gone lame on the long road) to fetch Tom of the Footpath. He came back late at night alone and brought the news that Tom of the Footpath didn't visit patients: Thomas himself was not as young as he had been; also he did not wish to be locked up again because the qualified doctors suffered from an infernal professional jealousy and wanted to bury everybody themselves. If the sick woodman's wife cared to come to him, there might be something to be done. But he did not go running after sick people. This was manfully spoken, after all, and we all of us understood that a man who knows his own value does not exactly care to make himself cheap. But now came a great embarrassment. The weather, to be sure, was fine and warm; the days were long, and mother was quite ready to go. But how were we to carry her on that many-hours' road to Tom of the Footpath? It was impossible. Drive? We had no cart; and the last pair of draught-oxen had been taken from us by the creditors to whom we had had to apply once more during mother's illness. The neighbours were using their oxen just now for ploughing the fields. The jobbing farmer had two horses: he was willing to let them out to us, but his charge for the day--father struck his hands together at the thought--was five florins and their oats. And, as we were all sitting in deep distress around our sick mother, seeking for a way out of the difficulty and finding none, the door opened and the lad from the road-side tavern walked in. "What do you want, my boy?" asked my father. The boy stood dangling his arms. "Ay," he said, "it's this way: Samersteffel sends word to say that, if the woodman likes to have his horse and cart, he can have them." Samersteffel was what Stephen, the local carrier, was called. "Where is Carrier Steve?" "He's with us and he's put up his horse and cart at our place." My father thought over what he had better say; then he said: "Steve is sure to want a good price; tell him from me, no, but I'm obliged to him." The boy went away; and, in an hour's time, Carrier Steve came round in person. He was a little fat man, who, in the old days, before the road was made, used to carry all sorts of things over the mountain-path with a pack-horse. Now that the road was there, he had set up a little light cart, in which he conveyed corn, salt, cider and so on, but all for money, of course, as that was what he lived by; and not only that, but he wanted to get rich, so as to build a big inn on the new road. To be an innkeeper was the dream of his life; and he had the making of one in him, for he was always in a good temper and would certainly know how to entertain his visitors. But to-day, when he walked into our parlour, he was in anything but a good temper. "You're making a lot of useless trouble for one of us," he said, and sat down puffing and panting on the bench against the wall. "Have you ever heard, woodman, that I have pressed myself on anyone for the sake of gain? You can't have heard such a thing said about me, for, thank God, I don't need it. Once I myself propose to carry anything, I carry it gratis. I heard that your wife wanted to go to Tom of the Footpath and that she had no trap of any kind. My mother, God rest her soul, was also ill for a long time; I know what it means: it's a misery. If you like, woodman, I'll drive your wife over to Tom of the Footpath to-morrow." Then we all felt really glad. We did not give a further thought to the question whether the long drive would do good or harm, or whether the new physic would take effect, or how the illness would turn out afterwards. To Tom of the Footpath, just to Tom of the Footpath: that would put everything right. I was awakened early next day, when the morning star peeped through the great black ash-trees. Father had to stay behind to look after the farm; and I, the thirteen-year-old lad, must go with mother to see that nothing happened to her. Mother was already at her breakfast and did as if she thoroughly relished the milk-porridge. Carrier Steve and I ate a bowl of curds and whey and then we drove off. Steve sat on the little driver's seat and talked out loud to his nag, telling it to be a good horse and trot over the mountains briskly "so that we can bring woodman's wife home again before the day is out." My mother sat, wrapped up in all her clothes, and my father's storm-cloak into the bargain, on a leather cushion, with straw at her feet and a heavy blanket over all, allowing only a part of her head to show above it. I sat beside this sick-bed and was heavy at heart. It was still chilly night; the sky began to turn a little pale over the Wechselberg. The road led across the meadows. Now the birds woke; now the glory of the dawn commenced; now the great sun rose in the heavens. My mother drew back the blanket a little and gazed up at the sun: "I feel full of hope," she whispered and felt for my hand, "if only the summer helps a bit and Tom of the Footpath too. After all, I'm not so old yet. What do you think, my child? Shall I be able to look at the world again a hale woman?" I was as confident as she; I felt quite relieved. The morning sun! The dear warm morning sun! Mother became chatty. "It's silly, when you come to think of it," she said, suddenly, and laughed almost aloud, "how fond a body is of being in the world. Of course, I should be sorry to leave my folk. And it would be a pity for my Lenzel, your father, to be left all alone; the children are so small yet." "But I'm getting pretty big now," I protested. Then mother turned her face right round to me and said: "It's just you, my Peter, it's just you about whom I'm most anxious. You see, you appear to me quite different from other boys of your age. You've no real mind for work, that is to say, you have the mind, perhaps, but you take no honest pleasure in it. Yes, yes, deny it as you may, I know you, you don't care about farming, you hang around and you want something else, you yourself don't know what. You see, that's really the worst of it. And so I should like to pray to God and ask Him to leave me with you, so that I can keep a hold on you until I know what's to become of you." "Will you be a carrier? How would that suit you, boy?" cried Steve, over his shoulder, to us in the cart. "A good carrier, who takes poor people driving: I wouldn't mind that," remarked my mother, whereupon Steve gave a little smirk. The road led straight up and became stony; Steve and I got down and walked beside the creaking cart. The sun had become hot. It was a tiring drive and we only got on slowly. When we were up at the top and driving along through the almost level, but dark woods of the Fischbacheralpe, we no longer heard the cart-wheels, for the ground was thickly strewn with pine-needles, save that, every now and again, the wheels struck against a root. The birds had become silent, for the hot day lay over the tree-tops. My mother had fallen asleep. I looked at her pale face and thought: "Tom of the Footpath is sure to know of something that will do her good; it's a lucky thing that we were able to drive to Tom of the Footpath." "Like a bit of bread, Peter?" asked Steve. "I should be glad of a bit." And, when I got my piece of bread, there was a piece of bacon on it; and now my distress began. I held the thing in my hand for ever so long and looked at it and looked up at my mother: she was asleep. I did not want to offend Steve, who meant so well by us. As, however, I could not leave the thing as it was, lying in my hand, I at last began, first quite softly, but gradually louder, to call out: "Steve!" "What do you want?" he asked, at last. "I should only like to beg as a favour," I said, quite despondently, "just as a favour, that I need not eat the bacon. For indeed I don't like bacon." "You don't know what's good," said the driver, laughing, and relieved me of my difficulty. At last, we began to go downhill; and now the cart jolted over the burning stones and shook the invalid out of her sleep; and the sun burnt into her marrow; and she felt chilled all the same. Steve muttered: "Tom of the Footpath must be the devil of a good doctor to make a drive like this worth while. Hold up, Sorrel: we've not much further to go." It was late in the afternoon when we reached the valley and stopped at the little house where Tom of the Footpath lived. We carried mother into the musty, stuffy parlour, in which all the little windows were tight shut. There we let her down on the bench and asked for Tom. A grumpy old woman answered that Tom was not there. "We can see that," said Steve, "but might we ask where he is?" "Can't say." "When's he coming in?" "Maybe he won't stay out long, maybe he won't be back till night, maybe he's gone to the ale-house." The old woman left the room; and there we sat. My mother drew a deep breath. Steve went after the old woman and asked her for a spoonful of hot soup for the invalid. "Where should I get hot soup from at this time of day? The fire's been out on the hearth this long since." That was the answer. Thereupon the driver himself set to and lit the fire, looked for milk and boiled it. Mother ate only a little of the soup and pushed the bowl to us, so that we should have some warm food too. When that was done, Steve gave the woman a silver ten-kreuzer for the milk and for the hay which the sorrel ate. After a time, during which it turned quite dark in the parlour, once or twice, because clouds were passing in front of the sun outside, Tom of the Footpath walked into the room. He was a short, spindle-shanked man, but had a big head, broad shoulders, a very high chest and a great hump on his back. And his head was sunk into his shoulders, so that the mannikin had to turn right round, with his whole body, whenever he wanted to turn his head. I can see him plainly to this day, as he stepped in through the door and looked at us, first sharply and then smilingly, with his wandering, vacant face. My mother at once became fidgety and tried to rise from her seat, in order to put her request to him in a respectful fashion. Tom made a sign with his hand that she need not trouble and presently said, in a rather sing-song voice: "I know, I know, you're the woodman's wife from the Alpel; you had a stroke a year ago." "I had a stroke?" asked the invalid, in dismay. "You've been doctoring all round the place, far and wide; and now, because no one else can do you any good, you come to me. They're all alike: they come to me when they're dying; and if, after that, Tom of the Footpath's physic doesn't work a miracle and the patient goes the way of all flesh, then they say that Tom of the Footpath has been the cause of his death." These words were terrible to listen to, in themselves, but still they were bearable because they were spoken with a smiling face and because Tom went on to add: "Hope it'll prove an exception in your case, woodman's wife. I'll just examine you now." First of all, of course, he felt her pulse: "It hops," he muttered, "it hops." Then, with his broad fingers, he pushed her eyebrows apart and looked into the whites--and said nothing. Next, she had to bare her neck and he put his ear to it--and said nothing. Furthermore, he attentively studied the lines of her hand, then asked after the sick woman's actual state of health and went on to examine the arteries and the respiration, so that I at once conceived a high opinion of the man's conscientiousness. And, when he had finished his examination, he sat down on a chair opposite my mother, who was slowly wrapping herself up again in her clothes, spread out his legs, sank his chin into his body and, with his arms crossed over his chest, said: "Yes, my dear woodman's wife, you've got to die." My mother gave a light start, I sprang to my feet. Steve, however, remained sitting quite calmly in his seat, looked hard at Tom of the Footpath for a while and then said, suddenly: "And you haven't, I suppose? No, you old camel, your day's coming too, God damn it all!" It was now high time to go. We hurriedly packed up and drove off homeward. It was sultry and shady; the sky was covered with clouds; there was not a living thing in sight; not a tree-top stirred; our cart rattled heavily along. My mother lay silently in her corner and gazed at the darkling world with her great, black eyes. Steve sat fuming on his box, but gradually became quieter; and he now grunted: "To think of a man being as drunk as all that!" "Who?" I asked. "Such a drunken bout is really worth making a day's journey to go and have a look at," Steve continued. "True enough, I'd heard tell that the old camel was seldom sober; and he'd come straight from the ale-house to-day." "I dare say it was just as well," my mother said. "If he had been sober, perhaps he would not have told me the truth." And so we drove away in great sadness. The thunder rolled over the mountains, quite hoarse and dull; the Fischbach storm-bell rang in the distance. Then my mother sat upright and said: "You must do something to please me, Peter; and I'll ask Steve as well: it's no use telling father, my husband, what Tom of the Footpath said." "Indeed, it would never do to repeat such fool's talk," cried the driver, very loudly, "but I'm going to the magistrate! I shall inform against him! That's what I shall do!" "I beg of you, Steve, let it be," my mother asked. "You mustn't think that I take it so much to heart. I myself have often thought that the thing will end with me as it ends with all ailing people. What can Tom of the Footpath do against that! We did not go to him to get him to tell us lies. I'm only sorry that we never once asked what we owed him for his straightforwardness." Now Steve burst out laughing and sent the whip whizzing once or twice through the air, notwithstanding that the horse was doing its best. When we drove along over the heights, the threatening storm had dispersed entirely; the setting sun shone with a faint golden gleam over the wide landscape, over wood and meadows; and a cool breeze blew in our faces. A bright tear lay on my mother's pale cheeks. As, silent and tired, we drove through our home meadows, the stars appeared in the sky. On every side, the song of the crickets purled and chirped in the grass. By the fence, where our hillside began, stood a black figure that accosted us and asked if it was we. It was my father, who had come to meet us. My mother called him by name; her voice was weak and trembling. Father took us indoors, without asking a question. Not until we were in the parlour and the rushlight was burning did he ask how we had fared. "Not badly," said Steve, "not at all badly: we have been very cheerful." "And Tom of the Footpath: what did he say?" "He said that, like other people, woodman's wife wouldn't live for ever, but that she has plenty of time before her, oh, plenty of time. Only you're to take care: give her lots of good air in the summer, not too much work and no excitement, good food and drink and no physic, no physic at all, he said. And then she'll get all right again." A time elapsed after that. My father tried to nurse mother according to Steve's dictum, which he believed to be Tom of the Footpath's dictum; and, when winter came, she sat at the spinning-wheel and span. The mouse had not bitten the thread in two. That same winter brought the news that Tom of the Footpath had been found frozen to death in the snow, not far from the ale-house on the Fischbacheralpe. We said an Our Father for his soul. Carrier Steve, who came to see us now and then and always remained the good, cheerful man he was, had also forgiven Thomas: true, it was wholly and solely because he had proved wrong that time. II I failed--to return to our other circumstances--to take any pleasure in the peasant's life and also I really lacked the strength for it. I then took up a trade, but was not able to help my parents; I wanted to pay my father for my Sunday board, which I had at home, but he would take nothing from me, said that I was just as much his child as before, only I must not burn so many rushes when I was home on Saturday nights. "Oh, goodness me, let him have that pleasure: he hasn't so many!" my mother would say and intercede for me. Then things altered with me. I went into the world. It was hard parting with my mother; but, in a short time, she was able to see that my life had become happier. And, now that happiness had come, envy soon came hobbling along--or was it stupidity? A rumour passed through the forest hills: "So far, it's all right with Peter; but, as always happens in town, he is sure to fall away from the Christian faith." And soon the talk grew: "A nice story that! All of a sudden, he finds honest work too hard for him and righteous fare not good enough, goes to town and eats flesh-meat on Our Lady's day and falls away from the faith." My mother laughed at first, when she heard that, for she knew her child. But then the thought came to her: suppose it were true after all! Suppose her dear child were forgetting God and going astray! She knew no peace. She went and borrowed clothes from blind Julia and borrowed three florins from a good-natured huckstress and travelled--sick and infirm as she was, leaning with either hand on a stick--to the capital. She wanted to see for herself what was true in people's talk. She found her child a poor student in a black coat, which he had had given him, and with his hair combed off his forehead. None of this pleased her greatly, it is true; it succeeded, however, in appeasing her. But, in the two days of her stay in town, she saw the mad, frivolous doings on every side, saw the neglect of old customs which she revered and the mocking of things that were sacred to her, and she said to me: "You will never be able to stay among people like those, child; they would drag you down with them and ruin your soul." "No, mother," I answered, "a man can think as he wishes; and people can't take away good thoughts." She said no more. But, when she returned to the forest hills and heard the talk again, she was more dejected than ever. It was all up now with the homestead. House and farm were sold, made over to the creditors; my brothers and sisters engaged as servants with strange farmers. The destitute parents were given a cottage that, until then, had belonged to the property. My youngest brother, who was not yet able to earn his bread, and one sister remained with them and nursed poor mother. Father kept on going over the mountains to the doctors', and all but promised them his own life, if they could save the life of his wife. In the cottage, things looked very wretched. The ailing woman suffered in silence. The light of her eyes threatened to fail her, her mental faculties appeared to fade. Death knocked at her heart with repeated strokes. She often seemed to endure severe pain, but said nothing; she no longer took any interest in the world, asked only after her husband, after her children. And she lay years a-dying. I often came to see her during that time. She hardly knew me, when I stood by her bedside; but then again she would say, as in a dream: "Is that you, Peterl? Praise and thanks be to God that you are here again!" During midsummer, we would carry her, once in a way, with bed and all, out of the stuffy room into the air, so that she might see the sunshine once more. I do not know if she saw it: she kept her eyes open and looked up at the sun; her optic nerves seemed dead. Then, suddenly, days came when she was different. She was cheerful and longed to go out into the open. "Do get quite well again, Maria," said her husband, "and we shall remain together a long while yet." "Yes," she answered. I thought of all this on my way through the forest--and now it was all over with this poor rich life. When, at last, after walking for hours through the woods along the mountain-path, I saw the thatched cottage on the hill-side, then it was as though a misty shadow covered woods and plains and all; and yet the sunlight hung over it. A puff of grey smoke rose from the little chimney. Does she suspect my coming? thought I. Is she cooking my favourite dish? No, strangers are preparing a funeral feast. You stood long, Peterl, outside the half-open door; and your hand trembled when at last it touched the latch. The door opened, you walked in, it was dark in the narrow passage, with only a dim little oil-lamp flickering in a glass, and yet you saw it clearly: against the wall, under the smoky stairs, on a plank lay the bier, covered entirely with a big white cloth. At the head stood a crucifix and the holy-water stoup, with a sprig of fir in it.... You fell upon your knees.... And the tears came at last. The tears which the mother's heart once gave us to take with us into this world for our relief in sorrow and for our only consolation in the hour when no other comfort reaches the soul, when strangers cannot understand us and when the mother's heart has ceased to beat. Hail, O rich and eternal legacy! Now the door of the parlour opened softly and Maria, the younger sister, stepped out. The girl at once began to cry when she saw the brother of whom they had all spoken so often, for whom mother's last glance had asked and who was far away when she closed her eyes. Now he lay there on his knees and cried over the memory of her life. Even her children here at home had slept through the night of the death. Not till the glow of early morning lit up the little windows did father go to the girls in the bedroom and say: "Open your eyes and look out. The sun is already rising over the Wechsel; and the Blessed Virgin is sitting on the mountain-top, with the Child Jesus on her knee; and your mother is sitting on the stool at her feet, with a spinning-wheel before her, weaving her heavenly garment." Then they knew at once that mother was dead. "Would you like to look at her?" my sister now asked. And she went to the head of the bier and slowly raised the shroud. I saw my mother. Heaven's bliss still lay on the stiff, stark visage. The load was gone from my heart, relieved and comforted; I looked upon the dear features as though I were contemplating a white flower. It was no longer the poor, sick, weary woman that lay before me: it was the face lit up with a ray from the youthful days long past. She lay there slumbering and was strong and well. She was young again and white and gentle; she wore a little smile, as she often did when she looked at the merry little fellow playing about with his toys at her feet. The dark and glossy hair (she had no grey hairs yet) was carefully braided and peeped out a little at the temples from under the brown kerchief, the one which she loved best to wear upon her head when she went to church on holidays. She held her hands folded over her breast, with the rosary and the wax candle between them. She lay there just as though she had fallen asleep in church on Whit Sunday, during the solemn High Mass; and thus, even in death, she comforted her child. But the rough hands clearly showed that the slumberer had led a hard and toilful life. And so you stood before this sacred image, nearly as still and motionless as the sleeper. At last, you whispered to your little sister, who stood softly weeping by your side: "Who closed her eyes?" A sound of hammering came from the parlour. The carpenter was knocking together the last dwelling-house. After a while, Maria drew the shroud over the head again, as softly and carefully as when she used to cover up our little mother, hundreds and hundreds of times, in the long period of sickness. Then I went into the small, warm parlour. Father, my elder sister, my two brothers, of whom the younger was still a boy, came up to me with mournful looks. They hardly spoke a word, they gave me their hands, all but the little fellow, who hid himself in the chimney-corner, where we could hear his sobbing. Joseph the carpenter was calmly planing away at the coffin, which he had now finished joining, and smoked his pipe as he did so. Later, when the afternoon shadows had lengthened outside, far over the glittering snow-clad meadow-land, when, in the parlour, Joseph was painting the black cross on the coffin-lid, father sat down beside it and said, softly: "Please God, after all, she has a house of her own again." On the first day after mother's death, no fire had been lit on the cottage-hearth. One and all had forgotten that a mortal man wants a basin of hot soup in the morning and at mid-day. On the other hand, a blazing fire had been kindled on the field behind the little house, to burn the straw bedding on which she had died, even as, long ago, the forefathers had fanned their Odin fires, commending the beloved dead to the Goddess Hella, the great concealer.[21] I had sat down on the bench and lifted my little brother up to me. The little man glanced at me quite fearsomely: I had a black coat on and a white scarf round my neck and I looked very grand in his eyes. I held his little hand, which already had horny blisters on it, in mine. Then I asked father to tell us something of mother's life. "Wait a little," answered father and looked on at the drawing of the cross, as in a dream. At last, he heaved a deep sigh and said: "So it's finished now. Her cross and suffering lasted long, that's true; but her life was short. Children, I tell you, not everyone has a mother like yours. For you, Peter, she nearly gave up her life, when you came into the world. And so they followed one after the other: joys and sorrows, care and want, poverty and wretchedness! And, when I was sick unto death and the doctors agreed that I must go the way of all flesh, that there was no remedy for it, my wife never gave up hope, never abandoned me. Day and night she stayed by my side, forgetting to sleep, forgetting to eat a bit of bread. She almost poured life back into me with her own breath--my dear, good wife." His voice seemed about to break; he wiped the moisture from his eyes with his coat-sleeve. "No one would believe what good nursing can do," he continued. "I became quite hale again. We lived on, faithfully and fondly; and that you, Peter, found success and happiness away from home, that was your mother's greatest joy. You yourselves know how she lay sick and dying for seven years and more, how they turned us out of house and home, how spitefully people talked and how, nevertheless, we had the greatest trust in you children. For fully thirty years, we lived together in wedlock. I always prayed that God might take _me_ first; now He has chosen rather to take _her_. You mustn't cry like that, children: you were always a help and a comfort to your mother." He said no more. When the carpentering of the coffin was done, father put shavings inside it as a pillow. He had always had the habit, when he had done his work, of going to his wife and saying: "I've finished now." And so, when he had put the shavings straight and made the other preparations, he went out to the bier in the passage and said: "I've finished now." Late in the evening, when the crescent moon stood in the dark, clear sky and shed its twilight over the woods and gleaming, snow-clad meadows and over the little house in the forest on the hill-side, the snow creaked continually on the roads and people came up from farmsteads and distant cottages. Even though they had carried on loud and cheerful conversations with one another on the paths by which they had come, they became silent now that they were nearing the cottage and we heard only the crackling of their footsteps on the snow. In the small front passage, which was dimly lit by the little lamp, everyone knelt on the cold clay floor and prayed silently before the bier and then sprinkled it with holy water. After that, he went into the parlour to the others, who sat round the table and the fireplace, singing hymns and uttering pious reflections. They were all there to accompany the poor woman of the house to her last resting-place. I would have kept on standing by the bier, if the people had not been there, so that I might look at my mother. I read my childhood and my youth in her features. I thought that the bright eyes must open once more and smile to me, that the word must once more come from those lips which, in her loving-kindness, had been so soft and tender. But, though I was her dear son and however long I might stand beside her--she now slept the eternal sleep. I went into the low-ceilinged kitchen, where the neighbours' wives were cooking the funeral meal; I looked round in the smoke for my brothers and sisters, that I might comfort them. Inside, in the parlour, all were now as still as mice and in great tension. Mathias, the old chamois-hunter, who wore a brown shirt and a white beard, sat at the table and told a story: "There was once a farmer," he began, "who had a wife, just a poor sick wife. And, one day, one holy Easter morning, the wife died. The soul departed from her body and stood there all alone in dark Eternity. No angel was willing to come and lead her and show her in to the heavenly Paradise. 'They are celebrating Christ's resurrection in Heaven'--so the story ran--'and, at such times, no saint or angel has time to show a poor soul the way.' But the poor soul was in inexpressible fear and terror, for she reflected that, because of her illness, it was long since she had been to church. And she already heard the devil whining and whimpering and whistling and she thought that she was lost. 'O my holy guardian angel and patron saint!' she cried. 'Come to my help in this my need, or I must depart into hell-fire!' But they were all in Heaven together, celebrating Our Lord's resurrection. Thereupon the poor woman was nigh to fainting away, without comfort or support; but suddenly Our Lady stood by her side, draped in a snow-white garment with a wreath of roses as a beautiful ornament in her hand. 'Hail to thee and comfort, thou poor woman!' she said, gently, to the departed soul. 'Thou hast been a pious sufferer all thy life long and every Saturday thou hast fasted, for my sake, and what thou hadst left over through the fasting thou hast given to the poor, for my sake. This I will never forget to thee; and, though my dear Son is commemorating His glorious resurrection this day, yet will I think of thee and carry thee to His golden throne and to thy joyful place in the rose-garden by the angels, which I have prepared for thy sake and where thou canst wait for thy husband and thy children.' And then Our Lady took the poor woman by the hand and carried her up to Heaven. That is why I say that fasting and alms-giving in honour of Our Lady are a right good work." So spake Mathias in his brown shirt. "Our dear woodman's wife, whom we are burying to-morrow, was also fond of fasting," said one little woman, "and very fond of giving." Father sobbed for emotion. The thought that his wife was now in Heaven lit a very welcome light in his sad heart. The hands of the old soot-browned clock upon the wall--the same which had faithfully told the hours, the joyful hours and the sorrowful, since the woodman's glad wedding-day; which pointed to the hour of one, early on Sunday morning, when the little boy was born; which, after many years, showed the hour of six, when the delivering angel passed through the room and pressed his kiss on the sufferer's forehead--the hands now met at twelve o'clock. And, when that departed life was thus measured, like a single day, from sunrise to sunset, my father said: "Boy, go outside to the cow-shed and lie down for a while in the straw and rest a bit. I will wake you when the time comes." I went outside, took a last look at the bier in the passage and then stepped out into the free, cold, starry night. The sickle of the moon had sunk behind the woods; it had sent its last beam gliding through the crevice of the door on the shroud that covered the bier: to-morrow, when it rose again, the poor creature would be lying in the dark earth. So now I lay in the shed on the straw, where my two brothers generally slept. The three chained oxen stood or lay beside me, grinding their teeth as they chewed the cud. It was warm and damp in the stable; and the moisture trickled from the half-rotten ceiling down on my straw couch. There was once a time--ay, the drops came quivering down as now--the dew-drops from the trees, when mother was taking you to make your first communion. I see you now, Peterl. You have a new jacket on, with a sprig of rosemary in your hat. Your little snow-white shirt shows round your neck above the waistcoat; and your cheeks are rosy red with scrubbing. Mother is wearing a bright-coloured dress, a brown apron and a black, tight-fitting jacket. Her broad neckerchief is of red silk and shines like fire and flame. A white-and-green spray of flowers sticks out of her bosom. On her head, she wears a high and costly golden cap, as was the fashion thenadays throughout the country; and the curls peep out on either side of the forehead, gleaming black like the two great pupils of her eyes and soft and dainty like the lashes on her lids. Her cheeks are tinged with the pink of the dawn; her chin is white and daintily curved. Her red lips wear a little smile and, at the same time, scold you, my little man, because you are skipping so pertly over the stones and roots and knocking the nails out of your shoes. No child alive has ever seen his mother in the full flower of her beauty; and yet how splendid it is, boy, even now! All's aglow in the wood and alight in the young larches; and the blooms are fragrant and the birds singing in every tree-top. Ah, child-time is May-time! A dull, heavy knocking roused me from my dream; I started up. Now they are laying my mother in the coffin; now they are nailing down the lid. I rushed out of the shed and into the house. There, in the passage, stood the narrow, white, closed coffin; and the dimly-flickering oil-lamp now lit up only the empty, desolate plank on which the bier had stood. I should have liked to see her once more.... The people were preparing the litter. Father knelt behind the door and prayed; the sisters wept in their pinafores; and my little brother sobbed terribly. The poor little fellow tried to keep in his tears, for he had heard that all was for the best with mother and that she was now enjoying peace in Heaven: he had smiled a little at that; but now, when the people were making ready to carry mother away for good and all, there was no comfort left in his sorely-afflicted little heart. I took little brother by the hand and we went into the furthermost dark corner of the room, where no one else was and where only our sick mother had cared to sit. There we sat down on the bench. And there we sat while everything was being prepared outside, while the people sat down to table and shared the funeral repast. They had come to show us sympathy; now they were eating, now they were laughing and then again they acted as was customary; and they actually rejoiced that one more person had died and, in so doing, brought variety into their everyday lives. Suddenly, loud words were heard outside: "Where is the _Überthan_? We can't find the _Überthan_." The _Überthan_ is a thin linen pall which is wrapped round the coffin like a veil and, in the popular belief, serves him or her who has risen from the dead as a garment on the Day of Judgment. Father was roused from his prayers by the shouting; he now staggered around and looked for the linen sheet in his press, on the shelves and in every nook and corner. Why, he had brought it home only yesterday; and now it was nowhere to be found! He had really lost his head: he had to see that all got something to eat; he had to change into his Sunday clothes to go to church; he had to comfort his children; he had to fetch a new candle, because the old one was burnt down to its socket and the people were like to find themselves in the dark; he had to go to the shed and give the cattle fodder enough to last them all day, for there would be no one at home; and now he was expected to say where he had put the pall yesterday, in his confusion. And, in the next few minutes, they would be carrying his wife out of the house! It was one great excitement. "So the old man has no pall!" they grumbled. "Such a thing has never been known: carrying out a dead person all naked and bare. But it must be true with the poor woodman's wife: a pauper she lived and a pauper she died!" My two sisters began to hunt in their turn; and Maria exclaimed, plaintively: "Dear Jesus, my mother mustn't be buried without a pall; she would do better than that to stay at home here; and I will give my christening-money and buy her her last dress. Who was it put away the linen sheet? O God, they want to deny her the last thing of all, as well as all the rest!" I tried to calm the girl and said we should be sure to get a linen sheet out in the village and, if not, then she must rest in peace under the bare deal boards. "How can you speak like that!" she cried. "Didn't mother in her time buy your clothes for you out of her hard-saved kreuzers? And now you want her to rise on the Day of Judgment in her shabby clothes, when all the others are wearing a white garment!" She burst into loud crying and leant her glowing forehead against the wall. But, soon after, the people breathed again: they had found the pall. And, when they had eaten--we others did not take a bite--and everything was ready, they opened the door of the front passage and knelt down before the coffin and prayed aloud, saying Our Lord's Five Wounds. Then four men placed the coffin on the litter and lifted it up and carried it out of the poor dwelling into the wood and thence over the commons and fields and through mountain forests. And round about was the winter night and over all hung the starry sky. One more look at the empty bier-plank and then I quickly drew my little brother out with me; and father and sisters also hurried after; and the elder brother locked the door; and then the cottage in the wood lay there in the dark and in the deepest stillness. Life had left it--and death had left it: there is no greater loneliness possible. We heard the hum of the praying funeral procession, we saw the flicker of the two or three lanterns among the trunks of the trees. The bearers walked at a quick pace; those who followed and prayed could hardly keep up with them on the rough, snow-covered paths. I was a long way behind with my little brother: the boy could not walk so fast. Mother would never have left us behind like that, when living: she would have waited, laughing a little and chiding a little, and led the child by the hand. Now, however, she only longed for rest. Outside the parish village stands a tall cross, with a life-size figure of the Saviour. Here, after a many-hours' progress up and down hill, they set the coffin on the ground and waited for the doctor, who came from the village to view the corpse and give the death-certificate. But, by the time that we two, who had lagged behind, came up, the coffin-lid was hammered down again. And so I was never able to see you again on earth, my mother! They entered the parish church in the morning twilight. The clear bells rang out together. A great catafalque was set up in the middle of the dark church; many candles gleamed; and a solemn funeral service began. The parish priest, an old, blind man, with snow-white hair, a venerable figure, intoned the requiem, surrounded by priests in rich vestments. His voice was clear and solemn; a choir chanted the responses; and trumpets and sackbuts echoed through the church. I looked at father and he at me; we knew not who had ordered all this so. To-day I know that it was my friends at Krieglach who gave us this beautiful token of their love. When the funeral service was over, the catafalque was removed, all the festal candles on the high-altar were lit and three priests, no longer clad in the hue of mourning, but in red, gold-stitched chasubles, climbed the steps of the altar and a grand High Mass was celebrated, with gay bell-ringing and joyous music. "That is because she is released from her suffering," said I to the boy. At last, the coffin, richly decked with flowers, swayed out of the parish church, where, in the old days, the woodman's wife had been baptised and married, on its way to the cemetery. The priests and the choir sang the loud, clear requiem, the bells tolled over the village far out into the woods and the candles flickered in the sunlight. A long train of men and women passed through the broad village street. We walked behind the coffin, carrying lighted candles in our hands and praying as we went. The cemetery lies outside the village, on a gentle eminence, between fields and meadows. It is far from small, for the parish stretches to a great distance over hill and dale. It is enclosed with a plank fence and contains many crosses of wood and rusty iron; and in the middle rises the image of Christ crucified. Before this image, on the right, was the deep grave, at the exact spot where, years ago, they had buried our mother's two children who had died. A mound of freshly-dug earth lay on either side of the grave. Here the bearers let the coffin down to the ground and stripped it of all its finery; and it slid down into the pit as poor as it had left the cottage in the wood. "Thou to-day, I to-morrow; and so I am content," murmured father. And the priest said: "May she rest in the Lord!" Then they cast clods of earth into the grave and went away, went to the inn, tasted bread and wine and talked of everyday things. When it was twelve o'clock and, according to custom, the bells began to toll once more, as a last farewell to the departed, the men and women of the forest set out to return to their mountain valley. We who belonged to one another sat together for a while longer and spoke sadly of the time that must now come and how to arrange for it. Then we took leave of one another: my father and brothers and sisters went home to the cottage in the wood, to live and die where mother had lived and died. FOOTNOTES: [20] Fasting or abstaining from flesh-meat on Saturdays, in honour of Our Lady, is a custom, an act of voluntary discipline, prevailing almost exclusively in the German and Austrian Highlands.--_Translator's Note._ [21] Hella, daughter of Laki and goddess of the dead, is the Persephone of Norse mythology.--_Translator's Note._ THE END Transcriber's note: In the text version italics are represented with _underscore_ and small caps with ALL CAPS. In the caption to the Frontispiece, the artist is named as Milicent Norris, elsewhere Melicent is used. Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. The following corrections have been made: Table of Contents: who went to prison -> period added after prison p. 16: in the Murztal; -> Murztal changed to Mürztal p. 18: bellettristic newspapers -> bellettristic changed to belletristic p. 27: Sünders was printed with a breve mark above the u instead of ü p. 76: something about him. -> added closing quotation mark after him. p. 129: diff erently -> differently p. 154: liked carved -> liked changed to like p. 171: It can't be possible---- Why -> added exclamation mark after possible---- p. 172: as Grosshöfen -> as changed to at p. 174: schoo teacher -> schoo changed to school p. 195: a telegram -> added colon after telegram p. 201: came to us see -> came to see us Everything else has been retained as printed, including archaic, uncommon and inconsistent spelling and inconsistent hyphenation. 
40889	----	Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Anglicized, archaic, or otherwise unusual spellings of proper nouns were retained as printed. Examples include "Botzen", "Kapuzingerberg", "Schonberg" and "Wencelaus". Inconsistent use of diacritics was also retained as printed. Obvious typographical errors were corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. [Illustration: A MAP TO ILLUSTRATE TYROL AND ITS PEOPLE] TYROL AND ITS PEOPLE [Illustration: THE GOAT HERD, KASTELRUTH, NEAR BOZEN] TYROL AND ITS PEOPLE BY CLIVE HOLLAND WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR BY ADRIAN STOKES THIRTY-ONE OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS AND A MAP METHUEN AND CO. 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. LONDON _First Published in 1909_ PREFACE In the following pages, which in addition to being a record of travel in a delightful and too little known portion of the great Austro-Hungarian Empire, are also an attempt to present within a reasonable compass an account of the national history of a singularly interesting people, the author has sought to deal more fully than is usually the case in books of the kind, with the romance and legend which is closely interwoven with the past of "the land within the mountains," as Tyrol has not inaptly been described. It is truly a land of mountains, valleys, lakes, and rushing torrents that may well have bred the race of romance-loving, poetic, and hardy people who dwell in it. In the minds of those who know it there arises almost inevitably a comparison with the nowadays overcrowded and over-exploited Switzerland--and the comparison is, both as regards scenery and general interest, greatly in favour of Tyrol. The tourist and holiday-maker who frequent Pontresina or St. Moritz will find in this comparatively new "playground for Europe" beautiful counterparts of those places in Innsbruck, Meran, Botzen, Kitzbühel, and other delightful towns; whilst the more strenuously inclined who delight in mountain ascents will find the Dolomite region especially attractive, and in many other districts also interesting climbs. By the shores of the placid, translucent lakes, and in many a happy, secluded valley, those in search of rest and quietude will find their desire fully satisfied. And in such old-world towns as Innsbruck (of many historical memories), beautiful Salzburg, charming Bregenz, Botzen, and Meran the traveller with more artistic, literary, or antiquarian tastes will delight. That Tyrol deserves to be better known few who have once come under the spell of its charms of scenery, and the frank hospitality and friendliness of its people, or have wandered amidst its lovely valleys and mountains, will deny. The early history of this interesting country is shrouded in much mystery, and to place accurately and date many events is a matter of very considerable difficulty, and in some cases of well-nigh impossibility, owing to the fragmentary nature of many of the existing records, and the contradictory nature of the accounts and evidence afforded by these. The greatest care, however, has been taken to make the dates given as accurate as possible, and the best authorities and descriptions of events have been consulted. Amongst others the works of Dr. Franz Wieser, Hans Semper, Von Alpenburg ("Mythen und Sagen Tirols"), Perini ("Castles of Tyrol"), Weber ("The Land of Tyrol"), an excellent and interesting anonymous guide to Salzburg, Scherer, Albert Wolff, V. Zingerle, Steub ("Die Verfassung Tirols"), Miller, and the excellent publications of the Tirol and Salzburg Landesverbaende für Fremdenverkehr, and other organizations. The spelling of names has presented much the same difficulty as the correct dating of events. There are several, and in some cases many, ways of spelling a large number of these. That of the latest edition of Baedeker has been adopted where this has been the case and doubt has existed. The author's especial thanks are due to Herr L. Sigmund, the Secretary of the Austrian Travel and Information Bureau, not only for much valuable information, but also for practical assistance whilst travelling in Tyrol, facilities afforded for research, and the use of some excellent photographs. To W. Baillie Grohman, Esq., of Schloss Matzen, Brixlegg, the well-known authority upon Tyrol, for the settlement of several disputed dates and accounts of historical events. Also for permission to make use of information (not otherwise easily procurable) contained in his exhaustive work "Tyrol, the Land in the Mountains," and for the beautiful photograph of Schloss Matzen reproduced as one of the illustrations in this present volume. To Dr. Richard Muendl, Imperial Councillor, Chief Inspector of the Imperial Southern Railway, and a member of the German and Austrian Alpine Society, for many valuable notes upon the Dolomite Region incorporated in Chapter X. To Dr. Otto Rosenheim the author's thanks are given for permission to reproduce some beautiful photographs of Tyrol scenery and Tyrolese subjects in place of less pictorial work by the author himself. To many others, who gave information to the author during his travels in Tyrol, relating to many interesting matters, acknowledgment is also here gratefully made. C. H. _June, 1909_ CONTENTS PAGE CHAPTER I THE ROMANCE AND HISTORY OF TYROL FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES DOWN TO THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 1 CHAPTER II TYROL FROM ITS INCORPORATION BY AUSTRIA AS A PART OF THE EMPIRE TO THE PRESENT TIME 33 CHAPTER III SOME CHARACTERISTIC LEGENDS, CUSTOMS, AND SPORTS 52 CHAPTER IV INNSBRUCK, ITS HISTORY, PEOPLE AND TREASURES 71 CHAPTER V THE ENVIRONS OF INNSBRUCK--CASTLE AMBRAS AND ITS TREASURES--IGLS: A QUAINT LEGEND CONCERNING ITS CHURCH--THE STUBAI VALLEY, AND SOME VILLAGES--HALL AND ITS SALT MINES--SPECKBACHER'S OLD HOME--ST. MICHAEL 113 CHAPTER VI SALZBURG, ITS HISTORY AND ROMANCE 147 CHAPTER VII THE ENVIRONS OF SALZBURG--HELLBRUNN, ITS UNIQUE FOUNTAINS AND GARDENS--THE CASTLE OF ANIF--THE GAISBERG--THE KAPUZINGERBERG--THE MOZART-HÄUSCHEN--THE MÖNCHSBERG --SALZBURG CHURCHES 176 CHAPTER VIII SOME TOWNS AND VILLAGES OF SOUTH TYROL--MERAN, BOZEN, KLAUSEN, BRIXEN, SPINGES, STERZING, MATREI 192 CHAPTER IX SOME TOWNS AND VILLAGES OF WALSCH-TYROL: TRENT, ITS HISTORY, COUNCIL, AND BUILDINGS--ROVEREDO AND DANTE--ARCO--RIVA 233 CHAPTER X AMONG THE DOLOMITES, WITH NOTES UPON SOME TOURS AND ASCENTS 254 CHAPTER XI THROUGH THE UNTER-INNTHAL: KUFSTEIN--KUNDL--RATTENBERG, AND THE STORY OF WILHELM BIENER--BRIXLEGG, AND ITS PEASANT DRAMAS--THE FAMOUS CASTLE OF MATZEN--ST. GEORGENBERG, AND ITS PILGRIMAGE CHURCH--CASTLE TRATZBERG --SCHWAZ 281 CHAPTER XII THROUGH THE OBER-INNTHAL: ZIRL, ITS CHURCH, LEGENDS, AND PAINTED HOUSES--THE MARTINSWAND AND MAXIMILIAN--SCHARNITZ --LANDECK--BLUDENZ--BREGENZ AND ITS LEGEND OF THE MAID 311 INDEX 329 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE IN COLOUR THE GOAT HERD, KASTELRUTH, NEAR BOZEN _Frontispiece_ VIEW FROM THE RITTEN, LOOKING SOUTH-WEST 28 THE SCHWARZHORN, SOUTH TYROL 40 A VIEW OF THE TYROL ALPS 54 THE ORTLER FROM THE MALSER HEIDE 68 MOONRISE IN TYROL 94 A PINE WOOD NEAR INNSBRUCK 108 MOUNTAIN POOL ON THE RITTEN 128 A QUIET PASTURE 166 WINTER NEAR MERAN 192 A SOUTH TYROL FARMSTEAD 208 SUMMER-TIME NEAR ST. ULRICH, GRÖDENERTHAL 226 ALPENWIESE, ON THE SEISER ALP 256 MOUNT LATEMAR 276 A WAYSIDE SHRINE IN A PINE WOOD 298 AUTUMN IN SOUTH TYROL 314 IN MONOTONE A VILLAGE ON THE BRENNER 10 _From a Photograph by Dr. Otto Rosenheim_ YOUNG TYROL 18 _From a Photograph by Dr. Otto Rosenheim_ A WAYSIDE SHRINE, TYROL 24 _From a Photograph by Dr. Otto Rosenheim_ ABOVE THE ARLBERG TUNNEL 32 SUNSET ON A TYROLESE LAKE 36 _From a Photograph by Clive Holland_ A TYPICAL TYROLESE LANDSCAPE 36 _From a Photograph by Clive Holland_ THE TRISANNA VIADUCT AND CASTLE WIESBERG 72 A PEEP OF THE ZILLERTHAL 72 THE FAMOUS "GOLDEN ROOF," INNSBRUCK 78 A TYPICAL INNSBRUCKER 88 VIADUCT ON STUBAI RAILWAY 130 VIEW OF THE GROSSGLOCKNER 130 THE MARKET PLACE, HALL 134 THE HALL VALLEY--WINTER 142 MOZART'S HOUSE IN THE MAKART PLATZ, SALZBURG 152 _From a Photograph by Clive Holland_ ONE OF THE FINEST DOORS OF THE STATE APARTMENTS IN THE FORTRESS, SALZBURG 164 _From a Photograph by Clive Holland_ MOUNTAIN PASTURES 178 _From a Photograph by Dr. Otto Rosenheim_ HOHEN-SALZBURG AND THE NONNBERG 182 _From a Photograph by Clive Holland_ SALZBURG MARKETWOMEN 190 _From a Photograph by Clive Holland_ MERAN 198 SCHLOSS TYROL, NEAR MERAN 202 A STREET IN BOZEN 206 ST. CYPRIAN AND THE PEAKS OF THE ROSENGARTEN 212 MISURINA LAKE 262 _From a Photograph by Dr. Otto Rosenheim_ A ROAD THROUGH THE DOLOMITES 264 A PEEP OF THE DOLOMITES 270 _From a Photograph by Clive Holland_ THE LANGKOFEL 272 _From a Photograph by Dr. Otto Rosenheim_ A PEEP OF KITZBUHEL 286 SCHLOSS MATZEN 294 _By kind permission of W. A. Baillie Grohman, Esq._ LANDECK AND ITS ANCIENT FORTRESS 320 CHURCH INTERIOR, TYROL 324 _From a Photograph by Clive Holland_ TYROL AND ITS PEOPLE CHAPTER I THE ROMANCE AND HISTORY OF TYROL FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES DOWN TO THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY As early as the eighth century Tyrol received a name which could not be bettered as descriptive of its scenery and institutions--"das Land im Gebirge," the Land in the Mountains. Fascinating alike is the scenery of Tyrol and its history. When one crosses the Swiss frontier by the Arlberg route one at once enters upon a land of mountains, rivers, and pleasant valleys. And with equal truth it may be said that when one crosses the frontier of Tyrolese history one is at once plunged in the midst of stirring, romantic, and gallant deeds enacted throughout the centuries from that far-off age, when the Cimbri penetrated and traversed the country and swept into north-eastern Italy, down almost to our own time. That Tyrol should have proved the battle-ground of nations is, of course, largely due to its geographical position. In early days it formed a "buffer state" between the Roman empire and the territory of the Cimbri and Alemanni. The question of the original inhabitants of Tyrol is still a much debated one, and appears to be as far off final settlement as ever; and this notwithstanding the enormous amount of interest which has been manifested in the subject by scientists, archæologists, and students during the last two centuries. Whether they were Cimbri, Etruscans, or Celts is still doubtful, although many learned authorities--more especially linguists--incline to the view that the earliest inhabitants were mainly of the Ligurian race, who were followed by Illyrians and Etruscans. And also regarding the manners, customs, and general characteristics of these early inhabitants, whoever they may have been, very little conclusive evidence is yet available. By both Greek and Roman writers they were referred to as Rhætians, in common with the inhabitants of Eastern Switzerland; and Horace himself speaks of "The Alpine Rhæti, long unmatched in battle." Thus it is that the most ancient name by which Tyrol is known is that of Rhætia. [Sidenote: INVASION OF THE CIMBRI] To the Romans, however, all-conquering though they were, little was known of the country until the Cimbri penetrated its mountains and traversed its valleys and passed on their way to the north-eastern frontier of Italy about 102 B.C. By what route these barbarians crossed the Alps on their march to invade north-eastern Italy there has been as much discussion as over the question of the original inhabitants of Tyrol. And, although the event to which we refer occurred scarcely a century prior to the conquest of Tyrol by the Romans there is little information other than of a speculative character to throw light upon the question at issue. For many years the weight of opinion was in favour of the contention that the Cimbri entered Southern Tyrol and eventually reached the Venetian plains by the Reschen Scheideck and the Vintschgau, but the later researches of Mommsen have served to give additional, if not absolutely conclusive, weight to the view that the Brenner was the route taken by the Cimbri[1] on their way southward from their Germanic fastnesses, just as it was undoubtedly the route, but, of course, reversed, chosen by the Romans under Drusus by which to enter Tyrol on their march of conquest. One piece of evidence which would appear to be of considerable weight, and as conclusively favouring Mommsen's view, is the fact that the Brenner route forms not only the one of lowest altitude, but also the only one by which the whole Alpine system and its parallel chains can be crossed by passing over one chain alone, and in no other spot in the range do two valleys on either side cut so far into the centre of the principal chain of the Alps. Moreover, from Plutarch's "Marius" one learns the spot where the Roman general, Quintus Lutatius Catullus, and his legions, which were sent from panic-stricken Rome to check the advance of the invaders, first encountered the Cimbri on the banks of the River Adige between Verona and near the foot of the Brenner. The encounter ended in the triumph of the host of skin-clad invaders who descended the snow-slopes of the mountains with an onslaught so terrible that even the trained and well-armed hosts of Rome had to give way before them. But the power of Rome was not easily shaken, and the triumph of the Cimbri was but brief. Their southward march was destined very soon to meet with so severe a check that further advance on Rome, or into the heart of Italy, was rendered impossible. In 101 B.C., the year following their appearance in the beautiful province of Venetia, where they created, so historians tell us, a terrible panic, the Roman arms triumphed at Vercelli, when the invaders, led by Bojorich, suffered a crushing defeat in one of the bloodiest battles ever fought, in which it is said 320,000 were slain, and were driven out of Italy. The moral effect of this invasion upon the Rhætians, through whose territory the Cimbri had passed, bore fruit a few years later, when they attempted the same tactics, making frequent raids into Roman territory. Some sixty years after the incursion of the Cimbri they were defeated and driven back into their valleys and mountains by the Roman general, Munatius Plancus; and a few years later, in 36 B.C., not only was a fresh raid repulsed, but the invaders were followed home, and a considerable portion of the district in the neighbourhood of what is now known as Trent was taken possession of by the Roman forces. [Sidenote: ROMAN CONQUEST OF TYROL] The Rhætians, however, were a hardy, valorous, and pugnacious tribe, and so frequent were their attacks upon the Roman forces left to hold the conquered country that the Emperor Augustus, about twenty years after the subjection of the Trent district, decided as a measure of self-protection on the conquest of the whole of Rhætia, as far as the River Danube. And for this work he deputed his two stepsons, Drusus and Tiberius. The campaign, historians are agreed, was planned with great skill, and probably by the Emperor himself. The Roman forces were divided, one portion, under Drusus, entering Tyrol from the south, having Tridentum (Trent) as its base; and the other, under Tiberius, delivering its attack from the west across what is now Switzerland. Tiberius took this route (the most direct, though a difficult one) because at that time he was absent from Italy, in Gaul, as governor. Drusus had a more easy task, and pushed his way up the wide valley of the River Adige[2] to the present site of Bozen. His objective was the Pass of the Brenner, which, once seized, would give him the command of the country. His advance was not, however, made without opposition, for the Breones and Genones, who dwelt in the vicinity of the Brenner, attacked the Roman forces, and a fierce battle and series of skirmishes ensued. Horace, in Book IV., Ode 14 and 4, gives a vivid if, possibly, highly coloured account of the struggle which took place in the gorge near Bozen. The river Icarous ran red with the blood of both conquerors and conquered. And--as has been the case on many subsequent occasions when fighting has had to be done by the Tyrolese--the women played a valorous part, even, according to the historian, Florus, throwing their infant children into the faces of the Roman soldiery when other weapons failed. The campaign of the two stepsons of Augustus resulted in the complete and final conquest of Tyrol. The victory, won in the narrow gorge of the Eisack, was commemorated in the name of the bridge _Pons Drusi_ spanning the river, hard by which now stands the interesting mediæval town of Bozen. Successful as Drusus' forces were, none the less so were those of Tiberius. There, however, is less record of his battles, and the actual ground on which they were fought forms still matter for conjecture. And equally uncertain is the exact spot where the two victorious generals ultimately met. It is, however, thought by several reliable authorities to have been somewhere in the valley of the Inn, and probably not far distant from the present site of Innsbruck. This view is made the more probable from the circumstance that a Roman post was established at Wilten (now a suburb of Innsbruck) then known as Veldidena. Here probably both armies rested after a campaign of great fatigue and severity owing to the nature of the ground over which it was fought and the stubborn resistance offered by the inhabitants. Soon Veldidena, from a halting-place of armies, became a town with houses of considerable size, temples, baths, and surrounding _vallæ_, or earthen fortifications formed to defend the inhabitants from sudden attack. Although precautions of the nature we have indicated were taken wherever a Roman post or station was placed, there is no historical data to show that the Breones and other adjacent tribes who were thus brought under the Roman sway did not very speedily accommodate themselves to the new condition of things and become good and peaceful citizens of Rome. It appears probable, however, that the Rhæti did not adapt themselves to the altered conditions as speedily as did their northern neighbours, the inhabitants of Noricum, with whom certain Roman habits and customs (including the system of municipal government) already obtained. From the evidence adduced by several diligent historians and from that of one comparatively modern writer[3] in particular it is almost certain that after the sanguinary and decisive battle on the banks of the Eisack Tiberius set his face once again westward to resume his governorship of Gaul, leaving his brother, Drusus, to continue the subjection of Tyrol, and ultimately to found the important settlement of Augusta Vindelicorum, now known as Augsburg. Here the Roman general not only threw up a fortified camp, but also built a forum to encourage commerce; and soon the settlement became the most important Roman station to the north of the Central Alps. Some writers, doubtless bearing in mind the hardihood and bravery of the native inhabitants and the mountainous and thus easily defended nature of the ground the Roman legions had to traverse and fight over, have expressed some surprise at the comparative ease with which Drusus and Tiberius appear to have accomplished the conquest of the country. More perfect discipline and arms of greater effectiveness will not, however, we think, altogether account for this, for history has over and over again proved that knowledge of the ground by the defenders and mountainous regions count heavily against successful attacks on the part of an invader. It can only therefore be supposed that the various tribes who formed the inhabitants of Rhætia were either antagonistic to one another or at least were not welded together in a common cause against the invading Roman hosts, and thus the country was conquered and kept in subjection with greater ease than would otherwise have been the case. As a result of the invasion by Drusus and Tiberius and the Roman legions the tract of country then and for some considerable time afterwards known as Rhætia, but now known as Tyrol and the Vorarlberg, ultimately became Romanized, and by the making of the Brenner Post Road, which was constructed by the direction of the Emperor Augustus between Verona and Augsburg (Augusta Vindelicorum), communication between the Germanic Empire and Italy was opened up. Thus was the lowest and most accessible of the passes over the mountains which separated Italy from the barbaric regions beyond crossed by one of those splendid military roads, which has endured nearly two thousand years until the present day. [Sidenote: ROMAN OCCUPATION] The Roman occupation of Rhætia lasted for five centuries. Under the rule of Rome the inhabitants learned much of those arts which remained the heritage of conquered races long after the sway of the great Roman Empire had come to an end. And traces of that rule, in the form of weapons, ornaments, articles of jewelry and the toilet, and other relics have from time to time come to light throughout the portions of Tyrol settled by the Romans. Soon along the great Brenner Road, which formed a highway from Italy to the northern lands beyond Tyrol, activity evinced itself. One of the most important of the early stations upon it was Veldidena (Wilten), where the road after crossing the main range of mountains emerges from the Alpine gorge on the northern side into a wide and pleasant valley. From this point--close to which, later on, the capital of Tyrol was destined to be founded--the great Brenner Post Road branched. One fork led by two divergent ways to the same objective--Augsburg. The other led in a north-westerly direction by way of Masciacum (Matzen) and Albianum (Kufstein) to Pons Aeni, which in all probability closely approximates to the present-day site of Rosenheim. This road ran down the wide Inn valley, nowadays known as the Unter Innthal to differentiate it from the valley of the Upper Inn which runs from the frontier of Switzerland to Innsbruck. It was along the great military road leading from Verona to Augsburg that the chief Rhæto-Roman stations were placed. Amongst these were Tridentum (Trent), Pons Drusi (Bozen), Vilpetenum (Sterzing), Matrejum (Matrei), Scarbio (Scharnitz), Veldidena (Wilten). At first, doubtless, these outposts of Roman civilization were little more than isolated fortresses, or even perhaps merely _speculæ_ or watch towers, and of these many examples still remain, from which not only could the road and its approaches be reconnoitred, but also signals both by day and by night could be made. In the first case by means of smoke or semaphores, and in the second by bonfires kindled in cressets or on the hillside itself. [Sidenote: THE BRENNER PASS] Another highway into Tyrol through the Vintschgau came to be known as the Via Claudia Augusta, which name was also improperly applied to a portion of the Brenner Road. After much contention we think it is now generally accepted that Mommsen, who has investigated and weighed the evidence with astonishing care, is correct in assuming that the only portion of the road via the Reschen-Scheideck Pass which should be called the Via Claudia Augusta is that traversing the Vintschgau Valley. The road was constructed not in the reign of Augustus, who initiated the Brenner Road, but in that of his grandson, the Emperor Claudius, about A.D. 46-47. It was intended to connect up the River Po with the River Danube by the Reschen-Scheideck route, and along it at various times since the middle of the sixteenth century milestones of Roman origin have been discovered. Though from the fact that little reference is made to it by the better-known Roman writers of the period, one may assume that the Via Claudia was of quite secondary importance to the Brenner Road. But nevertheless it seems probable that it was the route used for the transportation of stores for the Roman forces of occupation during the fifth century not long prior to the evacuation of the country. The Brenner Road for a considerable period after its construction appears to have been rather a highway for commerce than a military road in the usual sense of the term. The chief article exported from Tyrol was salt from the still famous salt mines at Hall, near Innsbruck, on the northern bank of the Inn. There were also sent southward into Italy raw hides, timber, Alpine herbs used in the preparation of medicines, liqueurs, and the purposes of the toilet; and dairy produce of various kinds, of which cheese was probably (according to Pliny) one of the chief articles. In those far-off days, too, much excellent wine was grown far further north in Tyrol than nowadays when the vine is not cultivated, for vintage purposes at all events, further north than the southern slope of the Brenner. In Roman times the Brenner also formed a link between Aquileia, one of the most flourishing and important seaport cities on the Adriatic, and Noricum. As did also another, then important but nowadays almost deserted route, that of the Plöcken Pass, of which it is believed Cæsar made frequent use. Along this several important stations were founded, amongst them Tricesimum, Julium Carnicum (Zuglio), Aguntum (Innichen), Lonicum (Lienz) and Sebatum (Schabs). Time, however, was destined to divert the trade from the Plöcken Pass route to that of the Brenner, and the settlements along the former gradually declined in importance. As we have before stated, the Brenner Pass was not originally used so much for military purposes as was afterwards the case. And it is not until the latter half of the second century of the Christian Era that we find it assuming importance as a military highway. Then the frequent incursions southward of various Germanic tribes caused the Romans to fully comprehend the strategical value of northern Rhætia. Two decades at least were occupied in the reconstruction of the surface and bridges along the road which had owed its origin to the Emperor Augustus, and the result was the building of a highway suitable for the speedy passage and massing of large bodies of troops. Of the stations which were founded along it we have already spoken, it only remains to say that these were supplemented by "posts" which were dotted here and there as they were along most other roads made by Roman builders. They were, however, chiefly used for military and state rather than for ordinary purposes. An interesting writer,[4] who has made the history of the Brenner a special study, has thrown considerable light upon the inns and hostelries which little by little sprang up to meet the requirements of the travelling public of those days, who were not, as a rule, permitted to make use of the official posts. Apparently, these refuges from the other alternative of spending a night upon the road were by no means luxurious. In fact, they were probably far otherwise, and their chief redeeming feature was the undoubted cheapness of the accommodation they offered. It could not be considered an extravagant charge for a night's lodging with food of sorts when the bill amounted to rather less than the equivalent of an English halfpenny! a sum which would nowadays surprise the modern _oste_ or innkeeper of the Italian Tyrol as much as his own charges would the Roman wayfarer of long ago. [Illustration: A VILLAGE ON THE BRENNER] [Sidenote: ROMAN REMAINS] On the heels of Roman civilization, represented by commerce and travel, which was destined not only to permeate conquered Rhætia, but to penetrate the regions beyond, in course of time there sprang into existence a fortress here and a castle there which not only served to hold the land, but also to encourage and initiate civilization and bring security to those residing in its immediate vicinity. Of these, happily for the historian and antiquarian, many traces yet remain. All along the Brenner the Romans found and were not slow to seize upon natural coigns of vantage where their unexampled skill as military builders and engineers permitted them to speedily convert not easily accessible spurs of the mountains into impregnable fortresses. Upon some of the castles, the ruins of which nowadays serve to render these rocky crags of undying interest, the stars must have looked down ere the dawn of the Christian Era. Of the occupation of Rhætia by the Romans, unfortunately comparatively few authentic details have come down to us. But long ere the power of Rome had waned, never to reassume its pristine greatness, the problem of resistance to the invasion from the Teutonic tribes to the north and north-east had become a very real one. Towards the end of the third century A.D. the Alemanni crossed the Danube and threatened Rhætia, and through it Italy. They were, it is true, defeated by the Emperor Maximianus, but the check inflicted was but temporary. About A.D. 260 Rhætia was invaded several times by the same barbarian tribe, and on one occasion, at least, Tyrol was ravaged from end to end, and the invaders afterwards entered Italy, which they penetrated as far south as Ravenna, having first plundered and destroyed Verona. In the reign of Claudius (about 269) there was yet another invasion, and although the forces of Rome ultimately proved victorious in the struggle with the Teutonic hordes in a battle fought at Naïssus on the borderland of Tyrol and Italy, when 320,000 are said to have been slain, there was no lasting peace. The inroads of the Goths vexed many a quickly succeeding Emperor in the days when reigns were scarcely to be reckoned as frequently by years as by months, and it was not until the reign of Aurelianus that the Goths were driven out of Rhætia and Vindelicia. Under succeeding Roman rulers there were other raids by the Goths, and then at last along the roads of Rhætia and over the passes of the Brenner and the Plöcken poured the invading hosts which were destined to bring about the eclipse of the powerful Empire which had for so many centuries controlled the destinies of the greater part of the then known world. Just as in our own land, history is almost silent for the period immediately following the departure of the Roman legions, drawn off to save Rome, if possible, from the invading hosts of the Goths and Huns, so was it in Tyrol. Of the years of devastation by fire and sword which succeeded the withdrawal of the Roman forces from Rhætia there have come down to us but very scanty details. During this period much of Roman art and civilization was undoubtedly blotted out by the barbarian hordes; and, indeed, so far as can be ascertained, little of either was ultimately left in Rhætia. Theodoric, the Ostrogothic leader, who had conquered Italy in about 489, planned Rhætia and the Brenner as a barrier against the attacks of northern invaders, a tribe of whom (the Baiovarii) ultimately possessed themselves of Vindelicia and Rhætia as far as the southern slope of the Brenner Pass. About this same period--the middle half of the sixth century--a very considerable portion of north-eastern Italy and that part of Rhætia in the vicinity of Tridentum (Trent) was seized by the Longobards or Lombards. Their Italian Empire lasted for two centuries, and eventually included the larger portion of what is nowadays known as the Italian Tyrol. Meantime, the Baiovarii or Bavarians had conquered the upper part of Rhætia, and in the beginning of the seventh century their Duke, Garibaldi II., succeeded in checking the frequent inroads of the Slavs, although he did not succeed in entirely excluding them from the country; in the eastern portion of which they remained for a considerable period. Towards the end of the eighth century (about 789) the whole of what is now known as Tyrol came under the sovereignty of Charlemagne, who crushed the Lombards, and a few years later succeeded in also subduing the Baiovarii. During the centuries of internecine warfare, with its concomitants of rapine and chaos, which succeeded the evacuation of Rhætia by the Roman forces, most of the original inhabitants or peaceably disposed Romanized Rhætians fled with other fugitives from the southern or northern plains to the valleys and byways amid the mountains which hitherto probably had been almost if not entirely unpopulated. Here they settled, leaving the main routes open to the passage of the Teutonic invaders bent on the plunder of the Italian cities and plains, who, we may imagine, did not greatly trouble themselves regarding the byways or waste time in conquering those who had thus hidden themselves amid the higher Alpine valleys and fastnesses. The result of this is seen in the circumstance that whilst in many cases the out-of-the-way places and villages to this day preserve their original Romanized Rhætian names, those upon the main routes of travel have in many instances a purely Teutonic nomenclature. [Sidenote: "THE LAND IN THE MOUNTAINS"] The great Empire which Charlemagne created had strangely enough no natural delimitations, and when it was divided, in A.D. 806, into three portions amongst his sons, the division was not made upon any usually recognized system or plan. Tyrol still was unknown by that name, the country about that time being known as "Das Land im Gebirge," or "The Land in the Mountains." The immediate successors to the divided empire of Charlemagne were far less able than he to cope with the anarchy which so frequently overwhelmed south-eastern and north-eastern Europe in those days. There was practically no such unity as now prevails, and, owing to this, the powerful nobles and ecclesiastics gradually succeeded in dividing up the land amongst themselves according to the almost universal custom of the Middle Ages. The records of Tyrolese history of the period are, however, so wretchedly meagre that few positive and uncontrovertible facts have come down to us regarding the events which immediately followed the partition of Charlemagne's Empire amongst his sons. That the Brenner Pass and Tyrol formed a sort of highway for successive invaders of Italy, who swarmed across it from the East and North, there is, however, little reason for doubt. As has been very truly said, "What these vast expeditions, consisting of more or less disorderly masses of curiously mixed races, all in the panoply of war, all eager for booty, even if bent on a peaceable mission, meant for the countries through which they slowly ate and robbed their way, it is not quite easy to picture to one's self in these civilized days, when, even in the fiercest war, the non-combatant has no reason to go in fear of a violent death or having his women outraged before his eyes, and his house razed to the ground." That such things took place in Tyrol is made almost certain from the statements of contemporary writers, amongst others, Gottfried von Viterbo, Vincenz von Prague, and Otho von Freising. [Sidenote: OLD-TIME TRAVELLERS] It is the custom for most people to imagine that the "extras" for lights, tips to servants, and attendance which so often makes the present-day hotel bill exasperating, are a modern institution. This is, however, not the case, for some most interesting and illuminating diaries of early travel which were discovered in 1874 amongst the archives of the monastery of Cividate show that at the commencement of the thirteenth century there were a succession of inns already existing along the Brenner route, where travellers could not only obtain lodgment and entertainment, but even purchase necessary medicines. There are also entries for lights, attendance, and gratuities, which probably vexed the soul of the ecclesiastical diarist we have referred to as much as they do modern travellers. Of the types who tramped or rode along the great Tyrol highway and lodged at the inns, we have fortunately a fairly detailed and accurate picture handed down to us. If only there had been a Tyrolese Chaucer what a record might have been preserved! From the diaries of the Bishop of Passau (whose notes we have quoted), however, we gratefully gather that in addition to the ordinary itinerant merchants and countryfolk there were bard musicians of both sexes, conjurers (more or less skilful, and many of them charlatans), singers, mendicant friars (some of little holiness), and the far-famed minnesingers who for a considerable period had a great vogue at Courts and castles. Along this famous high-road of the Brenner and through Tyrol passed, during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, many of the pilgrims and Crusaders bound for or returning from Palestine or some distant shrine of peculiar merit or holiness. [Sidenote: EARLY TYROLESE RULERS] One of the chief amongst the many changes and reforms instituted by Charlemagne was the sub-division of the countries he had conquered and welded together to form his Empire into margravates or departments which he placed under the rule of his nobles and other officials whom he appointed for the purpose. Although this system undoubtedly worked well during his powerful sway, after his death and during the anarchy and dissension which distinguished the reigns of his immediate successors what might have been expected happened. The more powerful of the nobles and officials and their descendants soon commenced to regard their offices as of the nature of hereditary appointments, and in consequence with the development of this idea small dynasties were gradually founded, and towards the close of the tenth century three of these had sprung into existence in Tyrol. These three Countships or _Grafschaften_ were of Andechs, Eppan, and Tyrol, and the country was eventually divided up amongst them and the great ecclesiastical lords of the Sees of Trent, Brixen, and Coire. As is the case with so much of early Tyrol history and events, very scanty information of a reliable character has come down to us regarding the origin of these three great families of nobles who held sway in the country. Nor is it for the purpose of this book necessary to enquire closely into the evidence we have. The origin of the family of Andechs is almost entirely unknown, although for a considerable period they were the most powerful of the three families we have named. The Eppans are believed to have been descendants of a natural son of a Duke of Bavaria, and their long and bloody feud with the Bishops of Brixen on account of lands taken from them and given to the See is enshrined in Tyrol history and legend. The third family, the Counts of Tyrol, though originally by no means the most important, was destined to outlast the other two, and eventually to become possessed of most of the country and give its name to ancient Rhætia. Although even in the days of the Roman occupation there appears to have been a Castle Tyrol, which was the residence of a centurion, the family, as it is generally known, is supposed to have taken its origin from Count Hunfried who lived in the reign of Charlemagne, and was also Count of Vintschgau. This noble came into prominence on the division of Charlemagne's Empire amongst his three sons; but it appears to be probable that it was not until the middle part of the thirteenth century that one of the owners of Castle Tyrol or Teriolis first took the title of Counts of Tyrol.[5] The earliest reference to the three Counts of Tyrol appears in the archives about the year 1140, and we find the family dwelling in the Castle Tyrol or Teriolis, near Meran. It was from this fortress, now in a ruinous condition except for the chapel and fine porch dating from the twelfth century, that not only the family took its name but eventually the whole country came to be known. Gradually one by one the possessions of the other nobles in Tyrol were taken from them or became absorbed by marriage in that of the Counts of Tyrol. Until about 1240 the then reigning Count Albert was able to style himself Prince Count (or gefürsteter Graf) of Tyrol so widespread and rich were his possessions. The Principality thus formed remained a fief of the German Empire until the reign of Maximilian I. (1493) when it was incorporated with the other possessions of the Crown. The first of the Prince Counts of Tyrol was successful, in 1248, in obtaining from the Counts of Andechs the district of the Inn Valley, once the site of Roman Veldidena, which place tradition asserts was destroyed about A.D. 452 by the Huns under the leadership of Attila on their return through Tyrol after their defeat by Aëtius at the battle of Chalons. During the early Middle Ages the Premonstratensian Abbey of Wilten had been built on the site of the ancient town, and later on the Counts of Andechs, who had become possessed of land in the neighbourhood on the banks of the Inn, became the most powerful and influential nobles in the district. Under them a trading post or centre of commerce was founded near the bridge over the Inn, the importance of which can be easily understood when its proximity to the Brenner high-road, a then busy thoroughfare, is borne in mind. From this bridge over the Inn was derived the name of the town Innsbruck--afterwards destined to become the capital of Tyrol--a mention of which appears for the first time in archives of the year 1327. It was to the foresight and enterprise of Otto of Andechs that the town owed the walls, towers, and fortifications which were to stand it in good stead. Count Otto also built himself a palace, which still is known as Ottoburg. Concerning the various princes who reigned over Tyrol in succession to Count Albert down to Henry, the youngest son of Meinhard II., who, by marrying the daughter of the King of Bohemia, claimed the throne on the death of his father-in-law and took the title of king, although forced to surrender his claims to Bohemia, and rest content with Tyrol and Carinthia, it is not necessary to say much. This Henry was a good-natured, easily influenced ruler, who by reason of these characteristics fell almost entirely into the hands of the more powerful of his nobles, who by flattery and supplies of money to meet his spendthrift habits were able to acquire not only influence over him, but also gain great possessions from and unchecked by him. Under this ruler Meran became the capital of Tyrol; and Hall, Sterzing, and other places were raised to the dignity of towns. Though easily led, Henry was not without his virtues, for he granted several privileges which were in the interests of commerce, and under his rule the hard lots of the villein and working classes were lightened, and a heritable system of land tenure for the peasant class devised and established. The effect of this was destined to be beneficial not only to those it was primarily intended to assist, but also to the nobles, and Henry himself. For as the nobles seldom or never paid taxes it followed that, with increased prosperity, the lower orders (who bore the greater part of the burden of taxation) could be taxed to a higher degree without suffering in proportion. Many stories are current concerning the difficulties into which Henry's wastrel habits got him. One of them is that he was unable at Innsbruck to settle the bill of a fish and wine merchant, and as a last resort gave this man, one Eberhard, the bridge toll, which it is unnecessary to say formed a valuable consideration. [Illustration: YOUNG TYROL] [Sidenote: "POCKET MOUTHED MEG"] At his death in 1335 he left no male heir, the succession falling to his daughter Margaret, known to history as "wide (or Pocket) Mouthed Meg" on account of her remarkably ill-formed mouth. How her mouth became so ugly is not exactly known. One story states the name was derived from the word _Maultasche_, in consequence of her having had her ears (or side of face) boxed or struck. The explanation gains some weight from the fact that the blow was said to have been struck her by one of her Bavarian relatives, and the circumstance that she ultimately left her heritage to her Austrian cousins and not to the Bavarian branch of the family, thus causing Tyrol to become a part of the Austrian Empire. Eventually, after many abortive attempts to arrange a marriage with the numerous suitors who were willing to become allied to perhaps the richest though the ugliest heiress in Europe of that time, for her inheritance comprised the dukedoms of Goricia, Croatia and Carinthia, as well as the beautiful land Tyrol, Margaret was married, in A.D. 1330, to the youthful Prince John of Bohemia, the bridegroom being nine years of age and the bride several years older. The latter was destined to have a troublous career, ugly as her mouth in some of its details; and the young couple, when (a few years after the formal marriage) they came to live together, were almost from the first at variance. John was feeble and of weak intellect, and Margaret as determined and shameless as were many other women rulers in those times. Plots and intrigues were rife, the former between the two parties who espoused the German or Luxembourg (Bohemian) claims, the latter between Margaret and her courtier and even peasant lovers, some of whom were given privileges and even lands and patents of nobility by the amorous princess of the "Pocket Mouth," who made several unsuccessful attempts to get rid of her husband, until she frightened him into returning to his own country. This desire accomplished, Margaret commenced to put in operation her further plans. John was a fugitive, going from castle to castle in search of shelter or sanctuary, awaiting assistance from his father or the Luxembourg party, which was favourable to the Bohemian side of the question. Soon the Emperor Louis, who was the ruler of the Holy Roman Empire and a deadly enemy of the Bohemians, saw an opportunity for accomplishing a long-cherished desire, that of the acquisition of Tyrol. He found a ready accomplice in his good-looking, attractive son, who appeared willing enough to marry another man's wife, however ill-tempered and ugly, even before the first marriage was formally declared null and void by the Pope, provided wealth and possessions were acquired with her. However, when the Pope--who himself had cast longing eyes on Margaret's possessions--heard of the proposed union, he not only declined to annul the marriage between John and Margaret, but threatened the latter with excommunication if she espoused the son of Louis, who was his implacable foe. There were also reasons of consanguinity which made the marriage impossible without the Pope's sanction. Louis, however, not to be thwarted in his desire, set about to find a bishop willing to defy the Pontiff and bold enough to solemnize the marriage. Soon he succeeded in persuading the Bishop of Freisingen both to annul the first marriage and celebrate the second. Accordingly the Emperor, in whose train were numbers of nobles, set forth with the bishop mentioned, and also the bishops of Augsburg and Regensburg, for Tyrol. But whilst on the journey and crossing a pass (the Jaufen), which afforded the quickest route from Sterzing to Margaret's home near Meran, the Bishop of Freisingen's horse stumbled and threw its rider, killing him on the spot. This accident so sapped the courage of the other two bishops (who doubtless considered the event as a direct message of wrath from Heaven) that they refused to go on with the scheme upon which they had embarked. This did not, however, weaken the determination of either the Emperor or Louis, who, on his arrival at Castle Tyrol, forced the terrified resident chaplain to celebrate the marriage, although we are told the people protested loudly, anticipating terrible punishments for breaking the laws of the Church and defying the commands of the Pope. Nevertheless the event was celebrated with great festivities, and, so far as one can gather, no immediate wrath from Heaven was experienced by the evildoers. [Sidenote: ERA OF CIVIL WAR] During the weak rule of John, the various nobles in Tyrol had gained great ascendency; had extended their possessions and rights; and had in fact seriously weakened the sovereign power of their ruler. Louis proved of very different metal to his precursor. He at once attacked the nobles, who had aggregated to themselves unlawful or dangerous authority, devastating their estates, burning and dismantling their castles and fortresses, and exiling those who did not submit. Civil war of the most bloodthirsty kind ran riot in Tyrol, and other disasters in the shape of fire, which destroyed some of the most important towns, including Meran the capital; swarms of locusts, plague and earthquake, all afflicted the unhappy and unfortunate land. It is needless to say that these terrible calamities were esteemed by many Tyrolese as the direct expression by Heaven of anger at Margaret's bigamous marriage and defiance of the power of the Church. The ravages of the Black Death were not less severe than in other parts of Southern Europe, and, according to one chronicler, scarcely a sixth of the population of Tyrol were left alive. As was so often the case in the Middle Ages, some human scapegoat was sought for and found; and the very common one was fixed upon--the Jews. The persecution of this unfortunate race which ensued was of so ruthless a character that neither women, children, nor the aged were spared, with the result, we are told, that very few were left alive. Then succeeded a period of war. The supporters of the discarded husband of Margaret--John of Bohemia--were not slow to seek to revenge themselves upon her, and Tyrol was subsequently invaded by the King of Bohemia, who was joined by the militant Bishop of Trent with considerable forces. An active campaign followed, characterized by great cruelty on the part of the invaders, during which the two chief towns, Meran and Bozen, were captured and destroyed, and ultimately Margaret was besieged in her own Castle of Tyrol. It was so admirably situated for defence that in her husband's absence Margaret, who, with all her vices and failings, was no coward, was able to defend it successfully from all assaults, and did so until her husband was able to return by forced marches, and surprising the besiegers, succeeded in defeating them and forcing them to retire. The country, however, suffered terribly during the enemy's retreat, as, in revenge for being baulked of their prey, they burned and ravaged in every direction, and spared no man from the sword. Indeed, the history of the campaign exhibits in the most lurid light the underlying and primitive savagery of all warfare in the Middle Ages. It was to meet the heavy charges arising from the prolonged campaign and defence of his territory that Louis had to sell or pawn many of his richest personal possessions, with the result that many nobles (who provided him with money or other support) gained or regained valuable privileges and a considerable accession of power and influence. [Sidenote: STORIES ABOUT "MEG"] Into the whole course of this war and the history of Tyrol--interesting and even fascinating though it be--it is impossible for us to enter. Margaret ultimately (it may be noted) made her peace with Rome, owing to the influence exercised over the Pope by her Austrian cousins of the House of Habsburg, the condition of their mediation being that she should leave to them and not to her Bavarian cousins her heritage should her son and heir Meinhard pre-decease her, and die without issue. Fate favoured the schemes of the Habsburgs, for both Margaret's husband Louis and her son died before her, the latter at the early age of twenty. As an example of the old saw, "Give a dog a bad name and hang him," popular opinion laid both deaths at Margaret's door. Her husband died in 1361-2 whilst on a journey to Munich in her company. This supposed murder was, according to then common report, a _crime passionel_ arising from Margaret's fear that Louis was about to compass the death of Conrad of Frauenberg, a noble with whom she had carried on an intrigue that had been common talk and a scandal for years. On the death of his father, Meinhard assumed the responsibility of government; in doing this he appears to have placed, or attempted to place, some sort of check upon the shameless conduct and intrigues of his mother, and when he died in January, 1363, his death, like that of Louis, was laid at his mother's door. Popular opinion, however, has been proved to have been in error by historians who do not favour the supposition that she was really guilty of either death; and although no explanation of the actual cause of Louis's death is forthcoming, there would appear some evidence for supposing that Meinhard's untimely end was unromantic and free from mystery, and, in fact, was the result of drinking cold water whilst overheated from exertion. In those days, although news travelled but slowly according to modern ideas, it was less than a fortnight ere it had reached Vienna, and Rudolph IV. of Habsburg, by travelling "day and night," was at Bozen eager to make certain his position as the eldest of the three brothers to whom his cousin Margaret had agreed to cede Tyrol and her other wide possessions. Around the picturesque, though licentious and uninviting, figure of "Pocket-Mouthed Meg" has gathered an accretion of traditions and tales unequalled by those attached to any other Tyrol ruler. But, although she was for many years so outstanding a figure in the history of her country and indeed of South-Eastern Europe, strangely few authentic records or documentary corroboration of these stories have been discoverable. Thus, by the death of Meinhard in 1363, the country became a portion of Austria under the rule of Rudolph IV., who, though young, was wise and far-seeing. However, he was not destined to long enjoy the possessions he had acquired chiefly by skilful diplomacy, and on his death, two years after his accession, Tyrol was governed jointly by his two brothers--Leopold and Albert. During this dual control the Bavarian relations of Margaret made frequent incursions into the country, especially in the neighbourhood of the Unter-Innthal, and in 1369 succeeded in obtaining a large sum from the Habsburgs at a temporary peace made at Schärding. Ten years later the dual sovereignty came to an end, the two brothers dividing the inheritance, Leopold taking Tyrol as his share. He was killed at the Battle of Sempach on July 9th, 1386, where the Swiss gained so signal a victory under the leadership of Arnold Von Winkelried. [Sidenote: DUKE FREDERICK'S REIGN] In 1406 Frederick, Leopold's youngest son, succeeded to the sovereignty, which during his minority had been held by his elder brothers and his Uncle Albert, who had ruled the country in so lax a manner that the nobles gained a great ascendency. It was, indeed, no easy task to which Duke Frederick was called. The nickname bestowed upon him, that of "the Empty Purse," was by no means an exact description of his financial condition, save during a comparatively short period of his reign of thirty years. It was given him at the time he was an outlaw by reason of the ban of the Church, and was obliged to fly for his life and take refuge amid the mountains. His was a stormy reign. In the early portion of it he was at variance with many of the most powerful of his nobles, who resisted his attempts to curtail the power which they had acquired during his minority. After the anxieties and hardships which ensued, when the country was over-run by the Bavarians, and even the capital threatened, Frederick was destined to have still greater trouble by reason of his action at the Council of Constance, which was summoned to settle the momentous questions as to who was the rightful head of the Church, and who the ruler of the Empire. There were three claimants for each position, nominated and supported by the rival factions. The spiritual claimants were John XXIII., Benedict XIII., Gregory XII.; and the temporal Kings Sigismund of Hungary, Jost of Moravia, and Wencelaus of Bohemia. [Illustration: A WAYSIDE SHRINE, TYROL] Of the Ecclesiastical claimants John had Frederick's support, and when the former, failing to get elected by the Council, had not only to renounce his claims but flee for his life, Frederick assisted him to escape from Constance. This act of loyalty to a friend almost cost Frederick his life, as Sigismund (who of the three candidates had been elected Emperor) was his enemy, and not only succeeded in persuading the assembly to declare Frederick's throne forfeited, but also him and his chief supporters and followers outlaws, to shelter any of whom was a crime punishable with death. Frederick's evil case was made worse and his difficulties immeasurably increased by the secession to the ranks of his enemies of his brother Ernest, who had taken the Dukedom of Styria as his portion of the inheritance. Duke Ernest took up the reins of Government of Tyrol, and there ensued a period of bloodshed and disastrous Civil War in which the peasants and the lower classes remained firm and loyal supporters of their ruler Frederick, and the greater number of the nobility espoused the cause of the usurper Ernest. At length a peace was brought about between the two brothers, chiefly through the mediation of the Archbishop Eberhard of Salzburg, and the Duke Louis of Bavaria. The reconciliation of Frederick and Duke Ernest, whose estrangement had been brought about by Frederick's action in relation to Pope John at Constance which had brought him under the powerful ban of the Church, took place at the castle of the Archbishop at Kropfsberg. The remaining portion of Frederick's life appears to have been peaceable, and notwithstanding his _sobriquet_ of "Empty Purse" he left a huge fortune in treasure, which some authorities assert was the greatest amassed by any ruler of those times. He was undoubtedly one of the most able, and with the peasants and townsfolk most popular, rulers Tyrol has ever had as a separate principality. He carried on a struggle throughout his reign against the encroachments of the nobility upon the lands and liberties of the people, which in itself was a thing sufficient to gain him the love and loyalty of the great masses of his subjects, which his affable manners, generosity, and kindliness served to cement. To him belongs the credit of summoning the first Tyrolean Landtag of any use or importance, held at Meran in 1423. Subsequently the Landtag was convened at Innsbruck, which town in consequence gradually came to be regarded as the capital of Tyrol. On the death of Frederick he was succeeded by his son Sigismund, then a mere lad of eleven or twelve years of age. The latter lived for some seven years at the Court of Vienna under the control of his guardian the Emperor Frederick III. Whilst in Vienna he became acquainted with one Æneas Silvius de Piccolomini, afterwards Pope Pius II., a widely travelled, able but licentious man who had journeyed so far afield as Scotland, and who poured such glowing descriptions of the beauty of the ladies of the Scottish Court into the young Duke Sigismund's ears that he became possessed with a desire to marry a Scotch bride. Thus it happened that when the daughter of Charles VII., King of France, died (whom it had been intended by his father he should marry) the young Duke Sigismund wooed and won Eleanor, daughter of ill-fated James I. of Scotland, to whom as dowry the Duke gave the historic castles of Ambras, Imst, and Hörtenburg for life. This gifted princess lived in Tyrol for a period of more than thirty years, and by her gentle manners, love of sport, especially hawking and hunting, and social accomplishments made herself much beloved by her husband's subjects. Her Court, for the size of the principality over which her husband ruled, was very large and luxurious. During the reign of Sigismund the vast mineral wealth of the Unter-Innthal district especially became opened up, and this enabled the Duke to spend lavish sums upon pleasures, entertainments, arts, and science, which soon caused his Court at Innsbruck to be spoken of as one of the most refined, gay, and interesting in Eastern Europe. At the same time Tyrol owed much to Sigismund, as he was a generous patron of art and employer of artists of all kinds. [Sidenote: THE WAR WITH VENICE] On the death of his consort Eleanor he married, in 1484, the Princess Catherine of Saxony, who was both young and beautiful. A man of great judgment, he yet committed the grave error of provoking a war with the Venetians, whose trade with Tyrol was an important and valuable asset in the country's commerce and material prosperity. It arose from the seizure of some rich silver mines the property of the Venetians in the Valsugana, and the tense situation arising from this act was aggravated shortly after, in April 1487, by the forcible seizure of the goods of Venetian merchants who had come (as was their wont) to the great fair held at Bozen. Over a hundred and twenty Venetian merchants were also thrown into prison. In the war which ensued the Tyrolese were ultimately victorious; but the victory was a Pyrrhic one as Tyrol lost much by this struggle with the great commercial power of those remote times. The Venetians took a speedy revenge, "boycotting" Tyrolese trade, absenting themselves from the fairs and markets, and avoiding using the Brenner Route which had very materially added to the wealth of the country. Sigismund, as had other rulers of the Mountain Kingdom, fell out of favour with the Church, owing to a quarrel with the Cardinal Bishop of Brixen, Nicholas of Cusa, chiefly on account of the latter's persistent endeavour to exalt the power of the Church at the expense of the former's temporal authority, and it was only Sigismund's indifference to religious matters and power in his own country which enabled him to treat with unconcern if not positive contempt the ban placed upon him by the Church of Rome. He even went the length of making war upon the Bishop, and of besieging him in his castle at Brunneck; and as a consequence was excommunicated by both Pope Calixtus III. the Courageous and Pius II. In Sigismund's declining years he applied himself "to the task of purchasing salvation in the manner approved by the Church he had defied, and whose bulls, bans, and mandates he had scorned." He set about founding monasteries, gave largely to charitable endowments, and was generous in other ways to a Church which was anxious to pardon the sinner who was willing to purchase absolution on satisfactory monetary or other terms. One effect of this great expenditure was to impoverish the country, which had already been much "drained" by the demands made upon it by Sigismund's patronage of art, love of women, and lavish entertainments. [Illustration: VIEW FROM THE RITTEN LOOKING S.W.] [Sidenote: MAXIMILIAN I] Maximilian, his cousin (afterwards the famous Emperor Maximilian I.), succeeded him on his abdication in 1493. He was in a great measure an ideal ruler for Tyrol, whose brave, independent people were touched by the spirit, frankness, and great personal bravery of their new prince. Fond of war, he was equally devoted to the chivalric jousts and games of the period, and, if one may believe historians, to these sterner qualities was united a kindly and approachable disposition which further endeared him to his people. It was only in the latter portion of his reign that he lost touch with and hold upon them, and, owing to the heavy drain that incessant wars and military operations had placed upon the country, necessitating heavy taxation, became in a measure unpopular. From his biographers one gathers that the Emperor was deeply affected by the change of attitude of the populace towards him, and he referred to it bitterly on several occasions. During some considerable time before his death he always went about accompanied by his coffin, which he is stated to have described as "the one narrow palace which architects can design at small cost, and the making of which does not bring ruin upon princes." During the reign of Maximilian to Tyrol was added other and considerable new territory, including the Ampezzo district; Rovereto; the three lordships of Rattenberg, Kitzbühel, and Kufstein; the towns of Riva and Arco; a portion of the present Vorarlberg; and a portion of the Pusterthal. Maximilian also did something for education in his capital of Innsbruck, where he built a new palace which was first used at the time of his second marriage with Maria Bianca Sforza of Milan in 1494. He was succeeded by his two grandsons, the Emperor Charles V. and the Archduke Ferdinand. The former, however, found his dominions so vast that he soon resigned his Austrian possessions (including Tyrol) to his brother Ferdinand, who afterwards became Emperor. The reign of the latter, though long, was not a happy or prosperous one. The religious disturbances brought about by the Reformation, which Ferdinand severely suppressed, and risings of the peasants in consequence, made his name detested in Tyrol, so that in the War of the Schmalkald the inhabitants supported Charles V. It was at Innsbruck (after two unsuccessful attempts to leave Tyrol) that he was surprised by his treacherous friend Maurice of Saxony, who had marched his army rapidly into Tyrol intent upon capturing Charles. The latter, who had no army with him, having arrived at Innsbruck on his way to the Council of Trent, in order to escape had to leave his palace at dead of night in torrents of rain in May 1552--a man broken in health and tired of life. It was this Ferdinand who founded the famous Franciscan Church at Innsbruck with its world-renowned tomb in memory of his grandfather Maximilian I. On the death of Ferdinand, in 1564, he was succeeded on the throne of Tyrol by his second son who bore his name. A romantic interest attaches to this Archduke, who after much opposition on the part of his family married the beautiful daughter of an Augsburg merchant, Philippina Welser, who ultimately succeeded in winning the Emperor's sanction to the marriage.[6] The thirty-one years' reign of Archduke Ferdinand was chiefly notable for the encouragement given by him to Art. Indeed, during this period the country reached its highest culture. The world-famous art collection now in Vienna, concerning which most authorities are in agreement that it was the most extensive and beautiful formed up to that period, owes its existence almost entirely to him. In his Castle of Ambras, near Innsbruck, he gathered together art treasures that are now, as regards many examples, almost if not quite unique; and by so doing ensured his position with posterity as one of the first, most learned, and most discriminating of art collectors and connoisseurs the world has known. [Sidenote: A ROYAL ROMANCE] Ferdinand and his beautiful spouse remained throughout their married life devoted to each other, although when the former's father, in 1563, recognized the marriage it was agreed that any children born to the pair should not be recognized as of Royal birth, the alliance being regarded as morganatic. The story that Philippina died a violent death seems to have no basis upon fact. Ferdinand after the death of his first wife married Anna Katharina Gonzaga of Mantua, to whose devout tendencies and influence over him Innsbruck and the neighbourhood owed many of its religious houses and institutions. On the death of Ferdinand, as his and Philippina's children could not succeed to their father's possessions and title for the reason we have mentioned, and as there were no children of the marriage with Anna Katharina, Tyrol reverted in 1595 to the Emperor Rudolph II., who soon appointed his brother the Archduke Maximilian as Regent. This prince was the head of the Teutonic Order, and bore the title of Deutschmeister. After his death Tyrol reverted to the Emperor Ferdinand II., who in 1622 celebrated his second marriage with Eleanora Vincenzo of Mantua at Innsbruck. The event was celebrated with great magnificence even for a period when entertainments of the kind were veritable triumphs of splendour and art, and the wedding feast was served by Tyrolese noblemen. Ferdinand soon appointed his brother the Archduke Leopold as Regent, and on his death in 1632 the latter was succeeded by his widow, the wise and beautiful Archduchess Claudia Felicitas of Medici, who governed Tyrol during the minority of her two sons. Her chief counsellor was the brilliant and distinguished Chancellor Wilhelm Biener. The Archduke Ferdinand Charles came of age (and succeeded to his estates) in 1646, and in default of male heirs was succeeded by his brother Francis Sigismund in 1662. The reign of the last named lasted only three years, and came to a sudden and tragic close on the very eve of his marriage. Popular opinion ascribed his death to poison, given to the Archduke by his physician Agricola, the latter, at the time, being supposed to have been instigated to the crime by some Italian nobles whom the Archduke had banished from his Court. On the death of Sigismund the second Tyrolese-Habsburg line of rulers came to an end. [Illustration: ABOVE THE ARLBERG TUNNEL] It was then that Tyrol finally came into the possession of the Emperors of Austria, by whom the ancient title of Prince-Count of Tyrol and other subsidiary titles are still borne. FOOTNOTES: [1] Several well-known authorities still refuse to accept this theory. [2] Also called the Eisack. [3] Mommsen in his "Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum." [4] W. Von Rodlow. [5] This view of the origin of the country's name is, we would add, disputed by some authorities.--C. H. [6] This is disputed by some authorities, but would appear to have been the case.--C. H. CHAPTER II TYROL FROM ITS INCORPORATION BY AUSTRIA AS A PART OF THE EMPIRE TO THE PRESENT TIME During the Thirty Years' War (1618-1648) between the Catholics and Protestants of Germany, which was renowned for the victories of Wallenstein and Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden, Tyrol did not altogether escape its influence though playing no very important part in the struggle. One result was, however, of considerable importance to a family of great note in Tyrol. It brought about the ruin of the Fuggers, whose financial assistance to various rulers of Tyrol and Eastern Europe had been generally forthcoming when required. Owing to their possession of the two famous castle-fortresses of Tratzberg and Matzen their prosperity or otherwise was of considerable importance to Tyrol. From the date (1665) when the country became completely incorporated as a part of the Austrian Empire it did homage to the Emperor Leopold I., sole heir of the joint Austro-German possessions. It was during his reign and on account of this circumstance that Tyrol became deeply involved in the War of the Spanish Succession, and was the object of attack on the part of both French and Bavarians, Leopold being the Austrian claimant to the Spanish throne, and Philip of Anjou, grandson of Louis XIV., the French aspirant. In 1703 the French troops, under General Vendome, entered Tyrol from the South and unsuccessfully besieged Trent on their way northward to Austria; and at the same time the Bavarians overran the country by routes which they had traversed from almost time immemorial when making their periodic raids upon the Tyrolese. For a considerable period the invaders were successful, and many villages and castles of the Unter-Innthal and contiguous districts were destroyed. The capture of the capital was the cause of the uprising of the Landsturm, or general levy of the peasants; and during 1703 a number of fierce engagements were fought between these ill-armed but brave Tyrolese and the Bavarian and French troops. One of the most noted battles was that which took place immediately after the Tyrolese had destroyed the Pontlatz Bridge which spanned the River Inn, by which the Bavarians were about to cross. In this engagement the latter, under the leadership of the Elector Maximilian Emmanuel, were utterly routed by a much inferior force of the Landsturm, and driven back from North Tyrol. Following up this success the Tyrolese concentrated their energies upon the French force under General Vendome which they compelled to retire into Italy. The Emperor Leopold I., not wishing to reside for any length of time at Innsbruck, had created the office of Statthalter or Governor of Tyrol and Vorarlberg, an office which has been filled ever since till the present day, with the exception of the period of the French and Bavarian wars with Austria in the early part of the last century. The Emperor did not live to see the ultimate triumph of his forces. He died in 1705, and was succeeded by his sons Joseph I. and Charles VI. On the death of the latter in 1740, owing to the fact that with him the Austrian male line became extinct, the Empress Maria Theresa ruled in his stead. During her long reign the Vorarlberg became an integral part of Tyrol owing to the fact that it was an Imperial fief which reverted to the Crown by natural process on the extinction of the line of feoffees. Maria Theresa and her husband the Emperor Francis I. came to Innsbruck in 1765 for the wedding of their son Leopold, Grand Duke of Tuscany (afterwards the Emperor Leopold II.), with Maria Ludovica, daughter of Charles III., King of Spain. The Tyrolese and the Innsbruckers gave a warm welcome to their sovereigns, and the festivities were upon a most magnificent scale. The gaiety was destined, however, to be clouded and put an end to by the sudden death of the Emperor (husband of Maria Theresa), who expired at the palace immediately after his return from the Italian Opera. It was he, Francis Stephen of Lorraine, also Grand Duke of Tuscany, who founded the House of Habsburg-Lorraine, which still rules over the Austro-Hungarian Empire. [Sidenote: REFORMS OF JOSEPH II.] On the death of Maria Theresa in 1780 she was succeeded by her son Joseph II., upon whose accession many innovations were introduced in Tyrol as well as other portions of his wide empire. His salutary and liberally conceived reforms, more especially as regarded the Church, were brought about by a desire to adjust political and religious affairs and do away with anomalies. Inasmuch as Joseph's scheme embraced the suppression or abolition of numerous priories, monasteries, churches, and other religious institutions, it is little to be wondered at that his action met with the most strenuous opposition from the Church whose property was threatened. One act, the closing of the University of Innsbruck, which had been founded by Leopold I. in 1677, it is not easy for any one at the present day to understand. The Emperor Joseph II.'s scheme of reform was not successful, although it had arisen from honourable motives and a sincere desire to redress some very crying grievances. He was succeeded in 1790 by his brother, the Emperor Leopold II., who reopened the University, and undid much of the work his predecessor had accomplished with regard to the suppression of religious houses. He, however, reigned but two years, and was followed by his son Francis II. of Germany and Francis I. of Austria. This ruler came to the throne at a great and unhappy crisis in European history. The French Revolution was at its height and the ensuing period of the "blood lustful" Napoleonic Wars made of Europe a vast camp and battle ground. It was also a period destined, as events proved, to make Tyrol famous for all time, to develop the best instincts of her people, and to exhibit the race in a heroic and romantic light. To understand the position of Tyrol at this epoch it is necessary to briefly sketch the events which led up to the struggle as it affected the "land in the Mountains." Mantua, an Austro-Italian possession, fell before Napoleon in 1797, and immediately the young general sent an army under Joubert into Tyrol, the routes into the country being left almost undefended by the retreat of the Austrian forces towards Carinthia, after their defeat at Lodi on May 10, 1796. [Sidenote: FRENCH INVASION] Once more the Landsturm was raised in South Tyrol, and again the peasant forces (to whom the name of "ragged coats" had been contemptuously given) engaged in a terrific struggle for their beloved land with the not only better armed but more numerous detachments of French and Bavarian invaders. Even the well-tried legions of Napoleon were destined, however, to find them as redoubtable as had formerly Maximilian. Under the gallant von Worndle the Inn Valley Landsturm was led down into the Pusterthal, where it was joined by the Austrian forces under Generals Laudon and Kerpen. Napoleon's troops, although well led, and possessing all the advantages that experience and a knowledge of strategy could give them, nevertheless could not withstand the terrific onslaught and heroic bravery shown by the Tyrolese. A fierce and bloody engagement was fought at Spinges which resulted in the triumph of the peasant forces and the utter rout of the invaders, who were compelled to evacuate the country. About the same time another smaller engagement took place near Bozen, where a mere handful of peasants engaged a much superior force and defeated it. This otherwise comparatively unimportant event has gained fame and significance from the fact that this small body of Passeyer peasantry was led by a tall, broad-shouldered man with a long brown beard, named Andreas Hofer, who was destined afterwards to play so great and remarkable a part in the history of his beloved country. [Illustration: SUNSET ON A TYROLESE LAKE] [Illustration: A TYPICAL TYROLESE LANDSCAPE] After the Battle of Spinges hostilities were ended for a time by the Treaty of Campo Formio, October 17, 1797. During this preliminary struggle against the French it is estimated by several authorities that upwards of 100,000 peasants took up arms in defence of their country, amongst whom were many women and young maidens. The total population of Tyrol at that period did not probably much exceed three quarters of a million. The peace secured by the Treaty of Campo Formio did not, however, endure very long, for early in 1799 the war broke out again, and the French under General Massena entered Tyrol, on this occasion by way of Switzerland through the mountain passes, the Bavarians supporting the invaders by incursions over the frontier in the direction of Salzburg. In an engagement near Feldkirch in Vorarlberg General Massena was defeated; and upon making a fresh attack the French, hearing all the church bells of the district ringing on Easter Eve and mistaking them for the alarm bells summoning the Landsturm, hastily abandoned their intentions and retreated across the frontier into Swiss territory. The victories of Marengo and Hohenlinden on June 14 and December 3 of the next year, brought about the Treaty of Luneville on February 9, 1801, by which the Bishoprics of Brixen and Trent (already in a sense belonging to Tyrol) were made integral parts of the country. Hostilities were continued, however, in other parts of Europe, and the long war dragged on, Napoleon over-running the Continent and more especially South-Eastern Europe almost unchecked, till Ulm, where the Austrians were defeated October 17-20, 1805. The French army under Marshal Ney afterwards entered and occupied Innsbruck. Then came the disastrous Battle of Austerlitz on December 2, where Napoleon defeated the combined Russian and Austrian forces. The power of the latter was shattered, and by the Treaty of Pressburg, December 26, 1805, Tyrol, which now for upwards of four hundred years had been one of the chief possessions of the house of Habsburg, was ceded to the victors. The Bavarians took the northern, and the French the southern portion. Not only was the country for a time lost to Austria, but even its name was taken from it. The new owners promptly divided it into three departments known by the names of the three chief rivers--the Inn, Eisack, and Adige. In the beginning of the year following the Treaty the Bavarians took formal possession of their new territory. During a period of some three years the Tyrolese fretted under the rule of their conquerors. But the time was not spent merely in idle murmurings or in servile acceptance of the conqueror's yoke. The peasants who had fought so bravely for their land and liberty in ancient times, and in 1797 and 1799, were eager once more to take the field to recover their lost freedom, and to drive the usurpers of their beautiful Tyrol for ever beyond its frontiers. [Sidenote: RISE OF ANDREAS HOFER] Day by day, week by week, month by month a general rising of the community was being gradually organized by three men more particularly, who were each of them destined to become famous, and to go down to posterity as the saviours of their country. Of these Andreas Hofer, born of Inn-keeping parents at Sandyland in the Passeyer Valley in 1765, was destined to outshine both in his life and death his two companions, named Speckbacher, born at Rinn, and Haspinger, the tall, red-bearded Capucin monk, known respectively as "the fire-devil" and "the red beard." The task that Hofer and his companions set themselves was no easy one. The country swarmed not only with the soldiers of the Bavarian occupation force, but with spies who seem always to spring up whenever the price of treachery is worth earning. The punishment for men taking part in any such schemes as that in which Hofer, Speckbacher, and Haspinger and their faithful companions were engaged in was death. Death not only for the principals, but death for the humblest participant. Nevertheless the plan prospered. It is interesting to remember the very large and important part which was played in the organization of the peasants' uprising by the Tyrolese innkeepers, or _wirthe_, who were very dissimilar to the ordinary conception which English people have of men of their class. They were usually the most wealthy as well as the most solid members of the village communities in which they dwelt and kept their _Wirthshaus_, around which, indeed, much of the social as well as the municipal life of the village centred. They were better informed than many of their neighbours, for whatever travellers came to the villages found their way to their hospitable roofs; and what echoes of the outer world ever reached the secluded villages filtered its way, as it were, through them. It was in these men that Hofer found his greatest allies and ablest assistants. During the three years which succeeded the Bavarian occupation and the peasant rising, the innkeepers of Tyrol were busy gathering round them small bodies of trusted men, who, fired by a common desire to free their country, would, indeed, have suffered death rather than betray a single word of the secret arrangements of which they gradually became cognizant. When many of the preparations were completed Andreas Hofer commenced a correspondence with the Government in Vienna--which seemed so incapable and unwilling to assist the brave people it had seemingly abandoned in their struggle for freedom--in the person of the Archduke John. But although Hofer and his companions do not seem to have received very much definite or material encouragement from the Emperor or his advisers, they proceeded to Vienna, had several interviews with the Archduke, who appeared to be most favourably inclined to their scheme, and at these interviews the plan of campaign was definitely formulated. In the end Hofer returned to St. Leonard raised to the dignity of Commander-in-Chief of the national forces, and with full powers to do what he deemed best in the interests of the country. What he did not, however, secure was any support from Vienna in the form of arms or disciplined troops with which to leaven his "ragged coats." The courage of the men who entered upon a campaign against trained and tried soldiers armed with the most up-to-date weapons of those times can scarcely be estimated just as it most certainly cannot be over-praised. Owing to the rigorous search for arms which the Bavarians and French had instituted in almost every dwelling in the land, during the two or three years which intervened between the Treaty of Pressburg and the uprising of the peasants under Hofer, it was not possible to obtain and store new weapons in any quantity even if to do so had not been rendered difficult from the hosts of spies which overran Tyrol and seemed to lurk beneath almost every rock. Thus it was that out-of-date weapons--most of which had seen service in the war of a century before--billhooks, scythes, clubs and pitchforks, with whatever other arms their own ingenuity could devise or the village blacksmiths make, were pitted against the arms of some precision of the French and Bavarian troops. All that the peasant forces had to sustain them in the struggle against well-armed and disciplined veterans, superior as regards knowledge of warfare, was dauntless courage and a greater acquaintance with the country and of hill fighting. [Illustration: THE SCHWARZHORN, S. TYROL] Upon Hofer's return with his companions from Vienna his Inn became the resort--more or less secretly--of all who were truly desirous of joining the popular movement and of freeing the country. Many, we are told, blamed him for trusting so implicitly all who came. But to objectors he made the same answer: "There are no traitors amongst my countrymen." That his confidence was not misplaced was abundantly shown by the fact that the secret of a conspiracy so vast that it may be said to have extended north, south, east, and west almost throughout Tyrol was unrevealed until the ever-memorable night of April 10, 1809, when the time fixed for the uprising arrived. [Sidenote: THE SUMMONS TO ARMS] On the evening of that day the peasants of the Passeyer and other valleys were called to arms by means of great fires which blazed out in the darkness of the clear April sky in long, ruddy banners of flame. Every hill crest in the vicinity of the Passeyer Valley had its signal fire, and these were answered by others on the mountains overshadowing the distant valleys. On the morrow Andreas Hofer found himself at daybreak at the head of nearly 5000 men who had one and all "confessed" and received the Sacrament ere taking up arms in their sacred cause of liberty. The Bavarians were at once hotly attacked and routed; and on the 12th, soon after dawn, upwards of 15,000 peasants had rallied to Hofer's standard and appeared before Innsbruck. With indomitable bravery they captured the bridge over the Inn, carried the heights by assault, and entering the town engaged in a fierce hand-to-hand conflict with the troops of General Bisson (who was in command of the joint French and Bavarian forces) and compelled him to surrender. In the deadly conflict of the streets, which ran red with blood, and into whose mire peasants, French and Bavarian soldiers and officers alike were trampled by the on-press of the Tyrolese, the ruder weapons of the latter, consisting of heavily butted fire-locks, broad knives used in husbandry, scythe blades attached to staves, and bludgeons cut from the thickets of the mountain side, were as deadly and even perhaps more so than the weapons of their enemies. Down the ancient streets, overshadowed by the everlasting snow-clad mountains; into the narrow byways and courtyards of the ancient town; along under the arcades of the old-time Herzog Freidrich Strasse, swept the Tyrolese, slaying as they went, until the invaders, driven from cranny to cranny, struck down in the open, compelled many of them to retreat along the Inn banks till they fell back into the swiftly flowing river, cried for quarter and surrendered. At Wilten, on the outskirts of Innsbruck itself, the fiery Speckbacher surrounded a Bavarian force of nearly 5000 men and took them prisoners of war. Thus after less than four days' fighting the Tyrolese had defeated the Bavarians, captured Innsbruck, and compelled the French commander to sue for quarter. And in their hands they held two generals, 132 officers, nearly 6000 men, three standards, five pieces of cannon, and 800 horses. By the end of April, Tyrol was again free of invaders with the sole exception that the Bavarians still held the castle of Kufstein. It was now that the Government in Vienna made one of the many serious mistakes which throughout its dealings marked the policy pursued in relation to Tyrol's struggle for freedom. General Chasteler, of whom it was said that "he always came too late and went too soon," was given the supreme command. And from that moment the advantages gained by Hofer, his brave companions-in-arms Speckbacher and Haspinger, and the peasant troops, were lost. In an almost incredibly short space of time Chasteler succeeded in losing all that had been won. At length his failure to hold what had been committed to his charge became so obvious that he retreated beyond the Brenner, leaving Andreas Hofer to do the best he could in defence of the portion of Tyrol not then reconquered by the enemy. In little more than a month from the time the French and Bavarians had been driven from Innsbruck they entered it again in triumph; and thus, on the 20th of May, Tyrol was once more to all intents and purposes conquered. The brave leader of the peasants, however, was determined to make one more supreme effort to free his country from the French and Bavarian yoke, and after summoning to his standard all who were capable of bearing arms, he had the satisfaction of once more driving the invaders from Innsbruck, and freeing for the second time the country he loved so well. [Sidenote: THE CRUSHING OF AUSTRIA] This triumph was not, however, destined to endure, for the Austrian forces under the Archduke Charles suffered a crushing defeat from Napoleon's troops at Wagram on July 5 and 6, 1809, and were forced to sue for peace or at least an armistice at Znaim, in which Tyrol was ignored. Amongst other things, by the subsequent Treaty, Austria ceded all her sea coast to France, as well as considerable territory to Saxony and Bavaria. But it was not until the French, Bavarian, and Saxon troops, straight from their victory at Wagram, to the number of some 50,000 men, entered Tyrol under the command of Marshal Lefèbre, and the Austrian army marched away out of Innsbruck in full retreat before the advancing enemy, that Hofer realized that he and his cause once more were abandoned by the Emperor and his advisers. Again Hofer came to the rescue; and, though in a measure a fugitive, in one of the little-known gorges, he managed to send forth from valley to valley his summons to the people to gather once more round his standard. That none should certainly know from these summonses where he lay concealed it was his wont to sign them "Andreas Hofer, from where I am "; whilst in return those communicating with him addressed theirs "To Andreas Hofer wherever he may be." He once more succeeded in inspiring his fellow-countrymen with his own undying, unyielding patriotism. Gathering his forces together in a gorge of the Mittewald he awaited the enemy's advance. We cannot do better than draw in part, for a description of what followed, from the stirring and vivid narrative of Albert Wolff. The vanguard of Marshal Lefèbre under the command of General Rouyer advanced to Sterzing; and then a column of Saxon troops to the number of about 4000 was thrown out beyond the village towards the gorge of Stilfes with orders to sweep away the insurgents. The idea that the untrained, ill-armed, and heterogeneous peasant forces could successfully resist the victors of Wagram appeared ridiculous to the Marshal and his officers, even if the Tyrolese were so foolhardy as to make the attempt. For some distance the Saxons advanced without either meeting with opposition or discovering an enemy; and then, when the whole column, had fully entered the defile from the mountain sides above them there resounded a sudden, terrifying cry of "To the attack, and no quarter." The cry was followed by a starting up of thousands of peasants, men, women, and children, the aged and the young, from behind the boulders on the hillside, from out the hollows. Down the steep mountain gorge crashed rocks, tree trunks, baulks of timber, earth and stones loosed from the restraining ropes by the Tyrolese, sweeping every obstruction before them, and falling upon the penned-up Saxons like an avalanche. Then, as the latter were vainly and fiercely struggling to extricate themselves from the debris and entanglements, the peasants rushed down the mountain side and hurled themselves upon their bewildered foes, shouting Hofer's battlecry, "For God and our Country." The enemy, utterly routed, turned and fled--what remained of them--towards Innsbruck, pursued by the Tyrolese led by Hofer, Speckbacher, and by the red-bearded Capuchin Haspinger, who held in one hand a crucifix, and in the other a bloodstained sword. Upon the Saxons the Tyrolese had no mercy, and hundreds were cut down as they fled along the road back to Innsbruck. [Sidenote: TRIUMPH OF HOFER] In little more than a week Hofer, by a vigorous following up of his victory in the Pass of Stilfes, had once more repulsed the invader, retaken the position on Berg Isel, and established his headquarters at Schönberg. These historic eight days of fighting and victory are known in Tyrolese history as "the great week." Innsbruck still, however, remained in the occupation of the enemy. To take the town was a task that might have given pause to any less brave and venturous a commander than Hofer. But he was not the man to hold back from a complete freeing of his beloved land from those who had invaded it. The plans were laid, the day fixed, and the advance ordered. On the morning of the attack, at five o'clock, Haspinger the militant Capuchin, a commanding figure upon whom the light of early dawn threw an almost uncanny refulgence, celebrated Mass before the assembled peasant host, who knelt in serried ranks, ragged, unkempt, but inspired to great deeds by memories of their past victories. After this solemn observance Haspinger once more became a captain of troops rather than a priest; and springing into his saddle he drew his sword and led on the left wing. Andreas Hofer himself was in the centre, and led the attack there, marching right on to Innsbruck. A contemporary account describes the hero as being "transfigured with a grandeur scarcely earthly, as, burning with patriotism, he urged his horse forward into battle." With his long beard, which had gained him the nickname of General Barbonne amongst the French, flowing in the wind, and his war cry of "Onward for your country and your Emperor! God will protect the right!" he led his forces so irresistibly that the troops of Marshal Lefèbre gave way and evacuated the town. On the following day, August 15th, which was the fête of the Blessed Virgin, Hofer, at the head of his victorious peasants, made his third entry as victor into the capital. Around him thronged the citizens, overcome with transports of joy, pressing him so closely that many were trampled beneath his horse's feet. In the enthusiasm, relief, and triumph of victory, Hofer was named with one voice dictator of Tyrol. But there was that strange analogy which links Hofer's attitude in the hour of triumph so closely (notwithstanding the differentiations of sex) with that of Joan of Arc and with Cromwell. Turning to the thronging multitude, which filled the narrow streets to overflowing, he cried out, with a gentle and almost pitiful glance at their upturned faces, "Do not shout in triumph; but offer thanks to God and pray." At the door of the church of the Franciscans he dismounted, and entered the building to return thanks to God, and remained there in prayer, unmoved by the cheers and "Hochs" of the great assembly of his troopers and fellow-countrymen outside, the sounds of which, as they came in through the constantly open doors of the church at that hour, bore no personal significance to him. On leaving the building he was waited upon by the chief citizens, who expressed their undying gratitude to their deliverer. But in response he said, "By my beard and St. George, God himself and not I has been the Saviour of our country." Andreas Hofer was destined to show that he was not only a warrior, but also an administrator, actuated by the most lofty desires for his country's good. In every act of his government could be detected the truly religious and patriotic character of the man. And during the short time that he reigned in the palace at Innsbruck, waiting anxiously for the approval and the help from his Emperor in Vienna, his conduct was marked by dignity, kindliness, and strength. But alas, his triumph was but brief. In less than two months after the retaking of Innsbruck, a fresh Bavarian army was entering Tyrol by way of the Unter-Innthal, and taking Speckbacher unawares the invaders gained a partial victory; and ere the disaster of October 10th could be retrieved, the Treaty of Vienna was agreed upon (October 14, 1809), by which the hand of one of the Habsburg princesses was promised to Napoleon as the price of peace. Tyrol by this new arrangement remained Bavarian, and the Archduke John himself called upon Andreas Hofer to lay down his arms. The latter did not obey. He persuaded himself that the Treaty of Vienna was without substance, or merely a trick to enable the invaders to make good their fresh hold upon the country, and he decided to continue the struggle. His followers, however, were discouraged by the callous way in which the Austrian Government had invariably left them to fight their own battles alone. Speckbacher, too, was deserted by all save a mere handful of men, and after remaining in hiding for some time and escaping capture by a miracle he succeeded in getting to Vienna. The Capuchin Haspinger afterwards joined him there, and was ultimately made curate of Hietzing, near Schönbrunn. It then became clear to Hofer that to continue the struggle for freedom just then was useless and, indeed, impossible; so he dispersed his own handful of faithful friends and supporters, telling them, "We shall meet again before long, for Tyrol will not perish." [Sidenote: HOFER AN OUTLAW] With these prophetic words, which were destined never to be realized so far as the meeting with his faithful comrades in arms was concerned, Hofer took farewell of his companions and fled a fugitive into the mountains of the Passeyer Valley. A price was put upon his head by the Bavarians and French, who recognized that their peaceful occupation of the conquered and ceded territory depended very greatly upon the capture and imprisonment or death of Hofer, who, as a popular hero, held so high a place in the hearts of his countrymen; and that for him to remain at large would constitute a perpetual menace. For a long while Hofer was able to elude the vigilance and discovery of his would-be captors. Technically, and owing to his abandonment by the Austrian Government, he was a rebel on account of his refusal to lay down his arms when commanded by the Archduke John to do so. In the end, as so often happens, there was one found base and treacherous enough to betray the fugitive for blood money. Guided by such an one, named Raffl, some Italian gendarmes, supported by a small detachment of French soldiers, made their way amid the intricate mountain paths to the chalet where--near St. Leonard, but far from other habitations--Andreas Hofer had for some months lived with his family, now broken down by despair for his country, anxiety and privation. He made no resistance, and was immediately taken to Mantua, escorted (such was his fame and the fear lest he should escape or be rescued) by four French officers, a battalion of infantry, and a detachment of cavalry. No effort appears to have been made by the Austrian authorities to save the hero to whom they owed so much, and Hofer was tried by court-martial under the presidency of General Bisson, and condemned to be shot. [Sidenote: THE DEATH OF HOFER] On the morning of February 20th, 1810, Andreas Hofer, who lay in prison but a short time after condemnation, was awakened early and led forth to die. At the gates were gathered a handful of his friends and companions in arms who had been captured and brought to Mantua, or had followed him there, and these knelt and entreated his blessing as he passed by them; this he gave calmly, remaining far less outwardly moved than they who received it. Then onwards to the Ceresa Gate, where the firing party halted. Hofer declined to have his eyes bandaged; neither would he kneel. But standing erect with unwavering courage he faced the file of soldiers, who with loaded muskets were to do him to death. Giving his last remaining piece of money to the corporal, he said to him, "Aim straight." Then he calmly gave the signal to fire. The muskets rang out, the bullets sped to their mark, and one of the noblest of patriots Europe had ever seen fell without a groan. At his own last request his body was buried at Mantua in the garden of his friend and father confessor, Manifesti. There it lay for fifteen years, until one night three officers of a Tyrol Chasseur regiment stealthily removed the remains, distressed that the hero of Tyrol should lie buried in foreign soil. The body was first taken to Bozen, and shortly afterwards to the Abbey of Wilten. When later a funeral worthy of his fame was accorded him, deputations came from all parts of Tyrol to pay their tribute to the greatest hero in its history; and amid a throng which was perhaps never before equalled in the streets of Innsbruck, the remains of Andreas Hofer were with great appropriateness borne to their last resting-place in the church of the Franciscans by twelve innkeepers. On the coffin lay his hat, sword, and decorations, and upon it were the armorial bearings of his family, which had been ennobled by the Emperor Francis I. in 1819. And thus, in a tomb cut from the marble of the Tyrol he loved, his body was laid to rest. In the same year that Hofer died, Tyrol was divided into three parts. Italy took the southern, Bavaria retained the northern, and Illyria the south-eastern or Pusterthal district. So it remained for three years, until 1813, when the power of Napoleon was once and for ever broken in eastern Europe, when he was defeated at the fierce battle of Leipsic on October 16-18, by the allied forces of Austria, Russia and Prussia. In this battle (known as "the battle of the nations") upwards of 400,000 men were engaged; a fifth of the number were slain. The allies were helped at a critical point of the fighting by the defection from Napoleon of a large force of Saxons. In the following year Tyrol was reunited to Austria with the addition of the Ziller and Brixen valleys and Windisch-Matrei. On May 27, 1816, the Emperor Francis I. (who in 1806 had resigned the title of Emperor of Germany, retaining only that of Austria) entered Innsbruck to receive the allegiance of the people. His reception was most enthusiastic, the people rejoicing unrestrainedly at once more gaining their freedom, and being reunited to the Austrian Empire. During the revolutionary excitement which pervaded Europe in 1848 the then Emperor of Austria, Ferdinand, and his Empress took refuge in Tyrol; and in the Austro-Italian War of 1848 the Tyrolese greatly distinguished themselves by their bravery and good marksmanship. There remains little more to add concerning Tyrol's history. On December 2, 1848, the Emperor Francis Joseph I. succeeded his uncle Ferdinand, who abdicated after ruling the country for thirteen years under the guidance of the powerful Prince Metternich whose reactionary policy provoked the Revolution of 1848. In 1859 the Austro-Italian provinces, with the exception of Venice, were absorbed by the Kingdom of Sardinia, previous to the formation of the Kingdom of Italy. In consequence Tyrol became the frontier of Austria to Italy, and of increased importance. In 1866, during the war between Austria and Prussia, the latter supported the Italians in a scheme to seize Southern Tyrol. The Tyrolese Jager and Schutzen forces took a prominent part in the campaign, and were engaged with great credit at the Battle of Custozza, where the Austrians with 70,000 men defeated the army of Victor Emmanuel, nearly twice as strong. Afterwards, when the Prussians defeated the Austrians at the Battle of Sadowa or Koniggratz on July 3, 1866, and a fresh attempt was made to seize South Tyrol, the inhabitants once more showed that their old-time courage and resource was not diminished. [Sidenote: TYROL OF TO-DAY] Since then Tyrol has been happily both peaceful and prosperous; advancing in the arts, and with a system of education which is bearing good fruit. What the future of this favoured and beautiful land may be, who can tell? Perhaps the secret is already locked up in the chancelleries of Eastern Europe. But the wise and beneficent ruler who now guards the destinies of the many-sided Austrian Empire is old, and when the end comes it does not need the keen observer to possess much gift of anticipating events to predict that Tyrol may be the scene of yet further struggles when Germany's desire for a seaport on the Mediterranean via the Adriatic has possibilities of accomplishment. CHAPTER III SOME CHARACTERISTIC LEGENDS, CUSTOMS, AND SPORTS Just as is the case with Switzerland so in Tyrol the land itself, its history, even its geological evolution, seem in a measure reflected in the character and disposition of its people. One cannot indeed be any long time in Tyrol without becoming aware of and appreciating this fact. In the kindliness and hospitality of the Tyrolese one has reflected the characteristics of aloofness from the outer world, and dependence upon one another, which the position of their "land within the mountains" typifies--characteristics which have grown (and fortunately have not yet become, at least in the more remote parts, to any large extent tainted by considerations of self-interest) from the circumstances of former days, when individual hospitality had to serve for the absence of inns and commercial conveniences of the kind. So, too, in the rugged, patriotic, and sturdy natures of the people one can trace a parallel with the configuration of their beloved land; as one can also trace in their single-heartedness, piety, poetic traits, and simplicity, the frugal and laborious lives which the majority lead, unvexed in former times by the fret of small things, and through succeeding ages strengthened by the great needs of patriotism and self-sacrifice which the political crises outside their own borders often brought home to them by invasion and attempted subjection. [Sidenote: A DELIGHTFUL LAND] It is not at all wonderful, then, that a people dwelling in a land of such surpassing beauty, where flower-bedecked upper pastures melt away into rocky peaks, glaciers, and snow-clad heights; where the music of tinkling brooks trickling down the mountain side and the roar of greater torrents are ever with them; with the eternal silence of great heights surrounding them and, as it were, shutting them in from the outer world, should be gifted with an appreciation of romantic beauty, legend, and poetry beyond the common run of mortals. As we have already shown, much history and many stirring events have been enacted within the mountain-girdled borders of Tyrol. And, nowadays, when the country is coming slowly but surely to her own as a delightful holiday ground for weary dwellers in Western cities, many of her valleys bring to the minds of those who know something of the country's story dramatic and romantic memories of the stirring events and legends which have through past ages become associated with their names. Scarcely a valley, village, or townlet, whether set high or low in this enticing land, but has its own legend or story. And in almost all of the less travelled corners one finds strange, and to most travellers incomprehensible, dialects still lingering amongst the peasantry, notwithstanding the fact that gradually the Germanization of even the southern portion of Tyrol is being brought about. In one or other of these dialects which so survive, scholars and philologists of former times have thought the key to the ancient language of Etruria might be discovered; and in more modern days there has been the same hope expressed, but as yet it is unfulfilled. Müller,[7] for one, thought that in some secluded valley of the Tyrol or Grisons the key to the riddle in the form of "a remnant of the old Rhætian dialect might be discovered." Müller's hope has since then in a measure been realized through the efforts and researches of Steub, who, whilst travelling in Tyrol in Alpine districts in 1842, found some fragmentary remains of a dialect approaching very nearly Etruscan, though not sufficiently full to form any very important or extended key to the tongue. His book[8] contains the results of the inquiries, tests, and deductions which he was at first led to undertake by the strange names of the towns and villages which he came across in his travels. Then he collected these, and we are told set to work "testing them with Celtic, but discovering no analogy he tried other tests, and with the Etruscan met with some considerable success," which was chiefly valuable, however, as confirming the theory and ancient traditions of a Rhæto-Etruria. Many of his conclusions, however, have never been accepted by philologists either of his own day or of later times; and some of the word examples he gives as having analogies are quite incomprehensible to the ordinary student. [Sidenote: THE LANGUAGE] To all intents and purposes German and Italian are the languages spoken throughout Tyrol, a knowledge of which will be sufficient for all ordinary purposes of travel. The former prevailing in the Vorarlberg and North Tyrol; the latter in South Tyrol and Wälsch Tyrol, though German is found in both of these districts, and in South Tyrol very considerably. In the Vorarlberg, however, one comes across numerous words and expressions which are undoubtedly of Italian origin, and are remaining evidences of the periods when the Venetian Republic ruled over a district now a part of Tyrol. The Italian word _gútto_, a can or feeding-bottle, for example, has its counterpart in _guttera_; whilst from _fazzolétto_, a handkerchief, one has _fazanedle_; and from _gaudio_, joy, we have _gaude_; and from _cappéllo_, a hat, has probably come _schapel_. [Illustration: A VIEW OF THE TYROL ALPS] A very considerable number of words of French origin or of marked similarity to French words are found in parts of the Vorarlberg. _Gespousa_, a bride, has a distinct philological affinity to _épouse_; and _au_, water, pronounced very similarly, can be traced to _eau_, and is found common to both North Tyrol and the Vorarlberg. _Shesa_, a trap or gig, bears a marked resemblance to the French _chaise_. Even England appears to have contributed a considerable number of words to the vocabulary of certain districts of Tyrol, though perhaps they are, more strictly speaking, words similarly derived from German or Norman French which have become common to both. In _gulla_, a gulley; _gompa_, to jump; _datti_, daddy; _witsch_, witch; and many others this is traceable. It will be gathered from these few examples that the language and dialects of Tyrol are composite of several tongues, as is almost always the case in countries which have seen many vicissitudes of occupation and development. [Sidenote: FOLK TALES] In Tyrol, which has experienced these and possesses such a large share of romantic beauty, and even nowadays some "solitary places," there need be little wonder that legends, superstitions, and myths are found nearly everywhere. Almost every village has its own, whose origin has been lost in the mists of antiquity, and whose date can only be traced uncertainly by its analogy to some other similar, more widely known, and more easily dated legend, tale, or superstition. Many of them enshrine actual events recorded and re-recorded with poetic license and varying accuracy, so that at last what was originally founded upon fact has in process of time become overlaid with much poetic imagery and fiction. To most of these tales and accounts of events each teller added something of himself suggested by his knowledge, imagination, or art; and thus ultimately what had once been facts became legends common to all throughout the length and breadth of the land till some one set them down in permanent form by writing or printing. Then the variations in a measure ceased. Tyrol is full of these legendary tales, superstitions, and myths, to which, indeed, the geological situation of the land and the simple habits of the people conduce. When we remember that in ancient times it was the universal custom to ascribe all manifestations of Nature's laws which could not be easily traced and understood to the supernatural, it is little wonder that the simple, unsophisticated, and uneducated Tyrolese should have so attributed many of the wonders amid which they lived. One very noticeable feature of the Tyrolese character is demonstrated by the fact that, notwithstanding the centuries of evolution during which superstition played so important a part in the life of the people, and the existence of an unreflecting belief in the supernatural, their many virtues, especially those of patriotism, industry, frugality of living, morality, hospitality, and religion, have not, as with some other nations, become impaired. Amongst the many legends of a startling and supernatural character which are found throughout Tyrol, is one connected with the pretty little village of Taur in the Innthal. It has to do with a hermit who lived in the seventeenth century in a cell overlooking the Wildbach. He is often said by the countryfolk to have been St. Romedius himself, though this, of course, could not be the case. One night, whilst the holy man was engaged in his usual meditation and prayer, a tapping was heard against the little window of his retreat. Upon opening the door, what was his amazement to see, not the benighted traveller he expected to find craving his hospitality and shelter, but the spirit of his friend the priest of Taur who had recently died. The latter entreated the holy man to have compassion upon him, saying, "Have pity upon me, Father, for my sufferings are terrible. Once when three Masses had been ordered and the fees paid I forgot to say them, and now for this sin I am being punished more than I can bear." Then the legend goes on to say that he laid his hand upon the low-pitched roof of the little porch outside the hermit's cell, and the holy man afterwards found that the wood was charred and the impression of the tortured priest's hand was left indelibly in the wood. The poor suppliant begged his old friend the hermit to say the Masses, and to pray and fast for him. This the holy man promised faithfully to do; and keeping his promise, a year and a day afterwards the spirit once more rapped upon the casement and told him that he was now free of purgatory. In the chapel there hung at least a few years ago, and we believe now hangs, the tile with the mark of the priest's hand branded into it, beneath which is written an account of the miracle, with the date February, 1660. In Wälsch Tyrol, especially, there are many folk-lore tales having a distinctly Biblical origin or suggestion. Possibly they are oral versions of Bible incidents handed down from generation to generation in the early years of Christianity and during the Middle Ages, until they have gradually in process of time and varied repetition lost their strictly Biblical character. One of the most usually met with (it is told by most Wälsch Tyrol mothers to their children, and is a favourite on account of its dramatic end, and because virtue triumphs) bears a very strong resemblance to the story of Joseph and his Brethren. The story runs thus: "Once long ago there lived a king who had three sons. Two were quite grown up, but the third was a child, and was his father's joy and favourite. One day the king, who had been out upon a hunting expedition, returned home from the chase of the bear and chamois fatigued, and dispirited because of the loss of a favourite feather[9] which he was accustomed to wear in his cap. There was a hue and cry raised, but no one could find the lost article. At length little (Joseph) came to his father and urged him to grieve no more but to refresh himself and then rest, "for," said the child, "either I myself or one of my brothers will find the feather." Then the king, pleased with the child, and doubtless hopeful that he would be the one to find the missing plume, said, "To whomsoever finds the feather will I leave my kingdom." The three brothers set out on their search, and after much trouble the youngest suddenly espied the object for which they were looking. But the two elder men, consumed by jealousy at the thought of Joseph's inheriting the kingdom, led him away into a wood and killed him, and, taking the feather to their father the king, told him that they both found it and thus jointly claimed the reward. Regarding the missing (Joseph) they said that whilst searching for the feather they missed him, and suddenly looked up to see him being borne away by a bear into the recesses of the woods, and as they were unarmed it was impossible for them to attempt to rescue him. The king was consumed by grief; search was made, but the body was not discovered; and it was not until the proverbial year and a day afterwards that a shepherd boy came across (Joseph's) bones, and, taking one of them, fashioned it into a primitive flute or shepherd's pipe. The wonderful part of the story is still to come. No sooner had the shepherd commenced to play upon the pipe than it told, in the voice of the poor child victim of jealousy, the whole story. The shepherd took the pipe to the king and played upon it before him. The king listened, and, accepting the miraculous tale it told, ordered his two sons, who were present and struck with amazement and fear, to be instantly put to death. There are scores of other stories of a similar character told during the winter evenings around the fire in Tyrolese huts and houses. Some have a family likeness to tales of our own land, such as Cinderella, Puss in Boots, Jack and the Beanstalk (only the giant is often replaced by an immense toad who guards fabulous wealth, that is only to be obtained by killing the toad in single combat, which feat is, of course, performed by the poor boy who wishes to marry the Princess), Red Riding Hood, etc. An account of these, however, rightly belongs to a volume of comparative folk-lore, and for detailed description we have no space in the present one. [Sidenote: SOME QUAINT CUSTOMS] Of the many quaint customs which still prevail in different parts of Tyrol, those relating to Christmas and to All Souls are amongst the most tender and picturesque. In North Tyrol, more especially perhaps in the district of the Unter-Innthal, Christmas, which is called Christnacht and Weihnacht, is celebrated by the gift of _Klaubabrod_, a strange cake-like compound made of dough, almonds, slices of pears, and other preserved fruits and nuts, which, at least with the generality of foreigners, must, we think from personal experience, be "an acquired taste." The Zillerthal maidens are specially well-instructed in the making of _Klaubabrod_, and the one prepared for the family consumption, if the maker be engaged, must have the first slice cut out of it by her betrothed, who then kisses her and at the same time gives her some little present as a mark of his affection. In former days it was the custom of the Bishops of Brixen to make presents of fish to members of their household and to all in their employ. The fish came from Lake Garda, and was allowed by custom to pass through the dominions of the reigning Count of Tyrol and the Prince Bishop of Trent exempt from the toll which would otherwise have been levied. In Wälsch Tyrol there is a curious Christmas custom still to be met with which consists of the arrangement, by the father of the family, of a number of heaps of flour upon a table or shelf. In these are hidden various little presents, and when the children and other members of the household have been admitted they take their heap according to the drawing of lots, or the result of some contest or competition. The belief that animals have the gift of speech, which has during past ages been prevalent throughout Christendom, still prevails in some parts of the more remote districts and valleys of Tyrol; and strange stories are told of things said by beasts and over-heard by human beings which have come true, so that animals evidently are accredited also with the gift of prophecy. At Epiphany, in many parts of Tyrol, performances very similar in character to the English old-time "mummers" are given. Generally three of the village boys dressed up to represent kings, one having his face blacked, go from house to house singing. Sometimes a Herod will appear at the window of the house and reply to their songs in rhyming couplets. After which the singers stand in turn and sing, and end with a chorus which contains broad hints that they would not refuse some refreshment were it offered them! They seldom or never fail to receive this, as usually some provision has been made by the hospitable village folk for the purpose. The blessing of cattle on the Eve of Epiphany was at one time an almost universal practice with the Tyrolese. This, however, has been largely discontinued, although still extant in some hamlets of the remote valleys. As showing the almost universal prevalence of certain ideas underlying customs, though often varying in details, one may quote the observance of All Souls in Wälsch Tyrol, which bears a marked resemblance to the beautiful and even more pathetic ceremonials connected with the Feast of Bon Matsuri in far-off Japan. In parts of Wälsch Tyrol, although the graves of the departed are not decorated nowadays, as is so much the practice in Germany, the parish priests gather their parishioners together in the churchyards and recite the Rosary whilst kneeling amidst the graves. In many parts loaves, called _cuzza_, are given to the poor with small doles of money, and sometimes bean soup. In former times, however, these doles, which are for the refreshment of the souls of the departed, were actually laid upon the graves themselves, apparently in the belief that the souls would come forth and partake of the food so lovingly provided. Pitchers, cups, and other vessels containing fresh water were also placed so that the souls might slake their purgatorial thirst. It is in this latter and ancient, and not in the less symbolic modern observance that the analogy to the Bon Matsuri of Japan is so distinctly traceable. [Sidenote: MARRIAGE IN TYROL] Of the curious customs which once prevailed very widely, and are even now to be found in the more remote districts, those relating to marriage are amongst the most quaint. The month of May is, strangely enough, unpopular; with us the opposite appears to be the case. The favourite day is a Thursday. In fact, one writer ventures to say, "throughout Tyrol a Thursday is chosen." Monday, however, is the favourite in one of the smaller valleys of the Windisch-Matrei district. On the night before the wedding there is usually a great dance given, and in towns often a hall is hired for the purpose, where the contracting parties are well known, in a good position, and have a large circle of friends and acquaintances; and in villages where the same circumstances occur an elaborately decorated barn is often used for the merry-making. From the time the wedding is announced or the "banns" published the betrothed maiden is known as the "Pulpit Bride" or _Kansel-Braut_. These village wedding festivities are often rendered picturesque and even mediæval in effect, as the peasants frequently wear the costumes of former times, and the barn is lighted by pine torches or equally primitive methods. The dancing is kept up till early morning, in fact often until sunrise; and not till then do the guests disperse, some of the more favoured going on to the bride's house for a substantial breakfast, or, as it is called, _Morgensuppe_. Whilst this is in progress the bride is usually attired by her girl friends (quite a number of them frequently sharing in this interesting and even exciting ceremony), and those who have not come in to breakfast may continue the dancing. One of the special adornments worn by brides is a knot of long ribbons or scarlet leather worked with gold thread, whilst blue bands, worn round the arm, and the hat ribbons are of the same colour. These were anciently thought, and are indeed still so, to have special powers to preserve the wearer from goitre and other complaints. The bride's procession, which forms usually at about ten or eleven in the morning, is headed by musicians. But before starting the guests assemble round the table in the living room and drink the good health of the happy couple out of a large bowl from which the latter themselves have drunk first. The nearest relatives and friends of the bride usually form a kind of guard of honour, being known as "train bearers," although we fancy a "train" is seldom worn by a peasant, or by one of the lower middle class. These "train bearers" surround the bride, and, except in inclement weather, walk with their hats in their hand, and sometimes bear garlands of flowers. In some districts it is the custom for the priest to accompany the bride to church, not as with us to await her arrival there, walking on one side of her whilst the parents walk on the other. Orange blossom is seldom worn, save by the rich; peasant girls wearing as a substitute a spray or wreath of Rosemary, which it is also a common practice for them to do in Italy and Spain. The plant is considered emblematic of the purity of the Virgin, and for that reason highly valued. [Sidenote: COSTUMES] Very frequently a Tyrolese bride wears no special bridal dress, but her holiday or _fête_ dress, which has perhaps been retrimmed or additionally embellished for the occasion. This was the case at a wedding at which we were present in the Unter-Innthal, where the bridesmaids also wore their picturesque festal attire, with broad-brimmed velvet hats, elaborately embroidered bolero-shaped bodices, snowy linen sleeves, short velvet skirts, and handsome aprons. Their shoes were mostly of black leather, some of those worn by the well-to-do girls being adorned by huge silver buckles. On this occasion the bridegroom was scarcely less gay in attire than the bride. Clad in short black velvet knee-breeches, and wearing a green velvet double-fronted waistcoat, a black jacket, thick brown knitted woollen hose, a crown or head ornament of silver filigree work, and a massive silver belt with heavy bosses, he was not only a conspicuous, but also an almost theatrical figure of the procession. A priest also accompanied him, followed by the village innkeeper, who is not seldom the richest man of the community, owner of the largest amount of land, and the holder of a position somewhat analogous to that of a mayor. It is generally agreed that the Tyrolese village innkeeper is a man of superior calibre to his English counterpart. Usually he is a man of upright character, and superior intelligence to the average villager; and carrying on, as he frequently does, several other businesses besides that of innkeeper, he is less interested than in some other countries in the excessive consumption of drink. At many weddings singers from neighbouring villages and hamlets will come into the bride's native place to assist with the singing and music which form a prominent feature of the ceremony. Lighted tapers are sometimes carried by the bridal party in church; and candles that will not burn well are always avoided and thrown aside by the younger and unmarried members of the company on account of the belief prevailing that to hold such is a sure sign that the bearers will not be married within the year. At the conclusion of the ceremony a cup of spiced wine mixed with water is sometimes handed round by the priest after he has blessed it, out of which the guests all drink to the health of the bride and bridegroom to be. In the old name given to this _Johannis segen_ (literally John's blessing) some authorities are inclined to trace a symbolism having its origin in the miracle performed at the wedding feast in Cana of Galilee. After the ceremony has been performed the wedding-party leaves the church, and, as is the case on similar occasions in Brittany and other countries, dancing almost immediately commences. It is sometimes, indeed, started almost at the church door, and thus the wedding-party proceeds to the village inn accompanied by musicians. In former times it was the almost universal custom in several valleys of Tyrol to proceed in turn to every inn within a radius of some miles after refreshments had been partaken of at the first. A very fatiguing custom one would imagine. Refreshments, we were told, generally marked each visit, and yet the real business of the day, the wedding feast, was still to come! In ancient times--the custom has now fallen into disuse so far as we have been able to discover--it was also the practice to slaughter a fatted calf, which had been reserved for that particular purpose. Every possible joint and portion of the animal was served up in turn even to the head and feet. [Sidenote: A TYROLESE WEDDING] At the end of a feast which even nowadays lasts hours, and formerly, so one old writer says, "consumed much time so that the whole day was frequently given over to feasting till few who sat down to the board were capable of much exertion," the best man or some prominent groomsman rises and asks the guests whether they are satisfied with the fare provided. It is needless to say that such a question is invariably received with rounds of appreciative applause. Then, in former times more frequently than nowadays, the speaker proceeded to preach a little sermonette which generally ran something in the following style, and was little varied from occasion to occasion, or even from one generation to another. "The good gifts of which we have partaken are from the hand of God. Therefore should thanks be given to Him. And yet more should this be done for His mercy in making us in His image and reasonable beings, and not as the wild beasts of the field or crawling things, or unbelievers. We have but to thank Him and turn ourselves to Him in the spirit of humbleness and gratitude, and He will abide and go with us as with those at the marriage feast in Cana of Galilee." Other duties in life and aspirations were usually touched upon, and coming from one of themselves we can well believe the speech was listened to with additional attention by a race of people distinguished for simple piety and homely religion. The exhortation was usually followed by a loud saying of a Paternoster and a "Hail Mary" by all present. Often this address is followed by other refreshments of a lighter kind than those of the feast proper. Some are of special design, and in their shapes and decorations have symbolic meaning, as is sometimes the case of wedding dishes and decorations in other countries. After this the guests bring forth the gifts they have for the young couple. Coming from a naturally generous and warm-hearted people these are often not only useful but valuable, and prove a great help to the newly established housekeepers. Then, when the most exigent appetites have been more than satisfied, the musicians, who have played at intervals throughout the proceedings, strike up dance tunes, and the younger--and often older, too--members of the party indulge in their favourite indoor pastime--dancing. Tyrolese peasant dances are many of them exceedingly picturesque and quaint, if somewhat boisterous and lively in their performance. Both the men and the girls in one or two of them beat time not only with their feet but also by means of resounding thwacks on their thighs and hips. And whilst the young men, clad in gay waistcoats, black velvet or leather knee-breeches and high-crowned hats often of a delightful shade of green felt, are getting more energetic, their partner's short, full skirts during their top-like revolutions often ascend waistward until the extent of shapely and sturdy limbs displayed almost rivals that of a conventional ballet girl. Other dances of the waltz, _dreher_, and _allemande_ type are more graceful, and less "romping" in character. Dancing is carried on far into the night, and it is a notable circumstance that although there is a good deal of eating there is not often excessive drinking on these occasions, and cases of actual drunkenness are very few and far between. Several of the valleys--the Zillerthal, Iselthal, and Grödenerthal in particular--have their own peculiar wedding customs. And in several, as in parts of Germany, the old custom of stealing one of the garters of the bride whilst she is seated at the wedding feast for the purpose of cutting it up into mascots or souvenirs still obtains. [Sidenote: TYROLESE SPORTS] A love of sport of all kinds seems inherent to the Tyrolese nature; and this in conjunction with the pure air and bracing climate in which the people live, the strenuous struggle for existence with the forces of Nature which is always going on amidst the higher valleys, not only serves to keep the Tyrolese a hardy and vigorous race, but has much to do with the special qualities of industry, religiousness, morality, frugality, and straight-forwardness for which they have long been distinguished. Their athletic festivals parallel those of Westmorland, Cumberland, and the Highland gatherings of our own land and the sports are to a considerable extent similar in character. The most popular, however, are undoubtedly shooting at a mark, or _Scheibenschiessen_ as they are called, and wrestling. The Tyrolese gun, usually a short-barrelled rifle, known as _stutz_, has played an important part not only in the history of the nation, but also in the domestic life of the people. In many of the more remote valleys, in the past at least, it has deserved its name of the bread-winner, for upon the game shot with it many a household has largely subsisted; whilst from the skins of the deer, chamois and other animals killed, articles of clothing are made. To the constant use of the gun in all its evolutionary stages, from the flint-lock musket down to the more modern rifle of to-day, the Tyrolese owe their renown as being amongst the finest marksmen in Europe, a characteristic which has counted so tremendously in their various struggles with the invaders of their country. Wrestling is popular throughout the Tyrolese valleys, but nowhere more so than in the picturesque and romantic Zillerthal. The champion wrestler of a village, as used to be the village "bruiser" with us, is a person of importance who would not barter the distinction for love nor money. The wrestlers are divided into three kinds, the "Roblar," "Mairraffer," and "Haggler," who follow the rules of different schools of wrestling. In former times this love of the sport, or perhaps one should say supremacy in it, frequently led to scenes of crime and bloodshed. Often in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries noted robbers and freebooters were those who had acquired great physical powers as wrestlers, and in consequence took to brigandage as a means of livelihood. Indeed, there are stories told of fair maidens in past ages having been carried off from their betrothed by force, when the rejected suitor (or perhaps the unknown rival who had set his heart on a particular girl) had killed his rival in a wrestling bout. To prove murderous intent under such circumstances was not only extremely difficult but also somewhat against the "sporting" instinct of the race, and the primeval idea that the woman should fall to the strongest. Bowling and the game of skittles are also favourite pastimes, and to the latter especially several romantic stories attach. Indeed, even at the present day one can find traces of the belief that the game is also popular with the elves, gnomes, goblins, and "little folk" who are supposed to dwell in or haunt certain mountains, woods, and streams, only these supernatural folk mostly play with gold and silver balls and skulls in the legends and folk tales one hears around the firesides in Tyrolese chalets. [Sidenote: A GHOSTLY LEGEND] There is a strange story in connection with this game and the spirit players attached to the now ruined and once strong and famous castle of Starkenberg, which was destroyed by Frederick with the Empty Purse in the fifteenth century. Once, so the story goes, a pedlar was overtaken by darkness upon the mountain side, and losing his way, he came to the ancient _schloss_, in which he decided to take shelter for the night. He lay down on the grassy floor of the ruined hall, and placing his pack beneath his head went off to sleep. He slept for some hours and then was awakened by the clock of a neighbouring village striking midnight. As the last stroke reverberated amongst the rocks of the hillside he was astonished to see twelve spectral figures clad in complete armour file into the hall, and set to work to play a game of bowls, using skulls in place of balls. [Illustration: THE ORTLER FROM THE MALSER HEIDE] Now it happened that the pedlar was not only a fine wrestler and a man of great physical strength and courage (otherwise he would scarcely perhaps have chosen a haunted ruin in which to pass the night), but was the champion bowler of his native village. So he offered to pit his skill against that of the spectral knights. His challenge was accepted, and in the end he beat them all, and to his astonishment, instead of disgust being shown at his victory, his prowess was hailed with shouts of joy, and one of the spirits speaking to him said that now they were released from purgatory, and then they all vanished. Much mystified, the pedlar turned to see where they had disappeared to, when his eyes were greeted by the sight of ten more men in armour, who entered the hall by separate doors. After having carefully locked the latter they all brought the keys to the pedlar, and entreated him to try and discover the right one for each door. Nothing abashed he undertook the task which was a difficult one owing to the fact that each key, door, and ghostly visitant were exactly alike. He managed, however, to accomplish his task successfully, and was overwhelmed by the thanks of the spirits, who told him, as had their bowl-playing counterparts, that he had by this feat released them from torment. As was to be quite expected, it was now the devil's turn to appear upon the scene, which he immediately did, roundly upbraiding the pedlar for having thus robbed him of some of his victims, and declaring that he (the devil) would now inevitably manage to gain the pedlar's soul instead. The latter was not to be so easily disposed of, however, and he offered to stake his soul upon a game of bowls to be played between himself and the Evil One. Needless to say that the latter was beaten, and when dawn came at length he fled away with a horrible rushing of his bat-like wings, and his hot sulphurous breath tainting the air, so that the grass was withered in places. The pedlar was not likely to keep such an interesting experience to himself, and so when in due course he came to the village, towards which he was making his way when overtaken by nightfall, he told the tale. The villagers amazed went to the ruined castle, and lo and behold there was the scorched grass as the pedlar had declared. It would be easy to quote other equally quaint and romantic stories which are told in connection with the sports and pastimes of Tyrol, but that of the pedlar and the ghostly knights or men-at-arms must suffice. It will, at all events, serve to demonstrate how inextricably interwoven are the threads of legendary lore and romance, even with the commonplace daily life and amusements of this interesting people. FOOTNOTES: [7] In "Etrusker," Einl. 3, 10 _et seq._ [8] "Über die Urbewohner Rätiens und ihren Zusammenhang mit den Etruskern." [9] Or ornament. CHAPTER IV INNSBRUCK, ITS HISTORY, PEOPLE AND TREASURES The approach to Innsbruck, whether one come to it by railway or by road from the west, north, east or south, is picturesque and even wonderfully beautiful. Most English and American travellers, however, we imagine, come to the old-time capital of Tyrol via Zurich and the Arlberg railway, with its marvellous tunnel all but six and a half miles in length, above which tower snow-clad peaks and glaciers. This route provides a wonder-world of delight, a succession of deep gorges lying at the foot of towering mountains covered on their summits with a mantle of spotless and eternal snow. At one moment the train traverses a steep gradient climbing slowly along the hillside as though the line were laid upon a shelf of rock from which nothing but a miracle can keep it from tumbling into the foaming torrent below; the next plunging into the darkness of one of the many tunnels, to emerge a moment or two later into a blaze of light and vistas of still greater beauty. The Arlberg railway is not alone an engineering triumph; it is also an artistic one. Few lines in Europe present greater charm or variety of scenery in so comparatively short a distance. To enter Tyrol by it is to see the country as it is, largely unaltered from the days when Napoleon's armies entered it also from the Swiss frontier with the same objective, Innsbruck. Soon after leaving Feldkirch the valley commences to contract as the line climbs upwards from Bludenz and passes through the beautiful Kloster Thal; and at Langen one suddenly comes into the region of Alpine pastures, and from the valley below one can hear the musical tinkle of cow-bells, and discover on the hill-slopes picturesque groups of peasants minding their flocks. Then comes the ascent through the famous Arlberg tunnel, which is 26 feet in width and 23 feet in height, with its six and a half miles of gloom succeeded by magnificent scenery as St. Anton is passed, and the line proceeds through the narrow Stanzer valley, between towering mountains, many of whose peaks are snow-covered. Soon it crosses the wonderful Trisanna Viaduct which, in one arch of nearly 150 yards in length, spans the gorge of the Patznaum valley, at the bottom of which, nearly 200 feet below the line, rushes the glacial stream, and thence past the ancient Castle of Wiesberg onwards to Landeck, which is set in a wide valley with its commanding castle. From Landeck by taking a carriage one can reach Innsbruck in a leisurely way along the Finstermunz high-road via Sulden and Trafoi, and thence along the Stilfserjoch, the highest carriage road in Europe, which climbs to the height of 9055 feet above sea level. This was constructed between the years 1820-25 by the Austrian Government, and traverses a wonderful variety of exquisite scenery, from the region of the eternal snow on the Ortler and Monte Cristallo to the vine-clad slopes of the Val Tellina. The most impressive scenery is, however, found on the Tyrol side of the pass. From Landeck the line passes many another picturesque village; castles, whose history would fill volumes, seem to stand stark and stern almost on every mountain spur, some now mere ruins, others wonderful survivals of a past age, sometimes environed by pine-clad slopes, at others half-encircled by rushing torrents washing the bases of the rocky promontories upon which they stand, whilst above one towers on either hand the illimitable glaciers and snow slopes of the Eastern Alps. Thus through ever interesting and beautiful scenery one at last approaches Innsbruck. [Illustration: THE TRISANNA VIADUCT AND CASTLE WIESBERG] [Illustration: A PEEP OF THE ZILLERTHAL] [Sidenote: INNSBRUCK] Innsbruck is not only the capital of Tyrol, a town of upwards of 50,000 inhabitants, renowned historically and climaterically, but it is also the junction of two important lines of railway by means of which one can get eastward to Vienna and the East, and southward into Italy. It has been said that of all Tyrolese towns Innsbruck is the least national. Such a statement, although tinctured with truth, needs some qualification. In the season it certainly puts on a cosmopolitan air, and one meets numbers of English, Austrians, Germans, French, Americans, Italians, and Anglo-Indians in its streets; and games and entertainments make up a social round of considerable gaiety. But the town nevertheless retains its native charm, bred of historic memories, ancient buildings, and the hospitality of its people. To the northward, sheltering it from the cold winds from off the Bavarian plains, stands the bulwark of the eternal heights which literally wall in Tyrol. There rise the magnificent groups of limestone mountains towering above the fertile Inn Valley, the Frauhitt and Martinswand with their romantic traditions and memories, the Seegrubenspitzen, and Rumerjoch and Brandjoch. In fine weather they appear but a stone's throw from the bottom of the Maria-Theresien-Strasse, or from the Ferdinands Allée which runs along the south bank of the Inn, with its maples and poplars graceful and shady. Situated amid so much beauty of scenery, favoured by an equable climate and much sunshine, it is little wonder that the town has become a popular resort, more especially during the winter months. The valley is at its broadest where the city stands, allowing a wide prospect and charming views from the slopes of St. Nicolaus and Mariahilf across the river to the Berg Isel, and the wooded sides of the Mittelgebirge, with here and there a tiny village with outstanding spire perched high on the mountain side, or set amid the plain. The valley lies east and west of Innsbruck with the river flowing eastward like a silver ribbon, amid cultivated fields of fertile alluvial soil, threading its way through the gradually narrowing valley to Kufstein and thence through Bavaria to the Danube. This Alpine city, pregnant with so many historical memories, deeds of blood and chivalry, engirdled by the everlasting hills, is, with the possible exception of Salzburg, the most picturesque and interesting of all German Alpine towns. The character of Innsbruck of to-day differs very materially in some respects from what it was two decades ago. The modern element, which always comes to such places with greater notoriety and prosperity brought by travellers and tourists, has become developed, but happily as yet not greatly to the detriment of the old-time air which still permeates its narrow, ancient streets, and by-ways, courts, and buildings. In some of the former, the Maria-Theresien-Strasse at the south end of which stands the Triumphal Arch and Gate, and the Herzog-Friedrich-Strasse, for example, the old and the new are strangely mingled. It is not a little owing to this distinguishing feature as well as to its beautiful environment that Innsbruck owes its charm. With much of the convenience, it possesses less of the vexing artificiality of ancient places vulgarized by the exigencies of modern travel than do many similar towns. In some parts one might almost imagine one's self in one of the larger mountain villages, in another at Pontresina, or St. Moritz, minus, however, some of the more artificial gaiety of these resorts. [Sidenote: INNSBRUCK TYPES] During the season--more especially the summer--there are numbers of German tourists as well as Austrian to be seen in the streets, and in their almost boisterous enjoyment of their sight-seeing and holiday amusements they form a very marked contrast to the quieter and perhaps somewhat restrained English and American visitors, who as a general rule set about exploring the place and its treasures with a much more preoccupied and business-like air. From the higher and more distant valleys, too, many mountaineers and peasants come down to enjoy a few hours' marketing or the pleasures of the town. They form not the least interesting feature of the summer crowd which throngs the new as well as the old streets of Innsbruck. The women, many of them, wear picturesque costumes, consisting of velvet bodices, skirts of often beautiful shades of green and brown; aprons elaborately worked, or of lace; and sailor-shaped hats of black or green felt, often ornamented by gold embroidery under the brims and with two long ribbons (frequently also of velvet) hanging down or fluttering in the wind at the back. These hats are singularly like those of the Breton peasants, only they are worn more by the women than the men, whilst in Brittany women seldom wear them. The fact that Innsbruck is a garrison town accounts for the presence of a large number of soldiers about the streets; green plays a prominent part in many of the uniforms--more especially of Tyrolese regiments--whilst the officers of several wear a particularly smart shade of blue-grey, or "pastel" blue cloth with trimmings of cerise, scarlet, or green, which seldom fail to arouse the admiration of the ladies. The countryfolk, too, crowd the streets on market days with feathers in their hats which are often of beautifully "weathered" golden green or bright green felt. The history of Innsbruck from the tenth century onwards is indeed largely that of Tyrol itself. The name as a town appears first to have occurred in a document of the year 1027 which was a grant to the chapel of St. James' in the Field (St. Jacob in der Au), which most probably occupied the site on which the stately church of the same name erected in 1717 now stands. Long before this date, however, a settlement of people--small at first--had taken place at this crossing or ford of the Inn, brought into existence by the growing and profitable commerce between Germany and Italy by way of the Brenner. Both the travelling merchants and the Tyrolese themselves soon found the place a convenient depôt for the heavier goods and articles of merchandise, such as skins, wines, cloths, and metal ware; and as the years went by it gradually grew to be more than a convenient halting-place for the merchants and their pack trains on their journeys. Houses fit to accommodate the well-to-do were erected, and Innsbruck as a flourishing town came into being. Towards the end of the twelfth century certain rights over the town were acquired by a von Andechs, Berthold II., from the monks of Wilten to whom it belonged; and in consequence of these rights, Otto I., his successor, encircled it with walls, fortifications, and watch-towers, and also built himself a palace. The rise of Innsbruck was from the middle of the thirteenth century a steady one. At that period it was made the sole depôt for the storage of goods between the Zillerthal and the Melach; and as the years went by other privileges were granted to the steadily growing town, which not only served to maintain but also to increase its importance. In 1279, Bruno, Bishop of Brixen, consecrated another church in the Ottoburg, which was called the Moritzkapelle. The town's lords, spiritual as well as temporal, appear to have done what they could to foster and encourage its growth, and there are records of festivities and princely entertainments on a lavish scale within the precincts of the Ottoburg in those far-off times. It was not, however, until after the cession of Tyrol to Austria by the Duchess Margaret, known as "Pocket-mouthed Meg," that the admirable situation of Innsbruck was fully realized. Ultimately, the convenience of its water communication by the Inn and Danube with other distant and flourishing towns of the Empire seems largely to have brought about its adoption as the seat of government for Tyrol. [Sidenote: INNSBRUCK'S RULERS] Innsbruck throughout the centuries, so far as its rulers are concerned, appears to have been "fortune's child." Many privileges were granted to it from time to time, and the staunch fidelity of the citizens to Duke Rudolph IV. of Habsburg at the time of one of the periodic Bavarian invasions resulted in further concessions being granted which served to place Innsbruck in the unassailable position of being both the capital and the most prosperous town in the Tyrol. Duke Frederick of the Empty Pocket (_Mit der leeren Tasche_) made Innsbruck his home and base of operations whilst endeavouring to put down the Rottenburgers and other of the powerful nobles, who were attempting to set him at defiance and continue the oppression of the countryfolk which they had commenced and carried on during the unstable and weak government of Frederick's immediate predecessors. The Innsbruckers gave him loyal and very material support in his endeavours, and reaped a substantial reward in the favours and privileges which Frederick afterwards granted to them. It was this prince who gained, by contact with his people when a fugitive amongst the mountains and valleys of Tyrol, a knowledge of them (and thereby earned their affection) that made it possible for him ultimately to call the peasantry to arms, and to defy the power of the Emperor Sigismund, Ernest the Iron Duke of Styria, and his other enemies. The circumstances of Frederick's call of the people to arms was romantic in the extreme. Indeed, his doings in the early years of his outlawry by the Church and State read like pages of the most stirring romance. Perhaps some of the deeds recorded are more or less legendary, but enough remains to fill to overflowing with stirring incidents the pages of any historical romance. Briefly the story of the event is as follows. Assured during his many wanderings of the people's devotion to him, for when pursued they had sheltered him, and when discovered they had boldly refused to surrender his person to his enemies, Frederick devised a plan by which he should appear as the principal actor in an heroic peasant comedy at the great fair at Landeck. This play set forth in stirring scenes the fortunes or rather misfortunes of an exiled prince driven from his throne by his enemies, compelled to wander destitute, and with a price upon his head amongst his people, whom he eventually calls to arms and leads to victory and thus recovers his inheritance. He must have played his part remarkably well if one may judge by the results. The people, who had come to the fair from all parts of the country roundabout were stirred to the very depths by his acting, and by his pourtrayal of the imaginary prince's misfortunes. We are told the audience were many of them moved to tears and that when Frederick came to sing of the people following their ruler's call to arms the enthusiasm became uncontrollable. Then, so the tale goes, Frederick threw off all disguise, and made a direct appeal to them. The vast audience vowed to support his cause, and the enthusiasm which swayed the Landeckers was not long spreading through the whole country with the result that shortly afterwards the Emperor Sigismund and Frederick's brother concluded a truce with him and he was allowed to become ruler. [Illustration: THE FAMOUS "GOLDEN ROOF," INNSBRUCK] During his reign he did much to show his gratitude to his loyal friends and people by curbing the oppressive power of the nobles, and granting many privileges which were on the whole more for the benefit of the poor than of the rich. [Sidenote: THE "GOLDEN ROOF"] But to many who come to Innsbruck we fancy Frederick's fame rests not upon his wisdom as a ruler so much as upon his extravagance in building the world-famous "Goldne Dachl" to the elegant late-Gothic balcony of his palace at the foot of the Herzog-Friedrich-strasse. The nickname of "Empty Purse" or "Pocket" had been bestowed upon him by his enemies, who sought to belittle him when he attained to power. It was not certainly his by common consent. The Tyrolese account rather points to the fact that Frederick at one time had impoverished himself in his endeavours to relieve his subjects from the burdens of taxation, and in consequence the nobles who were no believers in his system of government in this respect bestowed upon him this somewhat approbrious _sobriquet_. Frederick saw in this a reproach not perhaps so much directed against himself as against his people in general. It seemed to him to indicate that his enemies thought those for whom he had undoubtedly done much kept him poor and would do nothing to keep up a state in character with his position as ruler. He therefore built the famous roof.[10] Outside the house which was then the Furstenburg or princely dwelling, now very ordinary looking and far less imposing and ornate in character than say the Heblinghaus hard by, he in 1425 erected over the two-storied balcony the "Goldne Dachl," on which piece of mediæval display of wealth he is stated to have expended 30,000 ducats or about £14,000. In it there are 3450 gilt upon copper tiles, which have several times since Frederick's day been regilded. The last occasion on which this was done is upwards of twenty years ago. It is necessary, however, for us to say that considerable doubt exists whether Frederick--who is now supposed not even to have built the house--did construct the roof which has done so much to immortalize his nickname. Loth though one is to destroy a romantic story, truth compels us to state that the most reliable evidence points to the Emperor Maximilian as the originator of the roof and probably the balcony also in 1500, after his second marriage with Maria Bianca Sforza of Milan. The house has long ago descended from its high position as a royal palace, even at times of recent years having been let to private families or in apartments, but the famous "Goldne Dachl" over the beautiful oriel window, with its Gothic balconies, the balustrades of which are decorated with carved armorial bearings and shields in marble, has been preserved as a beloved relic almost in its original state. Within the house itself is a curious old fresco, the subject of which has been the cause of much dispute. On the second floor is an interesting sculptured bas-relief, depicting Maximilian and his two wives, Mary of Burgundy and Maria Bianca Sforza, with the seven coats-of-arms belonging to the seven provinces over which the Emperor held sway. Frederick's son Sigismund succeeded him, and for a time kept a brilliant and gay Court at Innsbruck, but being without direct heirs he in 1490 gave up Tyrol to his cousin who, three years later, became the Emperor Maximilian I. Maximilian in turn did much for the town which he adopted as his Tyrol home, and by his residence in Innsbruck, after he had become the Emperor of a wide dominion, he did much to increase its importance and prosperity. He it was who built a new palace in the Rennplatz, called the Burg, which scarcely forty years later was burned down. The Great Hall, called the Goldene Saal, and the state bedroom, the decorations and furniture of which were so beautiful and magnificent that it was known as _das Paradies_, were eventually totally destroyed, many of the occupants of the palace, including the children of the Emperor Ferdinand of that time, escaping with their lives with difficulty. Maximilian, who became familiar to his Innsbruckers as the "Kaiser Max," especially endeared himself to them by reason of his frank manners and love of the chase and mountaineering. [Sidenote: ANCIENT INNS] Amongst the many interesting mediæval buildings which have happily survived in Innsbruck there are several in the immediate neighbourhood of the famous "Goldne Dachl." One of the oldest, if not the oldest, is the Ottoburg of Otto I. standing at the end of the Herzog-Friedrich-strasse close to the River Inn; and, indeed, only separated from it by the Herzog-Otto-strasse. This, the residence of the Andechs, was built in 1234, and was the reputed birthplace of Otto III. A quaint motto concerning it remains, which, roughly translated, runs-- "Here the Ottoburg firmly stands, A house upheld by God's own hands." In this ancient building many dramatic scenes of Tyrolese history took place. Close by is the oldest Inn, the famous and deeply interesting Goldener Adler (Golden Eagle) to which, in former times, before modern hotels and conveniences were esteemed indispensable, every visitor of distinction to Innsbruck came. The "visitors' list" of the Goldener Adler is one long entry of nobles and celebrities. Indeed, during the time it was the acknowledged resort of the nobility and even monarchs who came to Innsbruck, it sheltered amongst its many distinguished guests and travellers the Emperor Joseph II.; Ludwig I., King of Bavaria; Gustave III. of Sweden; Heinrich Heine, the gifted though melancholy poet; and Goethe, who came to Innsbruck with the Dowager Duchess Amalie of Saxe-Weimar in 1790. In commemoration of this visit a bust of the poet adorns the room which he occupied. And last, but by no means least, the Goldener Adler housed the patriot Andreas Hofer. It was regarding the portraits of the latter, of his enemy Napoleon Bonaparte, and of Ludwig of Bavaria that Heine remarked on seeing them hanging side by side in the dining-room of the Inn that it was strange to see such enemies grouped together even though merely portraits. Tradition has it that it was from the middle window of the famous Goldener Adler that Hofer made his speech to the surging crowd in the narrow street below on August 15, 1809, when he entered the town in triumph after the third battle on Berg Isel. A copy of the speech, which was a modest though stirring oration, has been preserved at the Inn. One of the most delightful vistas of the old town is to be obtained from the corner where stand the three well-known Inns, the Goldener Hirsch, Rother Adler, and Goldener Löwe; whilst from the balcony of the old Stadtthurm or belfry a fine view over the town and of the environing mountain summits rewards the adventurous climber. The old-fashioned "lauben" or arcades of the Herzog-Friedrich-strasse in particular, under which are set out tiny stalls often kept by picturesquely attired girls and women, seldom fail to attract the attention of visitors. On either side of the street these "lauben" stretch under the low arcaded roofs, providing not only a cool promenade in the heat of summer, but a shelter which on wet days can be fully appreciated, for, to speak frankly, Innsbruck in wet weather strikes one if one wanders in the byways as a somewhat muddy though intensely interesting town. In these "lauben" one frequently sees types of the older Tyrolese in the national costume, which in the towns of Tyrol (as in those of other countries) show signs of dying out. Old women in the short skirts, and picturesque aprons, quaint hats and bodices, of the mountain districts and villages, and the old men, wrapped (if the weather be cold) in long, flowing, cloaks of green or russet cloth, smoking their long pipes with painted porcelain bowls, on which are often as not stirring scenes in miniature from the life of Hofer. [Sidenote: MARKET TYPES] By way of these covered promenades one gradually reaches the busier centre of the town where the old-world aspect of Herzog-Friedrich-strasse gives place to the more modern Maria Theresien-strasse, and the Burggraben joins the Marktgraben. There are few more deeply interesting and picturesque places of its kind than Innsbruck Marktgraben on a festival or market day. Here, indeed, is a spot not alone for the artist and amateur photographer, but for the student also, who may see many quaint local customs and costumes, and occasionally even the boyishly attired girl cowherds of the upper pastures in their cloth or velvet knee breeches, short jackets, "sailor"-shaped hats decorated with feathers, edelweiss or gentians, and worsted stockings. Here, too, perhaps, one can better realize from the cosmopolitan throng of market people, than from anything else, the fact that for many generations Innsbruck has been the business highway for Italians, Slavonians, Hungarians, Austrians, and Germans. One can often, indeed, see representatives of Northern, Southern, and Eastern nations gathered together at one and the same time in the Marktgraben, with a sprinkling of tourists to represent the more Western peoples. If we were asked to pick out the two streets which in different ways would probably most deeply impress the newcomer to Innsbruck, we should without hesitation chose the old-world Herzog-Friedrich-strasse, on either side of whose narrow roadway are so many interesting ancient houses, low-ceiled rooms, and picturesque courtyards, as one; and the Maria Theresien-strasse with its more modern air, exquisite view of the snow-capped Bavarian Alps as the other. But this latter fine commercial street with its up-to-date shops, upon the windows of many of which frequently appears that comfort-bringing (but alas! sometimes delusive) legend, "English Spoken," is not without its old and historical buildings. In the Spitalkirche or Church of the Holy Ghost one has an early eighteenth century Rococo building of considerable interest. And almost opposite stands the house in which Hermann von Gilm, the well-known Tyrolese poet, died in 1864. A little further along is the Rathaus or Town Hall of Innsbruck, which was formerly the Oesterreichischer Hof, a large hotel. In the courtyard is a noticeably fine marble staircase, and there are some interesting and effective frescoes on the walls from the brush of Ferdinand Wagner. Few visitors but are attracted by the column of red native marble which occupies a prominent position in the middle of and almost exactly midway down Maria Theresien-strasse. Surmounted by a statuette of the Virgin Mary, and with those of St. Anna, St. George, St. Vigilius, and St. Cassian grouped round the base, it was erected as a memorial of the retreat of the Bavarian troops on St. Anna's Day (July 26), 1703. At the corner of Maria Theresien-strasse and Landhaus-strasse is the Landhaus of Anton Gump completed in 1728, and in the Rococo style of architecture then prevalent. Here are held the sittings of the Tyrolean Landtag which was formerly held at Meran, and on its transference to Innsbruck was one of the main causes of the town becoming the capital of Tyrol. Close by is the church of the Sevites, with its famous dome decorated by the paintings of the well-known Tyrolean artist, Joseph Schöpf, depicting the death of St. Joseph and his entry into paradise. The University, which stands in the street of that name, has undergone some considerable vicissitudes. Founded by the Emperor Leopold I. in 1677, it was, by the Emperor Joseph II., reduced to the standing of a Lycée, but was once more accorded the dignity of a University in 1826. In the valuable library of upwards of 75,000 volumes there are many illuminated MSS. of great beauty and value, as well as a number of early fifteenth-century books. The adjoining Botanical Garden, which contains an unrivalled collection of Alpine flora, and was constructed by Professor von Kerner, belongs to the University, and here during the summer months those who wish to study Alpine flowers will find grouped and gathered together specimens which it would take many months and perhaps even years to study and discover on one's own initiative in their native habitats. The University is, however, about to be transferred to a more convenient home on the Fürstenweg near the Inn, and the old building will, alas! probably be pulled down and the site used for modern houses. [Sidenote: MAXIMILIAN'S CELL] Quite close to the latter stands the Jesuit Church attached to it, which is chiefly interesting because of its being the burial place of the Tyrolese Prince Regents, and on account of the paintings by Albrecht Durer which adorn the sacristy. The Capuchin Church and Convent dating from the latter end of the sixteenth century are worth a visit, for in the latter one sees an interesting and historical survival in the retreat of the Archduke Maximilian, known as the "Deutsch-Meister," who here devoted a week in every year to prayer, fasting, and penance. In his simple cell, which is panelled in plain wood, and has for furniture but a bedstead and chair of the most ordinary make, one can realize exactly the kind of "retreat" which was so often in those far-off days used by the highest nobles and rulers to free them for a time from the cares and vanities of State. The inkstand and other small articles of necessity, which still remain memorials of Maximilian's occupation, are supposed to have been his own handiwork. How complete this ruler's retirement from the world and whilst he was in retreat can be judged by the fact that he not only followed with exactitude the rules of the brotherhood, rising early and also attending the night offices, but in addition he engaged in the manual labour of the garden, and field, and workshop like as one of them. The cell has a little window high up and opening on the chancel of the chapel to enable the noble recluse to take part in the services. This cell has been in a sense a pilgrim place ever since, and has been visited at various times by many distinguished people. In 1765 the Empress Maria Theresa came to the Convent, and upon entering Maximilian's retreat sat herself in the wooden chair. She was little used to so hard a resting-place, and after a minute or two she expressed her astonishment, exclaiming, "Heavens! What men of iron our forefathers were!" There are (so far as we know) no relics of the Empress Maria Theresa's visit, not even an autograph; but another illustrious visitor, St. Lorenzo of Brindisi, who came to Innsbruck on his way to found a religious house in Austria, somewhat strangely one is forced to think, left behind him his staff, breviary, and copy of the Hebrew Bible, which are treasured as carefully as the relics of the Archduke Maximilian himself. During the reign of the latter the religious houses and Churches of Innsbruck all benefited by his generosity and prospered from his devotion to the Church. The effect of his example upon the townsfolk themselves was so marked that after the terrible plague of the year 1611 the burghers founded and built the Dreiheiligen Kirche (Holy Trinity) for the Jesuits as a thank-offering that the ravages of the plague were stayed. It was probably owing to the fact that, during this particular outbreak of the scourge of the Middle Ages, when the old hospital or Siechenhaus was all too small to hold all the victims, two Jesuits, Kaspar von Kostlan of Brixen, and the Professor of Theology at the University, assisted by a lay brother, tended the sick with indefatigable self-sacrifice, that the Jesuits were destined to chiefly benefit by the Innsbruckers' desire to commemorate their gratitude to God, that the pestilence at last had been overcome. They readily subscribed the necessary funds (we are told), and the then Burgomaster took a vow to see that the building was erected. From the time of which vow, tradition tells us, "the pestilence at once began to abate." An altar-piece, the artist of which was Stötzl, was given by Maximilian himself. It represented the three patron saints against sickness: St. Sebastian, who stayed a plague in Rome by his intercession; St. Martha, who according to tradition founded a hospital and spent the rest of her life attending to the sick; and St. Rocchus, who devoted his life and strength to the care of those suffering from the pestilence. [Sidenote: THE NEWER TOWN] Some of the most beautiful roads and modern houses of the newer Innsbruck, which is increasing in area year by year, lie close at hand to this votive church, and to the northward, in the part of the town which is best reached by the Universitats-strasse and Saggengasse, alongside of which is the vast Exercier Platz, and at the back of that and nearer the river the beautiful Hofgarten. These never fail to charm the rambler on the outskirts of the town. [Sidenote: MUSEUM TREASURES] But there yet remain many other interesting objects, which the lover of Innsbruck and the visitor who stays for any considerable period of time are sure to gradually discover and enjoy. One of these is the National Museum, known as the Ferdinandeum, in which are gathered together objects, pictures, and relics forming, so it is claimed for them, an almost complete historical record of Tyrol, its people and its products. The Museum, which is the resort of students from all parts of Europe, and is for even the casual visitor an object of the greatest interest, bears the name of its founder and patron Ferdinand I. Originally intended to illustrate in a vivid and practical way the history and national customs of the country in the various domains of art, science, and industry, the collections have gradually been enlarged and expanded so as to contain examples of art by members of well known foreign schools. The present museum is a comparatively modern building, with a façade in the Italian Renaissance style. The ground floor was commenced in 1842, and the upper story added in 1886. On the ground floor are some most interesting archæological remains, including several ancient Roman milestones from the Brenner road and elsewhere; burial urns from Matrei; bronze statuettes of Roman days from Brixen and Innicherberg; many ornaments of the Roman period from Meran, Moritzing, Zedlach and other places. From Salurn, in the valley of the Eisack, there are some Roman tombs, with the ornaments of the dead, and household and toilet utensils and articles of great value and interest. One of the most important objects in the archæological section of the Museum is the sarcophagus, arms and ornaments of a Lombardian prince disinterred at Civezzano, near Trent. The coffin was richly ornamented by gold bands, and in it was found a gold cross. Zoology, Geognosy, Palæology, and Mineralogy are represented with remarkable fulness, and in the last-named section of the Museum is to be found almost every Tyrolese mineral discovered up to the present time. Some of the specimens are of great beauty and value. In the Armoury, which so far as the general visitor is concerned, appears to be one of the most popular sections, there are many fine examples of the weapons of bygone days, including poignards, inlaid pistols, guns, powder-horns and flasks, helmets, breastplates, etc. [Illustration: A TYPICAL INNSBRUCKER] In the Topographical section few fail to notice with interest the many early maps of Tyrol, bearing on their faces the history of the country as is shown by the partitions of it which from time to time took place; and the homemade globes of the self-educated shepherd boy, Peter Anich, who became a famous geographer. In the same room are some fine specimens of peasant costumes, musical instruments (including some Strads, Amatis, and Stainers of great value), the jewel case of the famous Philippine Welser (wife of Ferdinand II.) who lived with her royal and devoted husband at Castle Ambras for many years. There are also in the Museum some deeply interesting relics, portraits, busts, autographs, etc., of Tyrolese patriots and distinguished citizens of Innsbruck. Those relating to Andreas Hofer, and his two loyal comrades, Joachim Haspinger and Joseph Speckbacher, include many of their personal belongings, and are regarded by the Tyrolese visitors with almost religious veneration--a feeling which the life--history of these men quite justifies. Amongst the sculpture are some fine specimens of old carved woodwork and interesting German carvings of an early period brought from Tyrolean churches, which were either despoiled during the Napoleonic Wars, or have since for one reason or another been pulled down and their treasures and fittings dispersed. On the second floor of this convenient and commodious building is chiefly gathered together the Art collection, which so far as native work is concerned is, we believe, unrivalled. There is presented for the information of the student as well as the ordinary visitor an astonishingly complete survey of Tyrolese painting from the earliest times, including the work of the schools of Brixen-Neustift, and the Pusterthal, with representative work by such masters as Andrä Haller and Michael Pacher; and also examples of the old Flemish and German masters, including Lucas Cranach, St. Jerome, Altdorfer, Pateiner, etc., Innsbruck painters being represented by Sebastian Schel. Well worth the attention of all interested in painting and its development as an Art are the works of the Tyrolese masters covering the period from the seventeenth century to the present day, which are well represented by pictures of the Unterberger family, Joseph Schöph, John Baptist Lampi, Angelica Kaufmann, Gebhard Flatz (Fra Angelico), Joseph A. Koch, Mathias Schmidt, E. von Wörndle, Karl Blaas and others. Amongst the more notable pictures of the modern school are the "Chancellor Wilhelm Biener at the Innsbruck Landtag," of Karl Anrathers, and the historical masterpieces of Franz Defregger. It is impossible for one to study the latter nine in number, which depict patriotic events connected with the campaign of 1809, without appreciating the vigour of their execution and the charm of their colour, at the same time realizing something of the stirring nature and significance of the events to which they refer. Three are originals, and the remaining six are copies made by pupils of Defregger under his own personal supervision, and supposed to have in some cases been finished or touched up by him. The following are the subjects of the originals:-- (1) The Three Patriots--Andreas Hofer, Joseph Speckbacher, and Joachim Haspinger; (2) Speckbacher and his son Anderl at the Bear Inn, St. Johann; (3) The Innkeeper's Son. The last named is the son of the Tharer Wirth at Olang in the Pusterthal. The copies are of the following subjects: (1) Speckbacher's Call to Arms; (2) The Last Summons, the original of which is in the Imperial Art-History Museum in Vienna; (3) The Mountain Forge, the original of which is in the Dresden Gallery; (4) The Return of the Victors, the original of which is in Berlin; and (5) Andreas Hofer in the Castle at Innsbruck, the original of which belongs to the Emperor Francis Joseph; (6) Andreas Hofer being led to Execution, the original of which is in Konigsberg. These are all distinguished by beauty of colouring, strength of drawing, and dramatic appeal. There are many other treasures in this Museum, which is national in the true sense of the word. And amongst them is the fine and almost priceless collection of pictures by Dutch masters which has been principally acquired through bequests of wealthy Tyrolese. In it are examples of the work of Van Dyck, P. Paul Reubens, Paul Potter, R. Ruysch, Adrian von Ostade, A. Cuyp, Rembrandt and others. There is also a most comprehensive and valuable Library of works relating to Tyrol, and also the archives of both the Austrian and German Alpine Clubs. Each year sees important additions made to the various departments of the Ferdinandeum, and so the returning visitors to Innsbruck find an ever new interest in the country and its National Museum awaiting them. [Sidenote: THE HOFBURG] The remaining objects of supreme interest at Innsbruck are the Hofburg or Palace; and the Hofkirche or Church of the Franciscans. They are easily reached from the Ferdinandeum along Museum-strasse and the Burggraben, which may be said to form the boundary line dividing the old town from the new. The archway, through which one reaches both the Palace and the Church, formed, in mediæval times, one of the city gates; and in those far-off times was crowned by a watch-tower upon which the many escutcheons of the Habsburgs were emblazoned. It was taken down in the time of Maria Theresa, as its condition had become too dangerous to permit it to remain standing. The Hofburg stands at a right angle with the Hofkirche to the north-west. Of the original building erected by the Emperor Maximilian not very much now remains; for after being seriously damaged it was ultimately reconstructed by Maria Theresa. On the exterior are traces of the original baroque style favoured at the time it was built; still also to be found in several of the larger, older, and more important houses in the town. The state apartments are chiefly distinguished for the decorative paintings of the well-known artist A. F. Maulbertsch, principally in the large salon known as the Riesensaal. It was in the chapel, which connects the Palace with the Damenstift or Ladies' Home, that the Emperor Francis I. of Germany, husband of Maria Theresa, died so tragically on August 18, 1765, while the wedding festivities in connection with the marriage of Prince Leopold (afterwards the Emperor Leopold II.) with the Infanta Maria Ludovica were in progress. It is not the Hofburg, however, but the famous Hofkirche--which has by several writers and antiquarians been called "The Tyrolean Westminster Abbey,"--that attracts most visitors, and has the greatest charm for all who are either interested in Tyrolese history or antiquities. This church was built during the decade from 1553-63 by the Emperor Ferdinand I., then King of Rome, as a memorial to his grandfather the Emperor Maximilian I., who was buried underneath the high altar in the Castle Chapel of Wiener-Neustadt. Tradition states that the building had been contemplated by Maximilian, and was ultimately brought into being in accordance with his will. The architect of the church, which is in the Italian Renaissance style, was Thuring of Innsbruck,[11] and the ground plan follows the lines of a columnar basilica. Lübke, however, states that it was the tomb and not the building which Maximilian himself planned in collaboration with Gilg Sesselschreiber, a Munich artist, who occupied the position of painter to the Court. The first impression made upon the mind by the famous Hofkirche is one of lightness and elegance, wedded to a somewhat flamboyant decorative scheme, rather than impressiveness or age. The lofty and slender-looking columns which support the roof on either side of the nave are of red marble, and the ceiling itself is elaborately decorated in rococo. The vista on entering is extremely fine, including as it does the wonderful tomb of Maximilian, the organ loft, and the huge crucifix in the centre, and the handsome pulpit on the left of the tomb. The impression of magnificence and beauty grows upon one, thus carrying out what was doubtless the design of the architect and the Emperor who was instrumental in its erection. [Sidenote: MAXIMILIAN'S TOMB] The tomb in the centre, with its imposing bronze figure of Maximilian kneeling with clasped hands on the top of the huge marble sarcophagus, at the four corners of which are smaller figures, at once arrests attention. The Emperor is in Imperial dress, with crown, armour, and a robe, and is surrounded by the twenty-eight huge figures which have become world-famous, and all save two of which were once torch-bearers, and are now seen with their right hands extended as though holding torches. The two exceptions are King Arthur of England, and the Emperor Theodoric the Goth. All of the statues surrounding the tomb are thought to have had some real or legendary connection with the House of Habsburg, and it is believed that Maximilian himself chose the characters who were to be represented. They may be grouped into two series. One consisting of his five favourite heroes of antiquity; the other of twenty-three ancestors, contemporary relatives or members of his house, both men and women. The figures differ very greatly both in style and merit. It was perhaps only natural that this result should have been arrived at when one remembers that several generations were occupied upon the construction of this marvellous example of German Renaissance monumental work erected during the sixteenth century, and that it was necessarily the work of several designers as well as many different hands. The tomb is a wonderful, perhaps even unequalled, example of the German art of a period which marked the blending of the mediæval and the modern. To the Imperial designer of the tomb the chivalric figures he chose to surround it were no mere abstractions but living, breathing entities; just as the old feudal Empires of south-eastern Europe were real. He was unable to realize that even then the old order was about to pass away, to be replaced by a new which was so divergent from that he had known, and of which he himself had been so prominent a figure. The bronze figures, which twenty years or so ago attracted the notice of but few foreign visitors, but are now objects of keenest interest to all comers to the capital of Tyrol, are by several hands. The two of surpassing beauty of design and execution are those of King Arthur of England, and King Theodoric. They are nowadays pretty generally supposed to have been the work of Peter Vischer of Nüremberg. These two statues have a particularly interesting history which has been brought to light of recent years. Though cast at Nüremberg in 1513, and costing no less than one thousand florins, it was not until nearly twenty years had elapsed that they reached Innsbruck. In the meantime, owing to Maximilian's need of ready money, they had been in the possession of Bishop Christopher of Augsburg, to whom they had been pawned by the Emperor. The Bishop placed them in the chapel at St. Lorenz, where they remained until the year 1532. Ferdinand I. then sent to redeem them, and they were delivered up on payment to the steward of the then Bishop of the amount which originally had been advanced upon them. [Illustration: MOONRISE IN TYROL] [Sidenote: KING ARTHUR AND THEODORIC] The statue of King Arthur is especially impressive and fine. Standing erect, the tall, chivalrous-looking figure has an alertness of pose which is astonishingly lifelike and commanding. It is impossible not to recognize the representation of a true ideal of knighthood "sans peur et sans raproche," and that without any suggestion of aggressive valour. The helmet worn is of the close-fitting type with the visor, which is enriched with ornamentation, raised so that the face of a somewhat Teutonic mould is plainly seen. The breastplate, worn over a coat of mail, is magnificently worked; but the rest of the suit is plain. Arthur supports by his right hand a shield bearing the arms of England, and at his left side is a long sword. The statue of King Theodoric, although fine in execution, does not possess the same impressiveness and commanding merit as that of King Arthur to which we have just referred. It appears probable that the same model may have been used for both. But, whereas King Arthur is a commanding figure, the pose of King Theodoric is rather a dejected and wearied one. His breastplate is not nearly so richly ornamented, and his helm is also plainer, with the visor of a quite different shape. As is the case with King Arthur, the breastplate is worn over a coat of chain mail, and the greaves worn are plain. The remaining twenty-six figures according to some authorities were designed by Gilg Sesselschreiber; although opinion is still somewhat divided regarding this point. It may, however, we think be accepted that Sesselschreiber was, at least in part, responsible for the greater number. The relationship which existed between the Emperor Maximilian and the Munich artist Sesselschreiber, who had been engaged as Court painter in 1502, was not untinctured by an element of romance, which is doubly interesting as showing the relative positions of artist and patron in those stirring and disturbed times. Happily for lovers of art and antiquities the original designs for the statues surrounding the tomb of Maximilian which Sesselschreiber made have been preserved, and can be seen in the Imperial Library, Vienna. Exquisite pen-and-ink drawings delicately tinted, upon some of which the Emperor himself made corrections and suggestions in his own hand. These are distinctly traceable on some from the unskilled nature of the pen-and-ink alterations. [Sidenote: THE FAMOUS STATUES] A curious fact is also brought to light by these sketches. It would seem from them beyond question that Maximilian fully intended being modelled for the figure of himself, which was to grace the memorial, in the suit of exquisite silver armour which he had worn on the occasion of his marriage at Ghent with Mary of Burgundy.[12] Several sketches were made, one, apparently from the notes and alterations upon it, displeased the Emperor from a technical point; in another the face was not as he wished with the result that Sesselschreiber altogether made four or more drawings. The care which had been taken over this most important figure was, however, never destined to be utilized to the full, for the statue was not even modelled at the time of Maximilian's death in 1519, and the figure clad in coronation robes (instead, as was evidently intended, entirely in armour) which kneels on the top of the cenotaph was the work of Abraham Colin, who had never seen the Emperor in life, the cast not having been made until more than sixty years after Maximilian's death. How slowly the great work of this magnificent tomb proceeded can be gathered from the dates we have quoted. The delay arose from several causes; amongst others, from the Emperor's shortness of money, owing to the vast schemes of conquest, science, and other matters in which he was engaged; and from the circumstance that Gilg Sesselschreiber appears to have become lazy, intemperate, and dissolute. In the end he took flight to Augsburg in fear of Maximilian's anger. The Emperor, however, was not prepared to yield up possession of his Court painter without a struggle, so the latter was captured and thrown into prison, from which he appears to have been released in 1516 on promise of reform. So that he might be freed from the temptations which Innsbruck afforded in the way of wine, women, and boon companions he was compelled by the Emperor to take up his residence at Natters on the western side of the Sill Gorge above Innsbruck. The casting of the statues was largely done by the famous Gregor Löffler, who established a bronze foundry near Innsbruck, and also built the Castle of Büchsenhausen, although some of the statues were undoubtedly cast by Stephen and Melchior Godl and Hans Lendenstreich who worked at the Mühlau foundry on the outskirts of Innsbruck. Although the designing and casting of the statues is now generally accepted as being the work of the men we have named, it is more than possible that the idea of the whole complete piece of mediæval and historical symbolism was that of some comparatively unknown brother of the Franciscan order. Originally the scheme was designed to include, in addition to the figures we have mentioned, twenty-three others of saints which were to be placed on raised pedestals or in niches, and were for this reason of much smaller size. They are now to be seen in the Silver Chapel. The following is a list of the large statues grouped around the tomb. (1) Clovis, the first Christian King of France. (2) Philip the Handsome, of the Netherlands, Maximilian's son. (1495.) (3) The Emperor, Rudolf of Habsburg. (4) Albert II. the Wise, Maximilian's great-grandfather. (5) Theodoric, King of the Ostrogoths. (455-526.) (6) Ernest der Eiserne, Duke of Austria and Styria. (1377-1424.) (7) Theodebert, Duke of Burgundy. (640.) (8) King Arthur of England. (9) Sigismund der Munzreiche, Count of Tyrol. (1427-96.) (10) Maria Bianca Sforza, Maximilian's second wife. Died 1510. (11) The Archduchess Margaret, Maximilian's daughter. (12) Cymburgis of Massovica, wife of Ernest der Eiserne. Died 1433. (13) Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, father of Mary of Burgundy, Maximilian's first wife. (14) Philip the Good, father of Charles the Bold. Founder of the Order of the Golden Fleece. (1419.) Married Margaret of York, sister of Edward IV., in 1468. (1467-77.) (15) Albert II., Duke of Austria, and Emperor of Germany. (1397-1439.) (16) Emperor Frederick III., Maximilian's father. (1457-93.) (17) Leopold III., Margrave of Austria; since 1506 the patron saint of Austria. (1096-1136.) (18) Rudolf, Count of Habsburg. (1273.) (19) Leopold III. the Pious, Duke of Austria, Maximilian's great-grandfather; slain at Sempach. July 9, 1386. (20) Frederick IV. of Austria, Count of Tyrol, surnamed "mit der leeren Tasche." (21) Albert I., Duke and Emperor of Austria. Born 1248, assassinated by his nephew John of Swabia, 1308. (22) Godfrey de Bouillon, King of Jerusalem in 1099, wearing a crown of thorns. (23) Elizabeth of Hungary, wife of the Emperor Albert II. Born 1396. (24) Mary of Burgundy, Maximilian's first wife. (1457-82.) (25) Eleonora of Portugal, wife of the Emperor Frederick III., Maximilian's mother. (26) Cunigunda, Maximilian's sister, wife of Duke Albert IV. of Bavaria. (27) Ferdinand II., of Aragon, surnamed "the Catholic." (1479.) (27) Johanna, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, and wife of Maximilian's son, Philip I., of Spain. [Sidenote: HISTORY IN MARBLE] The cenotaph itself, placed upon three steps of red marble, is about fourteen feet long and six feet high, and is constructed of different coloured marbles. The figure of the Emperor on top with its face directed towards the altar, is a fine bronze casting by a Sicilian named Luigi del Duca made in 1584.[13] Slender columns divide the ends and sides of the cenotaph into twenty-four panels or compartments of white marble in which are scenes in relief (depicting the chief events and achievements of Maximilian's life). These are really marvellous works of art, not alone for their execution but from the care with which accuracy has been attained in the costumes, the architectural and other details introduced, and from the extraordinary finish which marks the whole of the work. Many of the faces are undoubted portraits of the greatest historical and antiquarian value, those of the Emperor at various periods of his life being remarkable for their differing likeness. The variations of the national types depicted are rendered with the most painstaking care. The first four of the panels are filled by the work of Albert and Bernard Abel of Cologne, who began their task in 1561, after a visit to Genoa to choose the marble. They, however, both died two years later, leaving their work to be taken up by Alexander Colin, of Malines, in Flanders, who lived at Innsbruck for forty years, and died in 1612. Aided by a large number of other artists he completed the work of the Abels in a period of about three and a half years. Even the least learned of visitors will recognize the beauty of craftsmanship which so great a master as Thorwaldsen pronounced "the most admirable and perfect of its kind." The delicacy of execution is, indeed, rather that of ivory than of marble, and it is not without good cause that these exquisite reliefs are nowadays protected by glass and surrounded by a railing in iron work of very beautiful design. [Sidenote: SOME HISTORIC EVENTS] The subjects, a brief description of which may be of interest, are as follows:--(1) The marriage of Maximilian (then aged eighteen) with Mary of Burgundy at Ghent, August 19, 1477. She was killed whilst hunting by the stumbling of her horse, and was buried at Bruges, 1482. (2) Maximilian's victory over the French at Guinegate, in 1479. (3) The taking of Arras, 1482; the fighting men and the fortifications in this are worthy of special note, not alone for historical accuracy of detail but also for the marvellously fine execution; one woman in particular should be noticed, who is bringing provisions to the camp. This figure is a masterpiece in itself. (4) Maximilian is crowned King of the Romans at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1486. The scene is the interior of the Cathedral, Maximilian is seated on the stone chair of Charlemagne (a sort of throne) before the altar surrounded by his courtiers, whose dresses and those of the ladies high above in their gallery are a perfect record of the fashions of the period, so minute is their accuracy of detail. (5) The Battle of Castel della Pietra, or Stein am Calliano, situated between Trent and Rovereto in 1487. The landscape background of this panel is excellent, and the Tyrolese are seen driving the Venetians with great fury before them across the Adige. (6) Maximilian's entry into Vienna, 1490, after it had been evacuated by the Hungarians, an incident in the course of the fight for the crown of Hungary after the death of Matthias Coryinus who had held Vienna for several years. The figure of Maximilian on his horse is very beautifully carved. (7) The siege of Stuhlweissenburg, the city in which the Kings of Hungary were crowned; Maximilian captured it in 1490. The horses in this tablet are worthy of particular notice. (8) The return of Margaret, daughter of Maximilian. This episode, which it must have required some courage to record among the acts of so glorious a reign, shows Maximilian meeting his daughter Margaret on her return in 1493, after Charles VIII. had rejected her hand for that of Anne of Brittany, whom Maximilian himself had intended to marry as his second wife. The French envoys hand to the Emperor two keys, symbols of the suzerainty of Burgundy and Artois, the price to be paid for the double affront of sending back his daughter and depriving him of his bride, Anne. (9) Maximilian's campaign against the Turks in Croatia. (10) The Alliance between Maximilian and Pope Alexander VI., the Doge of Venice, and the Duke of Milan, against Charles VIII. of France; the four allies are shown standing in the hall of a palace in the act of joining hands, whilst the French are seen in full flight in the background. (11) The Investiture at Worms of Ludovico Sforza with the Duchy of Milan. The portraits of Maximilian are well preserved and finely executed on each occasion that he is introduced, but in none better than on this one. The Empress Maria Bianca is seated on the left of the Emperor, Ludovico Sforza kneels before the throne; on the waving standard, the symbol or investiture, the ducal arms are plainly discernible. (12) The marriage at Brussels, in 1496, of Philip der Schöne, Maximilian's eldest son, with Johanna, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, by the Archbishop of Cambrai. The remaining panels show (13) The campaign in Bohemia, and victory of Maximilian at Regensburg in 1504. (14) The siege of Kufstein, 1504. (15) The capture of Guelders and submission of Charles d'Egmont to Maximilian, 1505. The Duke is standing with uncovered head, and the battered walls of the city are seen in the background. (16) The League of Cambrai, 1508. The scene is a handsome tent in the camp near Cambrai; Maximilian, Julius II., Charles VIII., and Ferdinand V. are meeting to enter into an alliance against Venice. (17) The siege of Padua, 1509, the first result of this league. (18) The expulsion of the French from Milan in 1512. (19) The second battle of Guinegate; known also as the Battle of Spurs, so called from the fact that the French were said to have used their spurs rather than their swords on that occasion, with Henry VIII. of England in command of the allied infantry, August 16, 1513. (20) The meeting of Maximilian and Henry VIII. before Tournai, 1513. Maximilian and Henry are seen both on foot. (21) The battle of Vicenza, 1513. (22) The siege of Murano, on the Venetian coast, 1514. (23) Maximilian treating with Vladislaw, King of Hungary, for the double marriage of Anna and Ludwig, children of Vladislaw, with Ferdinand and Maria, grandchildren of Maximilian, which event had as one of its consequences the subsequent joining of Hungary with the Empire. (24) The defence of Verona, made by Maximilian's forces, against the French and Venetians, 1516. Maximilian's splendid memorial is well-placed so that its beauty and impressiveness is given full effect, and the spectator is able to consider it not only in detail but as a whole. As an example of sepulchral art of its kind it is unrivalled. Of a very different character to this magnificent cenotaph is the tomb of Andreas Hofer at the entrance to the left aisle, wrought in Tyrolese marble by Schaller, of Vienna, and with a bas-relief by Joseph Klieber, of Innsbruck, depicting six Tyrolese taking the oath of allegiance to the National flag and cause. On either side of the great patriot lie his comrades, Joseph Speckbacher and Joachim Haspinger. Near them is a tablet inscribed, "From a grateful Fatherland to the sons who perished in the Patriotic Wars," with the date (1838) of erection, and the motto, "Death is swallowed up in Victory." [Sidenote: STATUETTES IN SILVER CHAPEL] In the opposite aisle and reached by a flight of steps is the Silberne Kapelle (Silver Chapel), so known because of the silver statuette of the Virgin, presented by the Archduke Ferdinand of Austria, who was Regent of Tyrol from 1563-1595, and the embossed representations of the Lauretanian Litany, also in silver, which adorn the altar. Underneath the marble steps by which the chapel is reached is a notable tomb, the work of Alexander Colin, with a reclining figure of Katharina von Loxen, aunt of Philippine Welser. In the chapel itself are the beautiful tombs of the Archduke Ferdinand, and his first wife Philippine Welser in marble, with effigies which are ascribed to Alexander Colin. The first named tomb is adorned with four scenes of events in the Archduke's life in relief; and the latter with two reliefs. There is also a notable life-size bronze figure of the Archduke kneeling, clad in full armour, with his face turned towards the altar, and his hands folded in prayer. These monuments in themselves are sufficient to ensure a degree of fame for the Silberne Kapelle with all who are either interested in art or historical memorials. The twenty-three statuettes, originally intended as part of the scheme of Maximilian's cenotaph, to which reference has already been made, have been placed in the chapel without following any particular design or order of arrangement. They have a considerable interest from the fact that they represent saints of royal or noble birth whose destinies, legendary or real, have been bound up with those of the House of Habsburg. They are frequently overlooked by visitors to Innsbruck and by even those who enter the Hofkirche; but, irrespective of their individual merits, they should be studied on account of having originally formed part of the scheme for the magnificent memorial to Maximilian. (1) St. Adelgunda, daughter of Walbert, Count of Hainault. (2) St. Adelbert, Count of Brabant. (3) St. Doda, wife of St. Arnulf, Duke of the Moselle. (4) St. Hermelinda, daughter of Witger, Count of Brabant. (5) St. Guy, Duke of Lotharingia. (6) St. Simpert, Bishop of Augsburg, son of Charlemagne's sister Symporiana, who rebuilt the monastery of St. Magnus at Füssen. (7) St. Jodok, son of a king of Great Britain, wearing a Palmer's dress. (8) St. Landerich, Bishop of Metz, son of St. Vincent, Count of Hainault, and St. Waltruda. (9) St. Clovis. (10) St. Oda, wife of Duke Conrad. (11) St. Pharaild, daughter of Witger, Count of Brabant. (12) St. Reinbert, her brother. (13) St. Ronald, brother of St. Simpert, Bishop of Augsburg. (14) St. Stephen, King of Hungary. (15) St. Venantius, martyr, son of Theodoric, Duke of Lotharingia. (16) St. Waltruda, mother of St. Landerich. (17) St. Arnulf, husband of St. Doda, afterwards Bishop of Metz. (18) St. Chlodulf, son of St. Waltruda. (19) St. Gudula, sister of St. Albert, Count of Brabant. (20) St. Pepin Teuto, Duke of Brabant. (21) St. Trudo, priest, son of St. Adela. (22) St. Vincent, monk. (23) Richard Coeur-de-Lion. All of whom were more or less closely related or associated with the royal house of Habsburg. The monuments which we have referred to, gathered within the walls of the Hofkirche, serve to conjure up for those versed in Tyrolese history many stirring, romantic, and tragic episodes. To this historic building was the beautiful Philippine Welser borne from Castle Ambras to her last resting-place. And here knelt the Archduke Leopold V. at his marriage with the lovely Claudia Felicitas de Medici, whilst all the while there rolled the thunder and tumult of the Thirty Years' War beyond the frontier of Tyrol. And a few years later came Queen Christian of Sweden to make her abjuration of the Protestant faith on October 28, 1655. We read in one account of this imposing and impressive ceremony that the Queen was attired in a plain black silk gown, and wore no other jewels than a cross on her breast in which flashed five great diamonds of wonderful beauty symbolical of the five wounds of Christ. Her repetition of the Latin profession of faith after the Papal nuncio, we are told, was so clear and emphasized as to attract general comment. Not only was the Ambrosian hymn sung after the ceremony, but "the Innsbruckers celebrated the event of her conversion to the true faith by the firing of cannon and the ringing of the church bells." An ever popular ceremony which marked her stay in the town was the procession of the favourite picture of Tyrol, Cranach's Madonna brought to the country by Leopold V. Mystery plays, which are still popular in Tyrol, were also performed, and the event was made the excuse or occasion for much general rejoicing. The historic Hofkirche has seen more joyful scenes and sadder than the renunciation of Queen Christian, for in it was held a solemn thanksgiving service on behalf of yet another Claudia de Medici, the Tyrolese princess who was chosen for his bride by the Emperor Leopold I. And here in more modern times knelt Andreas Hofer to receive the gifts of his Emperor, the medal and chain which were hung around his neck when he was made Regent or Governor of Tyrol. Into this Hofkirche, which was destined to provide him ultimately with a fit resting-place, he also came to return thanks after his greatest triumph over the invaders of his country, on Berg Isel, whilst outside the church the brave citizens of Innsbruck were acclaiming him Dictator, and cheering in a delirium of joy. [Sidenote: ABBEY OF WILTEN] No description of Innsbruck, however brief, could be deemed complete without at least a passing reference to the famous Abbey of Wilten which stands on the outskirts of the south-western portion of the town. The present Abbey belonging to the Praemonstratensian Order was founded in the eleventh century upon the site where stood the Roman settlement of Veldidena. The Abbey and Church of that day, however, have been so frequently damaged by fire that during the centuries it has been practically reconstructed. The story of its foundation forms one of the most remarkable of Tyrolese legends, and exhibits in its incidents with extraordinary clearness the conflict taking place in those times between the doctrines of Christianity and Heathendom. [Sidenote: HAIMON AND THE DRAGON] Certain authorities state that the Romans, when they entered the country, found a town already existing, which they adopted as one of their most important stations, and re-named Veldidena. This settlement, however, was, according to tradition, destroyed by Attila on his way back through the country after the desperate Battle of Chalons; but it nevertheless continued to be a largely frequented station in the stretch of country lying between the Po and the Rhine owing to the convenience of its situation and the existence of the famous Brenner Road. Afterwards came the expedition of Theodoric of Verona against Chriemhild's Garden of Roses at Worms; and we are told amongst those who enlisted in Theodoric's service and distinguished themselves at the taking of the famous Rose Garden was one Haimo or Haimon (now believed to be the Heime of "the Heldenbuch") who, after the expedition, came through Tyrol in his master's victorious train. This Haimon was a giant, taller and more powerful even than Goliath himself; and as he approached Veldidena he found barring his progress another giant named Thyrsus (now identified as Schrudan) living near Zirl. This latter giant having heard of Haimon's prowess, and as his own supremacy had hitherto remained unchallenged, determined to force Haimon to fight him. Theodoric's giant proved willing enough for the encounter, and scarcely, indeed, waited to be challenged. Thyrsus, although the bigger and more terrible of aspect, with a skin bronzed by the open-air life he had led, and his muscles developed and kept in condition by constant exercise, was not so skilful and wily as his opponent, whose every movement showed him to be a master in both the arts of attack and defence. We are told that Thyrsus grasped in his hand a pine tree which he had torn up by the roots to serve as a weapon, and that at every movement of his the ground shook under his tread, which made a noise like thunder. Rushing impetuously to attack Haimon he found the latter cool and collected, watchful of his antagonist's every movement, and waiting patiently for the opportunity of striking a decisive blow. As the Titanic struggle went on, Haimon merely acting on the defensive, Thyrsus became weary, and then Haimon gathering all his force together fell upon him and slew him. The story goes on to tell how a Benedictine monk of Tegernsee, passing whilst Haimon was still flushed with victory, stopped to reason with him on the worthlessness of mere brutal strength and all that he had hitherto deemed of value, and succeeded so well in painting the attractions of a better life that the giant was converted on the spot, and thenceforth abandoned his life of battle and bloodshed, and devoted his time and strength to the service of God. One of his first acts was to start building with his own hands a church and monastery on the site of ruined Veldidena on the banks of the Sill. The legend tells us that he quarried the stone necessary for this undertaking with his own hands, and at last the day came when he had sufficient to lay the foundations of the church. He found, however, that the work he did in the day was always undone at night, so that he made no progress. This, though he did not know it, was the work of the devil; who, in the form of a huge dragon, had hidden himself in a cave with the express purpose of thwarting Haimon's pious intentions. At last the latter realized that he must watch and discover what happened. This he did, and after a little time one evening the dragon emerged from his cave, lashing the ground with his tail in his fury, and filling the air with the sulphurous smoke and flame which he breathed out. Great as was his strength, Haimon at once realized that he could not overcome so terrible an enemy easily; so commending his soul to God he waited with a brave heart. Soon dawn began to break over the mountains, and at the first glimpse of light the dragon turned and fled back to his lair. Haimon, taking courage at the sight, set off in pursuit, and by-and-by they both arrived at the cave in which the dragon was accustomed to hide during the day. The entrance was so narrow that when the monster had got partly in it was impossible for him to turn, and so Haimon, seeing his opportunity, raised his sword, and calling on God to strengthen him, cut off the dragon's head with a single blow. Then he cut out the tongue or sting of the monster as a trophy, and eventually hung it up in the sanctuary of the church. Nowadays one is shown at Wilten a representation of this dragon's tongue, which we are told was above two feet in length. The dragon once dead the building progressed rapidly, and when it was finished Haimon, no doubt in an ebullition of joy, seized a huge rock, which he had quarried, but did not need to use for the foundations, and threw it with all his might into the valley. It was a good throw, for the rock, after nearly two miles of flight, struck against the hill of Ambras and fell into the valley, where it may yet be seen! Haimon endowed the Abbey with all the land which stretched between its site and the stone at the foot of the hill of Ambras. Now it only remained to colonize the monastery, and ultimately the Benedictines came to inhabit it, and here the giant lived amongst them a life of penance and good works, dying in the year 878. His body, so tradition states, was buried on the right-hand side of the high altar in the church. But although many searches have been made for his remains during the period which elapsed between his death and the middle of the seventeenth century, they have never been discovered. But the last search in 1644 was disastrous as well as unsuccessful, because it undermined a great part of the wall of the church, which collapsed. The popular belief in the two giants is kept alive by the huge wooden statues representing them, which are placed at the entrance of the church. The interior of the building is in the form of a basilica, and contains not only frescoes by Caspar Waldmann, but also some good pictures by Grasmayr, Busjäger, Andersag, Egid Schor, and other artists. The Abbey of Wilten in those days was one of the three most important in Tyrol, and was not only the centre of religious, but also of the artistic life of the country, and it nowadays possesses some very interesting and valuable pictures. One of the most famous of the old-time inmates of the Abbey was Petermann, once a lover of the licentious Margaret of Tyrol, yclept "Pocket-Mouthed Meg." After her abdication in 1367, Petermann entered the monastery to expiate the sins and follies of his youth. He endowed the Abbey with an estate, but he showed his business capacity by having an agreement drawn up with the Abbot setting forth the terms upon which he joined the brotherhood. Amongst other things he was, firstly, to derive benefit from all the masses said by the monks, and the good works performed by them; secondly, was to have two servants to wait upon him, who were to share the meals of the brethren; thirdly, he, himself, was to have food similar to that served to the Abbot and wines from the monastic cellar. Apparently the arrangement did not, after all, fit in with the views of Petermann, for we find he afterwards insisted upon an increase in his food allowance to the extent of a capon, four fowls, forty eggs, and four pounds of butter, with sufficient hay for the feeding of his three horses. [Illustration: A PINE WOOD NEAR INNSBRUCK] [Sidenote: A LEGEND OF WILTEN] The other church at Wilten (the Parish Church), which stands on the opposite side of Leopold-Strasse, dates only from the latter part of the eighteenth century, and was built as a secular church in conformity with the decree of the Emperor Joseph II., by Franz Penz of Telfs, in the Rococo style of architecture. On the high altar of the church is a very ancient and quaint Madonna known as "Mutter Gottes unter den vier Saülen" carved in sandstone, the legend relating to which is as follows: The "Thundering Legion" of Marcus Aurelius, when stationed at Veldidena about the year 137, brought this image with them, which they are stated to have worshipped, and on one occasion, when departing for an expedition to a distant part of the country, they buried it under four trees, and as they did not return had no opportunity of resurrecting it. There it lay for many years, until one, Rathold Von Aiblingen, after making a pilgrimage to Rome, where he heard the story of its burying and the place of its concealment, dug it up and set it upon the altar in a _baldachino_, which was supported by four pillars, where it has always been an object of much veneration. Amongst its many famous devotees was Frederick of the Empty Purse, who, during his wanderings through Tyrol with his trusty Hans Von Müllinen, when under the ban of the church, came and knelt before the shrine and prayed for a blessing. Afterwards, when he had regained his possessions, he attributed his success to the intervention of the Madonna at Wilten and caused a picture to be painted of himself and his esquire, in which they are shown kneeling at the shrine under the protective mantle of the Virgin. This quaint picture is now hung in the church amongst many other curious and often pathetic votive offerings. In the mortuary chapel is a rudely carved and painted wooden statue of Haimon holding the dragon's tongue in his hand. There are also some of Grasmayr's paintings to be seen in the church, and in the adjoining churchyard, from which one can obtain a most beautiful view of the valley and surrounding mountains, is the modern Calvary by the Tyrolean sculptor, Professor Fuss. In this quiet spot, crowded with memories of the dead past, one is able in a measure to conjure up pictures of the times when the Etruscan, Roman, and Gothic invaders poured into the valley by the Brenner Pass and overran Tyrol, and left upon the country and the people enduring traces of their occupation. The Wilten Churches are both of simple architectural style, but nevertheless are effective and even impressive when seen amidst the environment of a beautiful landscape, with their picturesque, red-capped towers lit by the Alpine sunlight, and with their buff-coloured walls beautified by the stains of weather and of time. [Sidenote: WINTER SPORTS] Numerous as are the undoubted attractions of Innsbruck in early spring, summer, and autumn, when the encircling fields and mountain slopes are gay with Alpine flowers, and beautiful with the varied tints of the foliage of trees and shrubs, the town is yearly becoming more widely known and more largely frequented as a winter holiday resort, where what are generally known as "winter sports" can be indulged in to one's heart's content. Indeed, Innsbruck, which possesses one of the largest and most beautiful ice rinks in Europe, takes a very leading part in the Tyrolean winter sports. One of the town's most remarkable features is its climate, which, notwithstanding the proximity of huge masses of ice and snow, not only upon the summits of the towering mountains of the Karwendel, but also on the lower slopes, and in the valley of the Inn itself, is a mild one, and the sunny days are many. One of the most delightful Alpine experiences possible, for those who do not take part in the more active sports of ski running, skating, or tobogganing, is a sleigh ride on the Brenner Road to Matrei or even further, returning on the other side of the gorge of the Sill by way of Igls and Patsch. Expert ski runners find many opportunities for exercising their skill, the more adventurous and hardy making excursions far afield in the valley of the Inn. A very favourite ground for this pastime of ski-ing is on the farther side of the Sill near Natters and Mutters, where are to be found those immense plateaux of smooth-surfaced snow beloved of good runners, and a beautiful landscape forming a charming background. Expert runners, however, frequently extend their field of operations into the Karwendel mountains, or as far as the Kalkkogel in the beautiful Stubai valley. Tobogganing has become not only a fashionable pastime amongst visitors, but also with the better class inhabitants of Innsbruck. And thus every evening when the snow is sufficient and in good condition, hundreds of tobogganers make their way of the heights of Igls and Mutters, where the best tracks are prepared. Sunday is, however, the great day; and then the long runs near Hall and Oberperfutz are crowded with hundreds of bob-sleighs and tobogganers. The Hall run is famous throughout Tyrol. A road extends from Salzberg far into the Karwendel mountains, passing through beautiful Alpine scenery to Hall itself, forming a natural run or track some five kilometres (just over three miles) in length, with a drop of nearly 3000 feet in that distance. The Innsbruck Club, by means of a snow plough, keeps a run about fifteen feet wide clear. This track is to be soon further lengthened to the extent of two kilometres by carrying it as far as Lafatscherjoch, where several important races are arranged and held every year. Winter sports are indulged in on all sides. Along the valley of the swiftly flowing Inn from Schwaz, past Jenbach and Brixlegg on to Kufstein, one finds facilities for those most invigorating of pastimes tobogganing, ski-ing, and skating. Even the children have their little home-made and often ornamented toboggans, and on the mountain roads and by-paths one meets with scores of youngsters emulating their elders and foreign visitors; whilst the frozen tributary streams which fall into the Inn provide fine skating grounds and curling links without stint set amid the delightful scenery, which had so much to do with the popularity of the valley of the Inn and Innsbruck as winter holiday resorts. It is not without reason that many who come to the capital of Tyrol return again and again, finding in its life and movement, its historic buildings, associations, and art treasures material for study; in its climate renewed health and vigour. The circle of snow-capped environing hills, upon which effects of cloud and sunlight ceaselessly pass, never palls; and in the ancient byways and secluded courtyards ears and minds attuned to the historic past seem to catch the echoes and see visions of stirring scenes, and the pageantry of long ago when knights and ladies and serving-men, and burghers in quaint old-time costumes trod the rough-paved streets. FOOTNOTES: [10] See Zoller's "Geschichte der Stadt Innsbruck." [11] By some authorities the work is stated to have been carried out by Andrea Crivelli of Trent. [12] See Klöppel's "Maximilian." [13] This is as stated in Baedeker, and is the view of several authorities, though by no means certain.-C. H. CHAPTER V THE ENVIRONS OF INNSBRUCK--CASTLE AMBRAS AND ITS TREASURES--IGLS: A QUAINT LEGEND CONCERNING ITS CHURCH--THE STUBAI VALLEY, AND SOME VILLAGES--HALL AND ITS SALT MINES--SPECKBACHER'S OLD HOME--ST. MICHAEL Distant from Innsbruck about three miles by a shady road running eastward from Berg Isel, which forms a charming walk of a summer afternoon, stands the famous Castle Ambras on a well-wooded spur of the Mittelgebirge overlooking the wide Inn Valley, and with a fine view of the slopes and peaked summits of the limestone mountains which shut in the valley. It is a conspicuous and commanding feature of the landscape when seen from the latter, its yellow-grey walls pierced with many windows showing up against a background of dark-green forest. But on a fine summer day Castle Ambras is too bare-looking and insistent in colour to be entirely picturesque. Long back, when the Romans held sway in Tyrol, on the site where the castle now stands was placed a fort--one of those outposts of civilization which that world-conquering power dotted so plentifully amid the hills and valleys of Tyrol. Ancient as this fortress was, it is considered by many authorities that even it replaced, or was erected upon the foundations of, a far earlier building dating from Etruscan times. The first castle, as is generally understood by the term, was that built by the Andechs, who towards the end of the tenth century were one of the three chief ruling families in Tyrol. Indeed, until the Terriolis became Counts of Tyrol they were the most powerful of the three great temporal territorial lords, and previous to their extinction in the male line in the middle half of the thirteenth century had acquired vast possessions. They were a typical mediæval and feudal family, distinguished alike in the council and upon the stricken field. In turn it provided officers of the Roman Empire, pilgrims to sacred shrines, and to Rome itself, crusaders and religious enthusiasts who founded important and wealthy monastical institutions. The history of the builders of the Castle of Ambras would fill many volumes with incidents of brave and noble (and sometimes cruel and ignoble) deeds; romantic episodes, which supplied the travelling minnesingers with themes for their songs; and records of stirring events, in which national as well as family history became entwined. Of them one historian has written, "they were esteemed upon earth, more particularly by the wandering minstrels who were always and at all times welcome to their hospitable roof and table, and beloved in Heaven to which they contributed several saintly souls." On the death of the last of the male line of the Andechs, Duke Otto II., in 1248, the castle and the family estates passed into the possession of the Counts of Tyrol. Ultimately the former was purchased from the then owners by the Emperor Ferdinand I., and was given to his son, afterwards Ferdinand II., when the latter was appointed Regent of Tyrol. It always remained his favourite home, even when he became Emperor, and it was to this castle that he brought his beautiful bride Philippine Welser in 1567. [Sidenote: AN ARCHDUCAL ROMANCE] The true story of the love of the Archduke Ferdinand, son of the German Emperor Ferdinand I., will probably never be accurately known. But the event is indissolubly bound up with Tyrolese history. Not unnaturally the idyllic and romantic circumstances surrounding the marriage have been much overlaid by tradition and the possible desire of historians to make this Royal mésalliance yet more astonishing. Therefore it is impossible to vouch for the entire accuracy of the story that has come down to us, which we give as it may be gathered from contemporary and more modern writers. [Sidenote: STORY OF PHILIPPINE WELSER] The meeting of the Archduke Ferdinand and his future wife--who was the daughter of one Franz Welser, a wealthy merchant prince of Augsburg in the middle of the sixteenth century--took place when the Archduke accompanied his father on the occasion of the latter's state entry into the city. It was whilst passing along the principal street that the former noticed at a window of one of the larger and more important houses the face of a most beautiful young girl, who, after having thrown flowers down in the street, on seeing that she had attracted his attention, blushingly disappeared within the house. It was apparently, so far as Ferdinand was concerned, a case of love at first sight; for, charmed by her beautiful face, he lost no time in discovering who she was, and, according to some authorities, saw her on several occasions whilst in the city. Afterwards he paid court to her whilst she was at Bresnic, in Bohemia, on a visit to an aunt. Philippine was already betrothed by her father to the heir of the great and wealthy Fugger family; but fortunately for her and the young prince, Philippine's mother was a woman of much influence with her husband as well as the confidante and friend of her daughter. However, it was not an easy task to win his consent to the betrothal to Prince Ferdinand or for the proposed alliance with the Fuggers to be broken off. Both the fathers were anxious for it, and Welser had never been known to go back upon his word or a bargain. But whilst the older men were engaged in counting their wealth, and congratulating themselves upon the marriage which had been arranged with little or no thought of affection between those most concerned, Ferdinand had evolved a plan by which, with the assistance and connivance of Frau Welser, he was able to accomplish his design of carrying off her daughter. On a day arranged, and at the hour agreed upon, the young prince, who was two years Philippine's junior, appeared beneath the turret from which he had first seen her leaning. A little distance down the street his horse was waiting. Philippine, after receiving her mother's blessing, and comforted by her approval, joined her lover, and fled with him to the chapel where the latter's own confessor, one Joann Cavallerus, was waiting to solemnize the marriage, with an old and trusted servant as witness. Another account states that the ceremony was performed at Bresnic by the same priest. Ultimately, Franz Welser, to whom doubtless a properly carried out marriage with a prince had some attractions, gave his consent and benediction. It is difficult, perhaps, in these more materialistic days, to quite sympathize with the attitude which this wealthy and worthy burgher of Augsburg at first assumed towards his daughter's marriage. Then, with reputable merchants, not only was their word their bond, but in them was a strong element of pride which would not readily brook that they should be looked down upon even by princes. And doubtless it was this pride which was principally at the back of old Welser's opposition to Prince Ferdinand's suit. But the magnificent dowry that Philippine's father was rich enough to give her was one of which no prince need have been ashamed. At the time of his marriage the Archduke was twenty-eight and Philippine two years older. The Emperor, of course, refused to acknowledge the marriage when he ultimately, some years after its celebration, became aware of it. And although we are bound to admit the story of Philippine's personal appeal to him to forgive his son and her rests on a very shadowy basis, and is, indeed, rather traditional than historical, we give it for what it is worth. The story goes that Philippine, distressed not only for her own position but for the trouble she had brought upon her husband by estranging him from his father the Emperor, journeyed to Vienna with her little children to gain an audience with her royal father-in-law in person. To do this was a matter of great difficulty, and though she ultimately succeeded, it was only by reason of her great beauty and her gentleness, and the fact that she had assumed another name. Then, after entering the audience chamber, she fell upon her knees and told the Emperor her own story in the guise of an allegory, saying that she was the happy and beloved wife of a gallant nobleman of great position whose father would not recognize her because she was herself not nobly born; adding that, hearing how just and good the Emperor was, she had come to him to implore him to intercede for her and her sons with her obdurate father-in-law. Having listened to her tale the Emperor, delighted with the grace, eloquence, and beauty of Philippine and with her two sons, told her that he would grant her request and would appeal to her father-in-law to not only forgive his son, but to recognize the marriage, adding that it passed his comprehension how any one could refuse to receive so charming and beautiful a woman into his family. Then, as was to be expected, he asked the name of her husband's father. And she, throwing herself once more upon her knees, told the Emperor that it was he himself to whom she had referred, and that she was the wife of his son Ferdinand. The Emperor could scarcely go back upon his word nor could he stultify himself by denying the charm and beauty of Philippine now that he discovered who she really was; and won over by the courage and persistency which had inspired her journey to Vienna to seek to approach him in person, he not only forgave his son but also recognized her as a daughter-in-law. Some accounts, although this is probably not so, state that he wished the marriage still to remain a secret, and appointed Ferdinand Regent of Tyrol, sending him and his wife to reside at Innsbruck.[14] The Emperor's wishes were carried out, and it is said that it was not until her death generally known that Philippine was actually married to the Archduke. After her decease, however, the circumstance was made public and the Archduke was always accustomed to refer to Philippine as his wife. Of course the marriage was a morganatic one, and therefore neither of her two surviving children, Andreas and Charles, inherited the Archducal titles. Four years previous to the Archduke Ferdinand's coming to take up his residence at Innsbruck as Regent of Tyrol he had acquired the picturesque and finely situated Castle of Ambras, and by many alterations and additions to the then existing building soon made it one of the most noted as well as one of the most beautiful residences in the whole country. He furnished it with great magnificence, and when all was completed presented it to his wife Philippine. Here they usually spent the summer months in a happiness which was not only proverbial but undoubted. As have been several other rulers of Tyrol, the Archduke Ferdinand was not only greatly interested himself in art, science, and literature, but he sought as the patron of these to gather around his person and to attach to his Court learned professors, artists, and scientists from all parts of Europe. As a result the court of Ferdinand and Philippine grew from an artistic, musical, and intellectual standpoint to be a particularly brilliant one. [Sidenote: CHARACTER OF PHILIPPINE] The character of Philippine seems to have been as pleasing as was her physical appearance. She is said to have had a fine, clear, though somewhat pale, complexion, blue eyes, and golden hair, although it must be added that existing portraits of her do not do her justice in the latter regard, unless her beauty was greatly exaggerated. In most of them she appears with a slightly oval, and more Italian than Teutonic type of face, with well-marked and well-bowed eyebrows, soft, but intelligent eyes, a straight nose, and a very sweet, and even in some portraits "roguish," mouth; but as a whole her face is not one of striking beauty, judging it by the standards of more modern times. Philippine, when settled at Ambras, greatly interested herself in good works of all kinds, but more especially in the visiting and care of the sick, and the memory of her good deeds in this respect is still cherished in Tyrol. Her chief physician has set down the large number of sick who were at various times under her immediate care, and in the record one finds mention of ailing folk of many nationalities, showing her Catholic spirit in the relief of suffering. She even had her own dispensary at Ambras in the charge of one Guranta, who was a celebrated chemist of that time. Concerning her one of her biographers says, "She, herself delicate in health from early life, had a strong and ever ready sympathy for sufferers, especially those who were distressed in mind or circumstance as well as in body." During the years she lived at Ambras she gained such a knowledge of disease and the remedies usually employed in those days that she wrote a book of prescriptions herself, which is now to be seen in the Court Library, Vienna. It is a most interesting volume, as it contains a considerable record of the effects of the remedies used; sometimes written by Philippine's own hand with remarks added as comments upon the success or failure of the treatment. Philippine was in other ways also of a philanthropic and kindly disposition, and on many occasions girls in her service, or who were known to her, received the pleasant surprise on their marriage of a wedding dress from her; and there is still to be seen at Innsbruck a dressmaker's bill, the total amount of which is largely comprised of wedding dresses given in the way we have mentioned. Although the burgomaster's daughter, according to her own confession, would rather have led a less exalted and more retiring life than that incumbent upon her by reason of her marriage with the Archduke Ferdinand, all writers are agreed that she ably and well adorned the position to which she had been called. Of her husband's great affection for her there can be little doubt. Indeed, it was so notorious that the Venetian Ambassador Michiele, when on a visit to the Archduke, reported to his Government that Ferdinand was never so happy as when with his wife, and in fact was never an hour away from her. Philippine, in spite of her many social duties and exalted position, was an excellent and even an ideal German _haus-frau_. She was a clever needlewoman, skilled especially in embroidery; and quite an expert and practical cook. She might, indeed, be said to have rivalled the famous Mrs. Glass, as she wrote an exhaustive cookery book which displays a great and practical knowledge of the culinary art, and is, happily for the curious, preserved with her book of prescriptions in the Court Library at Vienna. Nothing was too good for Philippine in the estimation of the Archduke. Not only did he give her the magnificent Schloss Ambras, Stubai Valley, and all it contained, several villages, and vast sums of money, but also the estates of Königsberg, Salurn, and Hörtenberg. [Sidenote: COURT AT CASTLE AMBRAS] The Court at Innsbruck and at Castle Ambras was a gay one, and numerous brilliant entertainments were given during the married life of Ferdinand and Philippine. Amongst the many _fêtes_ which took place at various times one finds a record of one in the diary of James von Payersberg bearing the date of July 13, 1570, in which there is a record of Philippine having won the first prize, which was a silver gilt cup of great value, for shooting with a crossbow; whilst her aunt, Madame De Loxan, who on Philippine's marriage had been appointed as her Mistress of the Robes, won the second. An interesting circumstance in connection with this _fête_ is that the gentlemen and ladies competed together in the shooting match, with the result that the former were defeated in the manner we have stated. At Castle Ambras not only were there collected together scientists, artists, musicians, and many learned men, but also, as was the custom of those days, jesters, and "freaks" of various types, whose curious divergences from the normal have many of them been preserved in portraits hung in the Castle. Of ordinary servants, retainers, pages, etc., there was always a huge retinue entailing an enormous expenditure and a commissariat department of considerable magnitude. Philippine, although her natural tastes were so divergent from those of her husband who loved gaiety, sport, and the pomp of circumstance, by her gentleness, affectionate study of his wishes and great tactfulness, succeeded in not only gaining but keeping his affection throughout their married life. It is said that Philippine, whether the story of her captivation of her royal father-in-law's heart be true or not, was gladly and very generally received by the Tyrol nobles, who were distinguished not only by their chivalrous but also by their generally haughty disposition. Very friendly relations also appear to have existed with neighbouring courts, whilst Pope Gregory XIII. had so high an opinion of Philippine's religious sincerity and virtues that he sent her by special ambassador a beautiful and very valuable rosary. Philippine died in 1580, surrounded by members of her family, and in the presence of the Archduke Ferdinand and the Dukes Ferdinand of Bavaria and Henry of Brunswick, after a married life lasting twenty-three years, and an illness of only a few days' duration. So beloved was she throughout Tyrol that general mourning was observed for some months, and masses were said in all the churches of the land for the repose of her soul. How great the affection borne her by the people amongst whom she came to live really was, is well shown by the fact that in many a cottage home in Tyrol portraits of her even nowadays are found. In death as in life she was mindful of her people and of the poor; and when she had been laid to rest in the Silver Chapel of the Franciscan Church at Innsbruck, where her beautiful though unostentatious tomb, with its recumbent figure lying within a semi-circular arch and with a crucifix hanging from her crossed hands, is placed, it was found that in her will few of her household had been forgotten, whether their positions were high or menial. The death of Philippine was a heavy blow to the Archduke, and for some months after the event he lived in complete retirement, seeing no one but his two sons, his Father Confessor, and his most intimate personal friends. However, after his grief had somewhat spent itself, he set out on a tour, accompanied by his two surviving children; one of whom, Karl, became Bishop of Brixen and a Cardinal (died 1600); the other, Andreas, Markgrave of Burgau (died 1618), and the owner of Castle Ambras by the will of his father. This bequest was made on condition that Andreas maintained and kept the building in repair, and preserved the magnificent collection of rare MSS., books, pictures, coins, armour, and other _objets d'art_, and curiosities which Ferdinand and Philippine had delighted to gather, and in the possession of which they had taken such pride. Eventually, in 1606, so that this wish of his father might be adequately carried out, Andreas disposed of the Castle and grounds to the Emperor Rudolf II., and by this means Ambras and its unrivalled collection came into the possession of the Imperial Austrian family. [Sidenote: TREASURES OF CASTLE AMBRAS] Just two centuries later, owing to fear lest the priceless treasures should fall into the hands of the French and Bavarian invaders, the greater portion of the Ambras collection was removed to Vienna, and at first lodged in the Belvidere Palace from whence it has of recent years been transferred to the Imperial Art History Museum of which it forms a most interesting and valuable part. Thus was Tyrol robbed of one of its chief glories, and although at various times promises of restitution have been made they have never been fulfilled. There are still, however, some interesting things left at Castle Ambras, including the valuable collection of Weapons lodged in the Unterschloss, dating from the fifteenth century to the present day (formerly, in the sixteenth century, it is said that the Armoury contained no less than five hundred complete suits of mail); the eight Roman milestones in the outer court, found along the road from Wilten to Schonberg, and dating from the time of Septimus Severus about 193 to 211 A.D.; and the collection of furniture, ivories, glass, and portraits, which latter include several of the Archduke Ferdinand and Philippine Welser, etc. On the ground floor of the Hoch Schloss or "upper castle" is an interesting and well-restored fifteenth-century Gothic chapel, with some frescoes by Wörndle; and a bathroom, said to be that of Philippine, is on the same floor. It was around this little room that tradition wove the tragic story (since disproved and altogether discredited) of Philippine having committed suicide by opening one of her veins in order that her husband might re-marry with some one whose rank was more in conformity with his own. For many years, for several generations, in fact, this tale was given credence, and was accepted by at least the common folk as exemplifying the domestic virtues for which Philippine was justly famed. But although Ferdinand's mother appears never to have accepted the position or to have become reconciled to Philippine, the rest of the members of his family appear to have treated her well, and, so far as history can show, there never was any reason for the sacrifice of her life she was for so long supposed to have made, in the interests of her husband's happiness and position. The fame of Philippine Welser has outlived the centuries which have elapsed since she died; and the burgher of Augsburg's daughter was destined to become one of the most popular of Tyrolese heroines; and there is in consequence many a peasant home in Tyrol to-day where her portrait in some form of reproduction or other has a place with that of some favourite saint or even the Virgin herself. There are several other traditions connected with this beautifully situated Castle of Ambras. One is that Wallenstein, whilst a lad and a page in Ferdinand's service, fell out of the window in the corridor which leads to the dining-hall and received no hurt, owing to the fact that during the terrible moment when he lost his balance he vowed to the Virgin Mary if spared he would lead a more serious and better life. The castle, as did so many historic fortress-dwellings in Tyrol, gradually fell into decay; but when the Archduke Karl Ludwig, who was Governor of Tyrol during a short period in the middle of the last century, decided to take up his residence here it was thoroughly repaired and restored. The Art treasures, which remained after the removal of the main collections to Vienna, have been supplemented from time to time by contributions from the Imperial collections in Vienna, and in 1882 the Emperor threw open the castle to the public as a Museum. Of the many interesting rooms at Ambras two never fail to arouse the admiration and curiosity of visitors. The first is the Waffensaal, in which there is a collection of armour and arms, which has a sixteenth-century ceiling painted by G. B. Fontana, of Meran, with astronomical and mythological designs; the second, the famous and magnificently proportioned Spanish salon, with its exquisitely panelled wood ceiling and walls adorned with frescoes of the rulers of Tyrol, from 1221-1600. The view from the terrace, with its trellis of passion flowers and vines, across the Inn valley on a clear summer's day is one of great charm and beauty, and as one gazes across the fertile valley to the wonderful range of mountains that towers above it, the colours of which seem to change with every passing cloud, one can realize something of the affection Ferdinand, art lover and artist as he undoubtedly was, always had for Castle Ambras. [Sidenote: THE TOURNEY GROUND] None who come to the castle should fail to visit the picturesque and secluded Tummel-platz or Tourney ground, which overhangs as it were the village of Ambras, with its ancient church and quaint frescoes of the Last Judgment. On this spot during Ferdinand and Philippine's occupation of the Castle many jousts and knightly encounters are said to have taken place. From the gay and chivalrous use of those and previous times the Tummel-platz has passed to a melancholy one as the burial-ground of patriots and heroes. It was first put to this purpose when the Castle was turned into a military hospital--which for a short time it remained--and afterwards as the burial-place of some seven or eight thousand of Hofer's soldiers who fell in the wars with France and Bavaria, from 1809 to 1810. Indeed, it actually formed part of the battle-ground of 1809. As is perfectly natural, and in accord with the patriotic and religious spirit of the people, they have adorned the quiet and beautiful burial-ground with chapels, shrines, votive pictures, and memorials which confer upon it a distinctive and impressive interest, and sentiment which few such places can show. As a poet sings-- "Near Ambras, on the upland, In fair Tyrolean land, Within a cool green forest Full thick the crosses stand. "There gallant knights in armour Once met with spear and shield, And from those olden combats 'Tis called the 'Tourney Field.' "Long rusted are the lances, But, as the breezes blow, Old, half-forgotten stories Like spirits come and go." From Castle Ambras it is but a short journey by tramway to Igls, which is situated nearly a thousand feet above Innsbruck, but cannot be seen from the town. There are also two roads by which one may reach this little mountain village; one leading past Ambras, which is favoured by the less energetic of walkers, and the other, by which we ascended, much steeper, more picturesque and shorter. From Wilten it passes over the Sill Bridge and then ascends the Paschberg and winds along the edge of the fine Sill Gorge. When the little village of Vill is reached one seems suddenly to step into a fresh region of experience; one singularly different from that of Innsbruck, which, after all, lies but a mile or two away in the valley down below. Here as one comes in sight of the elegantly tapering red spire of the church one obtains an insight into the life of the upper valleys, and soon notices the Tyrolese custom of adorning the outside walls of the house with paintings, which, generally religious in subject, are many of them of a striking and even meritorious character as regards execution. In Vill none should fail to notice the painting of the Angel of Peace, which is over the doorway of a house in the main street. [Sidenote: BEAUTIFUL IGLS] One of the most beautiful walks hereabouts is that by the path which leads down through the woods to Gärberbach inn on the great Brenner High Road, from which point Berg Isel can be reached on foot in less than half an hour. Still climbing upwards from Vill and leaving the sights and sounds of the valley behind us we gradually approach Igls. Innsbruck and every trace of the wide valley and environing hills across it have suddenly vanished, and one finds one's self in the midst of wide extending and restfully green upland pastures, with a vista of the charmingly situated little villages of Natters and Mutters, across the Sill Gorge (which here is almost imperceptible) with their church steeples, green tinged and red turreted, shining in the clear Alpine air, and giving to the scene just that touch of colour which an artist loves. It is possible in Alpine valleys such as that in which Igls nestles to more truly estimate the factors which make the Tyrolese such a home-loving and patriotic people; and to realize how the chief human as well as religious associations even nowadays--as they did in the past--cluster round the village churches which rear their slender spires Heavenwards almost wherever half a dozen houses are grouped together. There are many splendid peaks towering above the picturesque valley in which Igls lies; amongst them the Habicht, more than 10,700 feet, Saile-Spitze, and the rugged Waldraster-Spitze, 8920 feet; and the lower slopes are well-wooded and beautiful at all seasons in their varied tints of green. Igls has altered considerably since we first visited it, and it now has the aspect of a mountain health "resort" of a modest and unassuming type, with some good hotels, a post office, telephone and telegraph. It is little wonder, then, that this favoured spot should have lately attracted to it many visitors in search of quietude and fresh air. The clean air and pure breezes off the glaciers and snow-fields above, which, filtering down across the pine woods of the lower slopes, come to one in the open valley not less fresh and invigorating but somewhat softened and perfumed, give it one of its chief charms. The little church is of considerable interest, not only from its picturesque situation, but also by reason of the pastoral scenes which are painted upon its organ loft, and the many quaint relics and votive offerings to be seen in it, which are a feature of so many Tyrolese village churches. The mural paintings on the houses in the village are numerous and curious, some of the most interesting relating to the legendary story of the Heilig Wasser. In connection with this there is a pilgrimage chapel picturesquely situated, in almost absolute solitude save for the Inn, on the mountain side more than two thousand feet above the valley. [Sidenote: A MIRACULOUS TALE] The church is built upon the site of the alleged miracle, the story concerning which is as follows:--Three centuries ago two cowherds were tending their flocks upon the upper pasture above Igls, when they were unfortunate enough to lose two young calves; and although they sought for them far and wide along the paths and amid the woods they failed to find them. At length, quite wearied out, and frightened lest they should be severely punished for their carelessness by their father, they fell on their knees and supplicated the Virgin and Saints to help them. Almost as soon as they commenced to pray a bright light fell upon them and round about, and the Virgin appearing beside them bade them be of good cheer, and told them to trouble no more as the lost cattle had gone home to their byre. Then she bade them drink, for their throats were parched with their wanderings. But the two lads, knowing there was no water near, exclaimed, "You tell us to drink, but where shall we find water? There is none here." [Illustration: MOUNTAIN POOL ON THE RITTEN] The Virgin made no reply but vanished; and as she disappeared from their vision there welled up, where she had stood, a spring of clear water from out the rocks, which has never ceased to flow since. On their return home the boys refrained from saying anything about the vision or the miraculous spring, perhaps lest, notwithstanding the calves had been found in the cowshed as the Virgin had promised, they should be blamed for careless herding. But they never failed, when passing by the spring, to offer up a prayer of gratitude. Many years passed and the two cowherds not only grew to man's estate but became old and infirm, needing the assistance of others to look after their flocks. One of the two was aided by the deaf and dumb son of a neighbour, and one day, as the old man and boy were passing the spring, the former knelt down and prayed and drank of the water. The boy seeing him do this did likewise, and lo and behold he found his tongue miraculously loosened, and afterwards spoke as clearly as any other. The fame of the miracle spread abroad, and was readily believed by the people of the valley. Then the two old men told their own experience, and soon a chapel was built on the spot to which through the centuries many devout pilgrims as well as many curious visitors have journeyed. Amid the woods by which Igls is surrounded, and along the fertile valley in which the village stands, are many charming walks, and yearly the place is becoming more resorted to by those who appreciate the lovely and bracing mountain air, and a very pleasant form of what has become known as the "simple life." To the south-west of Igls and south of Innsbruck across the Sill is the lovely Stubai Valley, the beauty of which almost challenges that of the Oetzthal. Like the latter this valley is also verily the gate to the land of snow-fields and glaciers, of which there are upwards of eighty within its confines and hard by. The Stubai Thal is a combination of scenery of widely different character. Within a radius of a few miles, towering above its green and peaceful pastures, at least two score of magnificent peaks rear their heads skyward, none of which fall far short of (whilst many exceed) 10,000 feet in altitude. The lower portion of the valley is reminiscent of the far-famed, music-loving Zillerthal, with its dark-green pine forests, fertile meadows, and villages perched here and there on the slopes of the mountains, or nestling in the valley itself around the white-walled churches. This kind of scenery extends some little way beyond the village of Neustift, which is the last in the valley having a church, and then one seems to at once pass into a mysterious, wonderful, and fascinating region, where the legendary gnomes and ice-maidens of Tyrolean folk-tales and lore must surely dwell in caverns and habitations of perpetual ice and snow. Though there is a good mountain road winding up the hillside above Wilten, which in former times served the picturesque villages Natters, Mutters, Kreith, and Telfes, most travellers nowadays use the electric railway (the first made in Tyrol) for the journey to Fulpmes, which lies about half-way to Neustift and is rapidly becoming a favourite excursion resort for Innsbruck people. The railway (although it has been called a "toy" one) presents considerable features of interest to the engineer, and elements of apparent--but not actual--danger to the timorous. At least, one lady we know who had made the upward journey, had been across the slender viaduct supported on tapering piers, and had been whirled round curves of astonishing "sharpness," refused--until the distance by road had been pointed out to her--to return the same way. But there is in reality no risk on the Stubai Bahn, only an element of pleasant excitement, and the charm of wonderful scenery; and the latter is so beautiful and the little saloon cars so well adapted for viewing that few will, after all, we think, regret travelling to Fulpmes by train instead of a-foot or by carriage. The place was formerly celebrated for its iron and steel works; the articles made finding their way not only to Austria, but also to Germany and Italy; and although of late years the trade appears to have somewhat declined, it is still considerable and of interest to the curious who can watch the skilful artisans at work. The village is most picturesquely situated, and in the church there are some paintings by a local peasant girl quite worth seeing. Fulpmes forms an excellent centre from which to make excursions in the upper portions of the lovely valley, and amid the wooded slopes of the environing mountains. In summer there is the additional charm of the wealth of beautiful wild flowers which gem the fields, and spread like a many-coloured carpet of glowing tints beneath the shadow-casting and sombre pines. [Illustration: VIADUCT ON STUBAI RAILWAY] [Illustration: VIEW OF THE GROSSGLOCKNER] [Sidenote: FULPMES AND SCHONBERG] At Schonberg, south of Igls, and on the opposite bank of the Sill, standing nearly 3500 feet above sea level, one obtains a most widely-extended and panoramic view of the Stubai Valley and its villages. And as one stands in the Alpine observatory near the "Jagerhof," one is able to realize the full beauty of the valley, and the wonder of the mountain summits, including the Serles Spitz (also known in Innsbruck as the Waldraster Spitz), whose rugged peaks remind one of those giants in the Dolomites. But perhaps one of the most strange and interesting natural phenomena in all Tyrol is to be seen from Schonberg when the snow-fields, which in winter completely cover the mountain tops on every hand, begin to melt. Then gradually there appear in different parts of the upper slopes of the mountain ranges dark spots which, framed in unmelted snow, at last assume the appearance of silhouettes of gigantic size. On the peaks away above Innsbruck are slowly formed the figures of two women who appear to be fighting, and whose noses as the snow melts become more hooked and longer each day; on the Solstein a priest is seen carrying an _aspergillus_ in his hand, whilst on the Arzletscharte appears the most complete "picture" of them all, known as the "Falconer." This, a silhouette of remarkable vividness, depicts a youth dressed in a page's costume, adorned with a hat and plumes, and carrying on his left arm a falcon unhooded for flight. As the snow melts the figure loses its pristine slimness and assumes the form of a corpulent man, until at last it entirely disappears. On the side of the Patscherkofel is seen the figure of an old hunter with his dog; which, however, owing to the rapid melting of the snow when once a thaw commences, is only visible for a short time. Indeed, a few hours after we first saw it, for the reason we have given, the change was so great that the outline was almost destroyed. Hall, from time immemorial famous for its salt mines, is well worth a visit. Lying on the north or opposite side of the Inn to Igls, and to the east of Innsbruck, it can be reached either by the prosaic post-road which traverses the Valley, or from Igls by the beautiful Ellbögen road--a branch of the Brenner road dating from Roman times--passing over the Mittelgebirge and through Igls, Lans, Aldrans, Ampass, across the bridge over the Inn to Hall, which is somewhat longer. Equally picturesque, perhaps one might say even more so, is yet another road (the one we preferred) which skirts the lower slopes of the towering peaks of the Bavarian Alps, and passes through the villages of Arzl, Rum, and Thaur. There are also the alternatives of the Brenner railway, and the tramway for those who are poor walkers or are pressed for time. [Sidenote: SOME PRETTY VILLAGES] From Mühlau onwards one has most exquisite views of the broad and fertile valley, and the magnificent mountains which tower above the wooded slopes, swelling gently upward from the Inn, in wild and craggy peaks of rugged beauty. This walk is rendered additionally attractive and picturesque for all who are interested in folk-lore, or who are able to enter into the legend and religion of the people, by the pilgrimage chapels which are found along the route. One of the most charming of these in all Tyrol is that of Arzl, which, standing on a wooded knoll, is brilliant with colour, a gem of its kind in a charming setting of dark green. The little church of Maria Loreto built by the religiously inclined Anna Katharina Gonzaga, second wife of Ferdinand II., was once a famous pilgrimage place, but of late years has been much less resorted to than formerly. The interior is, however, well worth inspection. The wood carvings and iron work are both interesting, as are also the old engravings which hang upon the walls, and the curious black Virgin and Child upon the Altar. Arzl, Rum, and Thaur are all picturesquely situated, nestling as they do on the lower slopes of the great limestone peaks, the first named standing at the foot of the Burgstall which rises majestically to a height of nearly three thousand five hundred feet. Many of the houses in these three villages are most elaborately decorated with mural paintings; in some instances the whole of the fronts are so adorned, and often masses of corn hang on trellis work on the walls. The effect of the brilliant tints of the paintings and the coloured window frames gives an additionally picturesque air to the little villages. Seen in summer the gay effect is perhaps a little neutralized, but in winter, when the landscape is more cheerless and there is a background of snow and grey-green rocks, the picture formed is a unique and wonderfully cheering one. Concerning Thaur, where so many houses have either a painting or an image of a man with a bear upon their fronts, there is a legend of St. Romedius, who centuries ago came riding into the village blessed with a keen appetite gained by exercise in the invigorating mountain air. Whilst the saint was engaged in satisfying his hunger, a wandering bear, so the legend goes, was so impressed with the holy man's accomplishment in this respect that he promptly (for want of other food) emulated it by eating Romedius' horse. On coming out to renew his journey the Saint was astounded at the disappearance of his steed. He, however, seems to have guessed what had happened, and forthwith preached the bear such a sermon upon his iniquitous conduct that he was not only moved to penitence, but also sought to make amends by offering himself as a substitute for the Saint's former steed. Although the proposal might appear to us as accompanied with some considerable risk when the bear once more became hungry, the Saint accepted it, and ultimately set forth on his strange steed to a cave in the mountains north of Thaur, where they lived for some considerable time without mishap. One day, however, as the holy man slept, a troublesome fly came buzzing round his head, and the sleeper failed to drive it away, with the result that the bear (who we are told had all this time watched over his master with great solicitude) came to the rescue and sought to get rid of it; however, without success. The fly returned again and again to the charge, and the bear in desperation aiming a blow at the fly, alas! struck and killed the Saint. This time the grief of the bear was, of course, of no avail, so he would eat nothing and gradually pined away, ultimately dying of hunger. This story, though it has its comical side, is not, however, held to be disrespectful to the life and character of Romedius, who is one of the best esteemed Tyrolese saints. It appears more than probable, however, that Romedius (whether killed by his companion the bear or not) actually died in the Nonsthal, South Tyrol, where there are, strange to say, villages of somewhat similar names to those we have mentioned, namely, Torro, Rumo, and Arz. [Illustration: THE MARKET PLACE, HALL] [Sidenote: HALL AND ITS MÜNSTERTURM] Hall, which is one of the most picturesque, busy, and interesting little towns in the neighbourhood of Innsbruck, with some 6000 inhabitants, dates from the time of the Roman occupation of Tyrol. By the well-known historian, Beda Weber, the name is stated to have been derived from the Greek word [Greek: halos], salt; the reason for such derivation from an unlikely language he does not, however, in any way seek to explain. As one enters the town one is at once struck by the strange and quaint mingling of the picturesque with the utilitarian, the rural with the mediæval. Long before one reaches the town one sees in the distance the greenish copper cupolas of the Pfaarkirche or Parish Church which has so fine a Gothic portal and interesting relics, around whose walls shops are grouped; and rising above the other less lofty and less time-mellowed buildings, the massive Gothic tower known as the Münsterturm with its red "pepper-box" roof of Roman origin, although the present tower was built by Duke Sigismund, the famous son of Frederick of the Empty Purse. A steeply ascending street leads to the market square, in which the Pfaarkirche and Rathaus stand opposite each other. And in this and contiguous streets there are many quaint balconies, gabled roofs, and old-time architectural features to interest and charm the artist and antiquarian visitor. Although Hall has somewhat declined as a commercial centre with the rise of its big neighbour, Innsbruck, it is still a place of considerable activity on account, chiefly, of the famous salt mines. In former times these and its position on the banks of the Inn (then much more navigable) gave the place importance under the rule of the Counts of Tyrol, and the earlier of the Austrian princes; many barges and boats from the Danube itself in former times making their way into the Inn and thence to the flourishing town of Hall. The salt works still remain its principal industry. Hall is, as things go in Tyrol, a distinctly smoky town; but it is seldom that the smoke hangs in the clear and fresh Alpine air which sweeps along the Inn valley down from the environing hills. The Münsterturm, mint tower, which, as we have said, is so prominent an object on approaching the town, is of historical interest from the fact that it was built to enable Duke Sigismund, known as the Rich, to turn into coin his great store of silver taken from the Tyrol mountains. It was from this tower, too, that Andreas Hofer issued his Kreuzer and twenty Kreuzer pieces during the period of his brief dictatorship. As was the case with many another Tyrolean town, Hall suffered in the past from the calamities which afflicted so many similar places in the Middle Ages. It was swept in turn by fire, sword, and pestilence, and shaken to its foundations by the earthquake which occurred in 1670. So severe was the shock, we are told, that the watchman on the parapet of the church tower was thrown off and killed by falling to the ground, and the people fled out of their houses to the open fields where their priests exhorted them to prepare for the Day of Judgment. That the alarm created was very great is borne out by the fact that, although the loss of life would appear from contemporary sources of information to have been slight, for some time afterwards the services of the church were all performed in the open air. Hall, however, chiefly on account of its salt mine resources, recovered, and these and the many privileges the burghers enjoyed enabled them in time to regain their former prosperity. The town played an important part in the various wars which had Tyrol for their battleground during the Middle Ages; and during the Patriotic War the people of Hall were not less brave and self-sacrificing than those of other places. One gallant deed in especial of that long struggle for freedom is directly connected with the town. In May, 1809, Joseph Speckbacher (who was born on a Gnadenwald farm near Hall in 1767) and his troops attacked the Bavarians at Volders, near Hall, and after blowing up the bridge behind him he marched to the relief of the latter town, which was held by the Bavarian troops. These had artillery, and were also numerically stronger and better armed, so that the task set before the patriot force was no slight one. Happily, Speckbacher became aware that the Bavarians were short of ammunition, and therefore when a truce was proposed he refused to agree to it. The Bavarians after, as they thought, completely destroying the Hall bridge, which they held as well as the town, retreated. Calling upon his men to follow him, Speckbacher led them boldly on to the then dangerous and tottering structure, entered the town and pursued the Bavarians. [Sidenote: AN INTERESTING CHURCH] In the churchyard is an interesting wooden crucifix carved by Joseph Stocker in 1691, as well as some monuments of the principal Hall families of former times. The church itself should be visited, if only for the "Salvator Mundi" by Albrecht Durer painted on a panel, and the high altar-piece by a pupil of the master Reubens, named Erasmus Quillinus. One of the chapels, the Waldaufische, was built in 1493 by Florian von Waldauf, who, originally a peasant boy, entered the Imperial Army and ultimately became one of the confidential advisers of the Emperor Frederick and his son, afterwards Maximilian I. He was also ennobled and given considerable estates. He met with many adventures on his journeys into foreign lands, and on one of his expeditions was in so terrible a storm as to be threatened with shipwreck, and he vowed if his life was spared that he would found a chapel in his native land. As events turned out, he lived to reach Tyrol once more, and in accordance with his vow founded the chapel in the church at Hall, which was also the parish church of Rettenburg Castle and estates which Maximilian had granted to him. Upon this chapel he bestowed numerous relics which he had acquired during his various travels, and nearly 50,000 pilgrims came from all parts of Tyrol to the consecration service. More than one of the chapels and churches of Hall owe their origin to special circumstances of a more or less romantic character. That of St. Saviour, for example, which stands on the site of some tumbledown hovels which existed in the first years of the fifteenth century. The story goes that it was to a dying man in one of these that one of the priests attached to the village church was summoned to convey the Viaticum, and administer extreme unction and the last rites of the Church. He came in due course to the hovel, and placing the sacred vessels on a rickety table the latter collapsed and the Host was thrown on to the floor. This was, of course, a terrible disaster in the eyes of the priest and peasants; and a rich burgher, Johann von Kripp by name, hearing of the circumstance, purchased the cottages, and as a reparation for the sacrilege which had occurred, founded a church on the spot, dedicated to the Redeemer. The Hall records are of great interest, and show that the town was a place of much importance in the fifteenth century, when a considerable part of the trade between Venice and Germany passed through it. In those days, too, the town was somewhat celebrated for its junketings, more especially the feasts which were held in connection with the opening of the sessions at the Courts of Justice. The neighbourhood, on account of the good sport provided, was a favourite hunting-ground with the Emperor Maximilian, who on several occasions was entertained in the town. Hall declined slowly in importance during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries by reason of the change in the trade routes; but in quite modern times has regained some at least of its former prosperity by adopting up-to-date methods. There are numerous excellent and interesting excursions to be made from Hall, but nearly every one pays a visit to the famous salt mines, which are to the north amid most romantic and beautiful scenery. Even by carriage the journey of about eight miles takes the greater part of two hours; on foot even good walkers can scarcely hope to do it in less than three. The scenery is in places very fine, and one enjoys most beautiful views, and nearer glimpses of the Bettelwulf, Speckkar and Nisslspitz Alps. [Sidenote: ABSAM AND JAKOB STAINER] On the way one passes the quaint village of Absam, at which Jakob Stainer, known as the "German father of the violin," was born in 1621. As a maker of these instruments he stands high, though it is unknown where or how he acquired his knowledge of the craft. It seems possible, however, as Absam is but a short distance from Innsbruck, where at the period at which Stainer lived musicians--Italians and others--were warmly welcomed to the Court of the Archduke Ferdinand Karl, he may have made the acquaintance of some of these, or even of a maker of distinction. Be it as it may, ere Stainer reached his majority he had embarked upon the trade of a violin maker, and was often to be seen in the streets of Hall and in the market-place selling his productions at a price which we are told did not often exceed six florins. His original model was probably an Amati, but he departed considerably from it as he himself acquired skill and knowledge. Stories are still told of the great care he took in selecting the wood from which his instruments were to be fashioned, and how he would sometimes spend days wandering in the backwoods around Hall and Absam in search of a good tree, which he would tap with a hammer and note its "tone" ere felling. Unfortunately, as has been the case with many another genius, he seems to have died in poverty in or about 1683. At one time he was violin maker to the Imperial Court, but this appointment, which ultimately he lost through inability to pay his way, and owing to consequent financial embarrassment, was not sufficiently lucrative to ensure him comfort in his declining years, let alone prosperity. His instruments, of which there are still a number in existence, are generally distinguished by having their tops more highly curved than those of the chief Italian makers, whilst they possess a more flute-like note, which is often more "singing" and sympathetic than that of the latter. But none of his make probably equalled, or at all events excelled, the works of the Italian masters for brilliance and sustained tone, although by some connoisseurs this opinion has been disputed. It is said that one of Mozart's favourite instruments was the work of Jakob Stainer. At the present time the chief industry of the Mittenwald, which is just over the Bavarian border, is the production of violins and guitars, which are exported in considerable numbers to both England and the United States as well as to other European countries. This flourishing industry owes its origin to a pupil of Stainer's, named Klotz, who after his master's death enjoyed a considerable reputation as a maker of violins of good quality. Many of the houses of Absam are gaily painted, and in the numerous niches, which are often vine-wreathed, one finds the images of saints, and on the bargeboards roughly carved dragons. The villagers tell a curious story to account for the presence of these dragons. It tells how centuries ago there was in the village a marvellous hen that never laid an egg until seven years old, and when this was hatched instead of the anticipated chicken there crawled out a dragon, which remarkable event the villagers have commemorated ever since by carving dragons on the eaves of their houses. But it has been pointed out by several writers upon legends and folk-lore that the dragon was an animal sacred to the god Wodin, representations of which were frequently placed on houses, over the town gates, and on belfries as a kind of talisman against evil influences and spirits; and similar statements are to be found in several well-known works dealing with mythology. [Sidenote: A WONDERFUL WINDOW] In connection with this little Tyrol village are several other stories and legendary tales of a highly romantic and interesting character. Space, however, can only be found for one other. The story of the event or circumstance which caused Absam to become a popular pilgrimage place at the end of the eighteenth century runs as follows. About the middle of January, in the year 1797, the daughter of one of the villagers was one evening looking out of a window in her father's house to watch for his return from work across the fields, when suddenly the light from the fire which played upon the window-pane disclosed a figure of the Virgin Mary quite distinctly. The girl was so astonished that she fell upon her knees before the miraculous picture. The story was not long in spreading throughout the village, and the neighbours all came running to see the "miracle." Then the news of the marvellous image spread through the district round about, and at last created so great a stir that the Dean of Innsbruck himself heard of it, and resolved to investigate the story. After he had visited the place a committee of inquiry was formed, amongst the members of which were two learned professors of chemistry and the well-known artist, Joseph Schöpf. After considerable investigation and the examination of witnesses the committee declared that the glass had originally formed part of a "picture" window, and that the image had been undoubtedly painted upon it. The colours had, however, faded as the years went by (as sometimes, indeed, happens), and it was the peculiar character of the atmosphere of Absam which had restored them to the extent that the image of the Holy Virgin had become once more visible. It is not to be much wondered at, however, that the simple-minded villagers failed to appreciate the arguments of the commissioners and refused to accept the explanation. To them it remained a miraculous image still, and pilgrims came in crowds to see it. As history tells us, it was a period of "Sturm und Drang" in Tyrol. A plague raged which afflicted both men and cattle; and the French invaders had penetrated right into the heart of the country, had occupied Innsbruck, and had brought fire and sword to the hearths of the people. The superstitious peasantry, with their natural leaning towards belief in the miraculous, and faith in the benefits to be derived from the supernatural, accepted the image which had so strangely appeared on the window-pane as a token of Divine favour, and insisted on its removal and installation upon one of the altars in the church. This was promptly done, and the "Gnadenmutter von Absam," or "Miraculous Madonna of Absam," became an object of veneration by all who were distressed. This feeling was doubtless immensely increased by the circumstance that soon after the discovery of the picture and its removal to the church the pestilence died down, and the French were compelled to withdraw their forces. Both of which events were attributed to the virtue of the painting of the Virgin on the window-pane which had been discovered in so strange a manner. The salt mines a little distance beyond Absam, with their crystalline grottoes and the subterranean salt lake, provide an interesting and unique experience for the enterprising traveller who comes to the Salzberg. There is not much difficulty in obtaining admission to the mines, a small fee being charged each visitor for guides, torches, and the rowers of the boat on the lake. The circumstance that the mines were known and worked in the eighth century is not the least interesting fact connected with them; but it appears probable that the early workers confined their attention chiefly if not entirely to the extracting of the salt from a spring that issued from the mountain, by means of evaporating pans. [Illustration: THE HALL VALLEY, WINTER] [Sidenote: DISCOVERY OF SALT MINES] One Nikolas von Rohrbach, who is known by the sobriquet of "the pious knight," appears to have been the first discoverer of the salt mines. He noticed on his frequent hunting expeditions that the cattle and horses were very fond of licking certain rocks in the valley, and applied tests which showed that the rocks were strongly saline in character. Following up this clue, he discovered the Salzberg itself with its practically inexhaustible supply. Ever since Rohrbach's time the mountain has been worked for its salt, and until recent years, when blasting came into common use, much in the same way as in mediæval times, viz. by hewing huge caverns in the rock, which are then filled with water and sealed up. After a considerable period has elapsed this water is run off into conduits leading down to Hall, where it is evaporated in pans. How heavily charged with salt the brine is may be judged from the fact that as a general rule it yields no less than one-third of its weight in solid salt. The caverns one is able to enter, when lighted up by the flickering torches, present a truly wonderful and beautiful sight. Those who visit Hall are indeed unfortunate whose time does not permit them to put up for a day or two at either of the chief Inns (the "Bar" or "Stern"), so that the beautiful Gnadenwald, which lies to the north-east of the town on the Bettelwulf, may be visited. That lovely Alpine lake, the Achen See, in which the towering snow-capped mountains glass themselves, can be easily reached by the little railway which runs up to it through the steeply climbing Zillerthal. The highest and largest of Tyrolese lakes, the Achen See, lies at an altitude of 3000 feet, with its deep-blue, crystal-clear waters stretching northwards for a distance of nearly six miles towards Bavaria. It is surrounded by the most exquisite mountain scenery, craggy precipices and dark-green forests, and has many features of interest in addition to providing excellent fishing, boating, and numerous pleasant walks and excursions. In the Gnadenwald, which was a grant of forest land made by Tyrolese rulers to their household servants in olden times, there are several villages of great picturesqueness. The road from Hall is a truly delightful one through pine forests, sweet with aromatic perfume in the warm air of summer, and upland fields, which seem to almost hang on the sides of the grey, craggy peaks of the Bavarian Alps. And if one but turns and gazes back occasionally there are charming vistas to be had of the Inn Valley far below, and the great chain of the southern mountain range on the further side. The two picturesquely situated villages of St. Michael and St. Martin are to be ranked amongst the chief places of interest in the Gnadenwald. As one approaches the former its white church and tower with a red-roofed cupola with gilded finial standing out clearly defined against a background of dark green at once arrests attention. Over the door is a fresco depicting the incident in the life of Saint Martin where he bestowed his coat upon a beggar. The visitor whose time permits or inclination leads him to enter the church will be amply repaid by the beauty of the frescoes, more especially those adorning the pulpit, which were painted by one of the priests attached to the Augustinian monastery formerly connected with the church, but afterwards suppressed by Joseph II. towards the end of the eighteenth century. At a little distance from the church stands the old home of Joseph Speckbacher, where once, when pursued by his enemies, he took refuge in a pit only deep enough for him to sit upright, whilst the Bavarian soldiers in search of him were actually quartered in the house. He was only able to leave his place of concealment under the floor when the soldiers were absent drilling in the market-place. After a time he was able to come out and hide in a more commodious cow-shed, and finally to flee (after many narrow escapes) over the border into Austria, where he was well received and safe from capture. The village of St. Michael is also picturesque and well worth seeing. Just beyond it is the famous Gungl Inn, a favourite resort with excursionists from Innsbruck, Kufstein, Hall and other places, as well as with the peasants of the Gnadenwald. Here, on Sundays especially, one meets with some of the most interesting and picturesque types, gay costumes and rustic scenes of gaiety and amusements which give one a far better idea of the Tyrolese peasants as they are than days spent in towns, and weeks spent reading books. [Sidenote: A PILGRIMAGE CHURCH] But a short distance further on, by a charming road, one reaches the famous pilgrimage chapel of Maria Larch, built in honour of a mysterious image of the Madonna which was discovered under a larch tree. The church, perhaps on account of its poetic legend and secluded and beautiful situation, has long been a favourite pilgrimage resort with the impressionable and religious peasantry of the upper valleys. There are many other picturesque places in the neighbourhood of Hall, enticing the wanderer from valley to valley and height to height; but a small volume would be required in which to adequately describe them alone; and almost a lifetime to become thoroughly acquainted with their romantic legends, story and beauty. Some weeks of exploration leaves one with a keen desire for closer acquaintance with not merely the lovely scenery but with the simple-hearted, hospitable people who dwell in the more secluded valleys, with whom the great outer world with its storm and stress has indeed little to do and for whom even has little interest. "You should return to Innsbruck from Hall in the late afternoon, starting just before sunset," was the advice of an artist friend. "You will then see what you will not easily forget." The present writer passes on the advice. No one who has waited till day's decline to make the return journey at any period of the year will have reason to regret it, though in the winter months the effects of light and shadow are, of course, far more transient--far too much so--than during the spring, summer, and even early autumn. Then the snow on the towering peaks of the environing mountains glows with at first a golden light, which passes through pearly tones to bright rose pink as the sun sinks behind the soaring crags. The last gleams of the sun linger upon the highest peak as though loth to fade through rose to pale purple, and in turn to change to steely blue, and finally to that blue-black which challenges the deeper indigo of the Alpine sky. Through the pine woods as one passes along the mountain road the golden light filters and slowly dies, throwing long shadows, and at last making the tree trunks loom enormous and fantastical in the fading light. And then from the tiny churches of the mountain side and valley one hears the Angelus ringing forth with a peaceful sound; or if one be approaching Innsbruck itself, then the mellow tones of the greater bell of Wilten float upward from the valley and come to one borne on the still evening air. Under such circumstances of beauty and in the impressive solitude of the forest ways one must be, indeed, unimpressionable if one fails to feel something of the spirit and love of Tyrol, and of restful peace which has enslaved so many hearts throughout the country's history. FOOTNOTE: [14] By some authorities it is stated that the Emperor was never made aware of Ferdinand's marriage.--C. H. CHAPTER VI SALZBURG, ITS HISTORY AND ROMANCE [Sidenote: BEAUTIFUL OLD SALZBURG] Salzburg, though lying some little distance beyond the north-eastern borders of Tyrol, is so historic and delightful a city that many who visit the "Land of the Mountains" make a point of visiting it. They are wise to do so; for of all ancient towns in the Austrian empire few are more picturesque or pleasantly situated, and scarcely any more historically interesting. We have never known any one disappointed in Salzburg who was capable of appreciating beauty and romantic associations. Many who have roved the world over have yielded to the charm of this old-time city, which even with its touch of modernity seems to preserve the quaint and the beautiful of long ago, and the atmosphere of the days when knights and armed men were the chief passers through its streets, and history was in the making. It lies at the foot of the northern Alps, in an open and fertile valley somewhat reminding one of Innsbruck, save for its wonderful rock fortress Hohen-Salzburg situated nearly eighteen hundred feet above sea-level and completely dominating the town. There is the Kapuzingerberg in place of the Innsbruck Weiherberg, and its Rainberg in place of Berg Isel. It is by many considered the most interesting of all the ancient towns amid the German Alps. Its beauty has been compared in turn by several well-known travellers with that of Venice, Naples, and even Constantinople. But to our thinking the parallel is not as exact as it should be to make it of value. There is no sea at Salzburg, and from that fact alone its approach is of necessity less picturesque. Indeed, the immediate approach from Tyrol by way of Innsbruck is somewhat unimpressive and gives little or no indication of the beauty and charm of the old town, though the line on its way passes some pretty scenery and affords some fine peeps of the Bavarian Alps. Yet Salzburg, through the centre of which flows the silver-hued Salzach, is in a way as beautifully situated and as charming as any of the towns to which it has from time to time been likened. It lies in a delightfully well-watered and fertile plain dotted over with villages, ancient castles, and country seats of the Salzburg nobility, and encircled by wooded hills, which as they open out in a wider sweep to the south become higher and higher until deserving the description of mountains. Here they become a magnificent range of towering limestone peaks, through which are cleft fertile and delightful valleys leading into the neighbouring kingdom of Bavaria. In the valley of the Salzach there is no lack of variety as regards scenery. One has widespread meadows, almost throughout the year starred and gemmed with many coloured and sweet scented flowers, melting away into the woods which clothe the lower slopes of the environing hills, where the sombre hued pines give a darker note of green to the landscape; whilst yet above these in the distance are crags of grey and slate-coloured limestone, and crowning the whole vast snow-fields glistering white at noonday and taking on a tint of delicate rose colour at sundown. In the town itself rise two considerable hills which serve to confer upon it a distinction of its own. One, the Kapuzingerberg, on the eastern side of the river, rises to the height of 800 feet, and the second, on the western side, to a height of nearly 450 feet above the city. It is between these two that the greater part of the old town lies. The steep sides of the Mönchsberg and the Gibraltar-like rock on which the old, grey fortress of Hohen-Salzburg stands are ivy-clad, and in the crevices and fissures wall-flowers, valerian, stone-crop, houseleek, and other flowering and lichen-like plants have taken root, whilst from the greater crevices and ledges wave feathery birches, and the lower slopes are made beautiful and shady by spreading beeches and odorous limes. After several visits to this delightful city, which has an atmosphere entirely its own, and a charm difficult to describe, one is at a loss to set down in what it exactly differs from other similar towns. Part of the attraction it possesses is doubtless owing to its situation amid a stretch of lovely valley, and its romantic and historic past. But there yet remains that elusive quality which may be described as "the personality of the town," in addition to its geographical and historical claims upon one's interest and imagination. Salzburg is not, however, merely the name of a town, but also of a province or "department" of Austria, to which empire it is the last added territory.[15] Lying between Tyrol (of which by many it is erroneously supposed to form a part) and the Salzkammergut or the lake region of Upper Austria, which commences in the near neighbourhood of the city, it was an independent episcopal principality until after the fall of Napoleon, not having been incorporated with the Austro-Hungarian Empire until the year 1816. [Sidenote: THE SALZACH VALLEY] The province consists chiefly of the mountainous district of the Salzach and its numerous tributaries, which wend their way from their sources amid the glaciers and snow-fields of the great peaks of the Hohen Tauern and lesser ranges to the plain where the Salzach itself ultimately flows into the Inn. It is the great Hohen Tauern range with its gigantic snow-crowned peaks of the Gross Glockner, 12,460 feet; Wiesbachhorn, 11,710 feet; and Gross Venediger, 12,010 feet; Hohe Furlegg, 10,750 feet; Habachkopf, 9945 feet; and many other almost equally stupendous heights, which forms the southern boundary of the ancient Principality. The whole range is one of impressive grandeur, and possesses a picturesque beauty upon its lower slopes unrivalled by any other Alpine district. The foot of the Hohen Tauern is almost invariably clad with pine forests, which melt away into the higher slopes where blooms the bright pink "alpen rosen," whilst yet higher, and just below the line of perpetual snow, on rocky ledges and on slopes of coarse grass appear the silver-white, star-like flowers of the edelweiss. Above this zone of fresh green patches amid the grey and weather-stained rocks one passes into that exhilarating region of eternal snow and ice where dwells also eternal silence unbroken by the sound of birds, the hum of insects, or murmur of other living things. Not only is the Hohen Tauern the region of Alpine giants, vast glaciers, and untrodden snow-fields, but as a natural consequence of these things it is that of many rushing torrents, stupendous waterfalls, and tinkling streamlets, all of which contribute to make the province it borders one of the best-watered in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Upwards of half a score of large streams flow into the Salzach; whilst of fertile valleys there are so many that to number them is difficult. Most are beautiful in the extreme; many are almost unknown to the ordinary tourist, who usually sticks to the well-worn paths and more frequented highways. In the famous Krimml Falls the Province of Salzburg possesses by common consent the finest waterfalls in the German Alps. They issue from the vast Krimml Glacier and descend over the edge of a pine-clad precipice in a cloud of drifting spray into the valley beneath, a distance of nearly 1500 feet, in three stupendous leaps, the highest fall in two leaps from a height of more than 450 feet. Although, as we have before said, almost every valley of the Hohen Tauern range is notably beautiful, none excel in interest either pictorially or geologically the longest and widest, the Gastein Valley, with the fine falls some 500 feet in height near Bockstein, where the Gasteiner Ache, after passing through narrow gorges, plunges down into the valley, and thence flows through the broad, flat plain of Hof-Gastein to join the Salzach, passing on its way delightful Bad-Gastein, with its old town of interesting and picturesque wooden houses nestling on the eastern slopes of the valley, and the newer, with its hotels, churches, villas and other handsome buildings, peeping out from amid the pine-clad slopes or lying in the valley itself. It is a delightful though nowadays fashionable health resort, at which many tastes, both gay and quiet, are consulted. From Lend at the foot of the Gastein Thal to pretty little St. Johann, where the Salzach flows northward, the river has passed without opposition quietly onward. But at St. Johann are some towering and remarkable limestone peaks, including those of the Tennen and Hagen Ranges, some of them attaining an altitude of 8000 feet; with the desolate-looking Steinerne Meer, 8800 feet on the western flank, and the Dachstein more than a thousand feet higher on the eastern. The river flows onward to a point where the two ranges we have mentioned coalesce. Here the great ravine known as the Lueg Pass, six miles in length and possessing fine scenery, forms a very fitting entrance to the beautiful valley of Golling, which gradually opens out from Hallein onwards till Salzburg itself is reached. The valley of the Salzach on its eastern side is bordered by a range of pleasant green-clad heights and gentle slopes, with the Gaisberg, 4290 feet, a short distance to the north-east of Salzburg itself, dominating them, from which point the mountains gradually decrease in height. From Golling onwards, however, the western side of the valley is shut in by great peaks, some of which spread out their lower and rounded emerald green slopes towards the river. Of these impressive and beautiful mountains the Hohe Göll, 8275 feet, the majestic Watzmann, 9050 feet, the chief of the Berchtesgaden group, are the most noticeable. The cave-pierced and lofty, dome-shaped Untersberg, the highest point of which is the Berchtesgadener Hochtron of 6480 feet, standing isolated like a sentinel in the plain near the city. [Sidenote: SALZBURG IN ROMAN TIMES] Salzburg, beautiful and on occasion even radiant city of the plain as it is, ancient though many of its buildings are, is yet of greater antiquity than any of them. The town stands upon truly classic ground, and is associated with many events which have taken their places in European and even world-wide history. Here the Romans came in their all-conquering march of empire, and recognizing its fine position and the strategic importance of the hills which command the river along most of its course, they in due time built upon the plain Juvavum, on the road which linked up the Augusta Vindelicorum, modern Augsburg with Aquileia near Trieste. There is little doubt nowadays, from the remains which have been discovered from time to time in the shape of implements of stone and bronze, weapons, household utensils, and ornaments, that the mines near Salzburg, which have since very early days down till comparatively recent times been of great commercial importance, were not only worked in the days of the Roman occupation, but also even in pre-historic times. There is little reason for doubt, indeed, that the Celts knew of, and used, the famous salt mines of the Dürnberg and the copper mines of the Mitterberg; whilst there is abundant evidence of various kinds of the working of the gold and silver mines of the Tauern district by the Romans during their occupation of the country. [Illustration: MOZART'S HOUSE IN THE MAKART PLATZ] The exact date when Salzburg as a town or settlement first came into existence has not been determined; but it would seem probable that there was a settlement existing by the banks of the Salzach during, or just prior to, the first century of the Christian Era. The Celtic inhabitants of this settlement were not, however, able successfully to resist the north-eastern advance which had been made across Tyrol by the Roman legions, and thus it was that the Roman military station Juvavum was founded on a site which was of great convenience owing to its being at the entrance to the mountain passes and placed at the junction of the roads which led by various routes to all parts of Noricum. Here it was the Roman invader, having driven the Celtic owners of the soil after a brave but ineffectual resistance into mountain fastnesses of the surrounding country, established a military post with a fort which soon became a colony, and grew ultimately into the important town of Juvavum. Of this occupation by the Romans, and of the establishment of the town by the banks of the Salzach, there are considerable relics surviving in the shape of excavated buildings and foundations, coins, ornaments, pottery, tesselated pavements, and portions of the roads which the Romans made. The introduction of Christianity took place at a very early date, which would in part account for the ecclesiastical prominence which the province had in the Middle Ages, and even in later times. We are told that even as early as the year A.D. 472 St. Severinus, whilst journeying through Noricum, with which country Salzburg had been incorporated by the Romans, found numerous Christian churches and minsters established. A relic of these times still exists set in the perpendicular walls of the Mönchsberg, where high up, with some of its windows overshadowed by creepers and trees, is a very small church built into the mountain itself; reached by a dark, steep flight of steps cut in the rock, worn by the feet of countless generations, and leading to a cavern where stands an altar and a small cross. According, at least, to tradition this was the hiding-place to which the early Christians amongst the Roman inhabitants retired for security when celebrating the offices of the new faith. And it is here that St. Maximus is said to have suffered martyrdom. From the effects of the troublous days which at last came to most outposts of Roman civilization Salzburg did not escape. Soon the hordes of Huns and Goths and others belonging to various Germanic tribes swept across and over the province as they did the land of Tyrol, and the town was sacked and burned, and the inhabitants put to the sword or led away into captivity. Thus in 477 the flourishing Roman settlement was literally wiped out by the Keruli under their leader, Odoaker, and of it few traces remained save some tesselated pavements, household utensils, and ornaments which ages afterwards from time to time have been uncovered. [Sidenote: THE RISE OF SALZBURG] The history of the town is obscure for many centuries after its destruction by the Teutonic barbarians; and for more than a hundred years the place remained waste and deserted, with the ruined buildings gradually becoming overgrown by trees and shrubs. Then, at the beginning of the sixth century, Theodo I., Duke of the Bojovarii, the founder of the Kingdom afterwards known as Bavaria, took possession of Salzburg and joined it to his own possessions. One account tells us that it was this Duke Theodo of Bavaria who, having become a Christian, summoned St. Rupert, after the latter had been driven from Worms, to Ratisbon with a view to his introducing Christianity into the Duchy. Tradition states that St. Rupert came to Juvavum about the year 582, or at the beginning of the seventh century, with the determination to make the spot his headquarters for the spread of the Christian faith. Duke Theodo appears to have made him a present of the ruined and deserted town and the country round about to the extent of an area of two miles square. Other estates and property were given him, including among many others those of Itzling, Oping (Upper Innsbruck), and a third part of the famous Hall Salt Spring. The Bishop set to work, and on the ruins of the old Roman settlement he soon established a town, building a convent and a church under the steep rocks of the Mönchsberg, where now the large Benedictine Convent and St. Peter's Church stand, in the latter of which the bones of the saint are said to lie buried. The Convent of Nonnberg had many estates granted to it, and became rich. Bishop Rupert appears to have also begun to build new dwellings and to have cultivated the land; not neglecting in the meantime the object for which he had come, viz. the spread of Christianity. He built many churches, and was the means of forming a large number of Christian communities throughout the Duchy. He also extended the influence of the town of Salzburg over the surrounding district, and when he died in 623 he left behind him, where he had found ruins, a flourishing town with religious institutions of considerable importance. It was from this settlement that the most powerful and wealthiest ecclesiastical principality in Southern Germany was destined to spring, which, though possessed in turn by various nations, lasted as a spiritual Principality until 1802, when it was secularized and re-established as a temporal electorate. After the coming of St. Rupert Salzburg gradually grew to be the chief centre of religious life and culture in the eastern region of the Alps. By the foundation of the Archbishopric of Bavaria by Charles the Great in 788, after the latter territory had been annexed and incorporated with his possessions, the city's importance steadily increased. But with an increase of status there came a corresponding extension and consolidation of the ecclesiastical dominion by which the political influence of the Archbishops of Salzburg grew until it finally justified them in assuming the title of Primates of Germany. Almost without exception during the Middle Ages the archbishops were militant priests. "They knew," we are told, "as well how to handle a sword as to say a Mass," and they often fought with distinction against the many enemies that the German Empire had in those troublous times when the various kingdoms of Eastern Europe were being evolved out of chaos, and were ever at war one with another. These prelates were also distinguished as skilled and astute diplomatists, capable of holding their own and adding to the power and privileges of their Church whenever an opportunity for so doing presented itself. Under Bishop Virgil (747 to 784) the power of Salzburg was considerably extended eastward. The new Cathedral was built, and several other districts were brought under the subjection of the bishopric. It was Bishop Virgil's successor, Arno (785 to 821), a personal friend of Charlemagne, who, in the last year of the eighth century, was invested by Pope Leo III. with the Pallium and installed first Archbishop of Salzburg. To Arno's labours the town and the country owe much, for under his skilful and wise guidance not only did the former flourish and grow, with the other settlements which had come into existence, but by his great power of initiative the life of the principality itself was directed into prosperous and progressive channels. His immediate successors greatly increased the power and influence of the Church; whilst at the same time they did not omit to extend their non-spiritual power by the acquisition of other territory, and by means of the mining industries they became very rich and powerful. [Sidenote: EARLY RULERS] The Archbishops of Salzburg soon by this means gained a great and distinguished place amongst the German princes, which they retained until the power of the Emperors began to wane in consequence of differences with the Popes, to the latter of whom the Archbishops, as a rule, gave their support in the disputes that arose. Into these matters it is not necessary to enter deeply, but it was in consequence of them that Conrad I., Count of Abinberg, took the part of the Pope and caused the country to be greatly disturbed. During his reign the Abbey of St. Peter was granted as a residence to the Archbishop of Salzburg, and a new building was soon afterwards erected close by for the purpose. It was in the reign of this same Conrad I. that the Cathedral of Salzburg was destroyed by fire on May 4, 828, as was also a very large portion of the city. Both the Cathedral and the portion of the town which had been burnt down were rebuilt with even greater magnificence than before. But they were destined to once more be destroyed. Three centuries later, in the year 1167, a quarrel arose between Conrad II. and Frederick Barbarossa, because the latter refused to invest the former with the temporal power, and pronounced against him the ban of the Empire. Barbarossa ordered Salzburg and the country round about to be over-run and laid waste by the Counts Plain-Mittersill. For some time the city and its strong fortress resisted successfully; but on April 5, 1167, it was captured and once more burnt to the ground. The successor of Conrad, Albert III., a son of King Ladislav of Bohemia, also came into conflict with the Emperor, and shared a similar fate to his predecessors; but during the reigns of the immediately succeeding archbishops peace and prosperity were established, and under Eberhard II., who was distinguished as a most able and brilliant administrator as well as a great churchman, peace and tranquillity once more reigned. During the next century Salzburg was involved in political disputes and took part in the Battle of Muhldorf, on September 28, 1322, fighting on the side of Frederick the Schöne, Duke of Austria, who was taken prisoner. In consequence of which the principality not only lost large numbers of its chief nobles and knights, but also was involved in heavy monetary loss in the payment of its share of a war indemnity. Immediately following this period of unrest came another distinguished by the erection of new and handsome buildings and the enlargement of the bounds of the city, and also strengthening of the Castle on the Mönchsberg. To Archbishop Leonhard von Keutschach (1495 to 1519) must be given the credit of attaining absolute supremacy, and with his occupation of the See may be said to have commenced the most distinguished period in the history of the city. Leonhard did not attain to this position, however, entirely without guile, for to tell the truth the Salzburg citizens, who seemed even in those mediæval times to have possessed a love of freedom and spirit of independence which did them credit, having become restive under the ecclesiastical domination and tyranny wished to make the town a free imperial city. Leonhard, however, had determined otherwise, and so under pretence of inviting the burgomaster and twenty town councillors to his palace to give them a state banquet, he promptly arrested them on their arrival and threw them into the castle dungeons. He then succeeded in taking away the ancient rights of the town, upon the annulment of which he had set his mind. But although Archbishop Leonhard ruled his secular as well as his ecclesiastical subjects with a rod of iron, he did much to improve and beautify the city, adding greatly to the strength and size of Hohen-Salzburg, and also improving the method of working the mines, particularly those in Gastein and Rauris. This was, of course, more directly to his benefit than that of the miners, yet in the end was pleasing to the country in general in that the Archbishop drew from the mines a revenue sufficient to permit him to erect many handsome buildings, to improve the roads, and to encourage art and agriculture. [Sidenote: THE REFORMATION] During the Archiepiscopate of his successor Mathäus Lang von Wellenburg, from 1519 to 1540, many stirring events took place, not only in the city of Salzburg but throughout the length and breadth of the principality as well. The faith of Luther had been introduced into Salzburg and had met with great success among all classes of the population, especially that of the miners. Even some of the priests and officials of the Cathedral itself were suspected of being favourable to, and even of extending, the new doctrines. At first the Archbishop tried to combat the heretical tendencies of his subjects by kindness and indulgence; but finding these methods fruitless, he called in the aid of foreign mercenaries, chiefly from Tyrol, garrisoned Hohen-Salzburg strongly with them and with followers upon whose loyalty he could depend, and taking the town unawares, forced the inhabitants to submit and to surrender their privileges. This event was followed by various acts of violence directed against the adherents of the reformed faith, which so exasperated the population that in May, 1525, a rebellion broke out in all parts of the principality. The Archbishop seeing that the situation was taking a serious turn, addressed an urgent appeal for help to Duke William at Munich, which, however, was not answered. Shortly after, thousands of miners and peasants, having won several skirmishes in the country districts, advanced to Salzburg, where they were joined by many of the inhabitants, and promptly set to work to besiege the Archbishop in the fortress, which they continued to do (failing to gain an entrance) until August 15th, when Ludwig of Bavaria arrived with a strong force, and a truce favourable to the peasants was agreed upon. This arrangement, however, was not held to, and in consequence a fierce rebellion broke out again in the following year, but was successfully and cruelly suppressed by forces under the command of the Archduke Ferdinand, supplemented by those of the Suabian League. Although the doctrines of Luther continued to make headway, and religious disturbances still occurred, the latter were not of a serious character; but some half a century later the famous Archbishop Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau, also known for brevity as Wolf Dietrich, on returning from Rome, where he had been to receive the pallium, or ornamental band of white wool worn around the shoulders, which all archbishops at that time had to receive on their appointment before they were empowered to carry out the duties of their office, issued his famous edict on July 9, 1588, for the extermination of the heretics. In consequence of which there was a severe persecution of those who had adopted the Lutheran faith, with great confiscations of their lands and other property. Other acts of this famous Archbishop, including an imposition on salt, the obtaining and making of which formed a very important and remunerative industry, brought about serious friction between him and some of his subjects, and ultimately led on two occasions to his military occupation of the salt district by means of mercenaries. On the first these forces were defeated and driven out by those of Duke William of Bavaria; and on the second the Archbishop's action led to the conquest and occupation of Salzburg by the Duke Maximilian himself, and the ultimate imprisonment and dethroning of Wolf Dietrich on March 7, 1612. He was never released, although efforts were made to obtain freedom and pardon for him, and died in his cell in Hohen-Salzburg five years later. [Sidenote: CATHOLIC PERSECUTIONS] After the Peace of Westphalia, October 24th, Salzburg was made an independent and sovereign principality, and the archbishops, the Chapter, and various other authorities, set to work to bring about improvements in the Civil and Ecclesiastical offices and organizations of the country, and to improve the condition of the inhabitants by better regulations of taxes, the criminal law, etc., and to complete the building of the city and improvement of the existing portions of it by the repaving of the streets and instituting better sanitary arrangements. But notwithstanding the undoubted benefits conferred in the way we have mentioned upon the inhabitants, the clerical party maintained a rigorous persecution of the Protestants, and in consequence the years 1684-85 witnessed large emigrations of Lutherans, including great numbers of the Hallein miners. These persecutions were followed half a century later by those of the Archbishop Leopold Anton Freiherr von Fermian, who summoned the Jesuits into the country to aid in extirpating the Protestants. These priests succeeded in stirring up further dissensions between the Catholics and the Lutherans, and cruel persecutions, accompanied by torture and imprisonment, followed. The Archbishop, finding the Jesuits had not succeeded in reducing the country to uniformity of religion or a more peaceful state, issued on the last day of October, 1731, the famous emigration edict by which the Protestants were to be deprived of all their property and their rights as citizens, and to be driven from the principality. The result was the forming of the celebrated Salzbund, by which the followers of the reformed faith banded themselves together and swore to defend it, and as a token they licked a block of salt placed for the purpose on a table, which is still preserved at Schwarzach, where the League was formed. In the end, in consequence of Archbishop Fermian's edict, upwards of 30,000 people emigrated, and as was the case with the Huguenots of France they formed by far the most able, industrious, and intelligent portion of the community, and the consequences of their emigration are even felt at the present time. By the expulsion of the Protestants, many of whom were miners, we are told "the mining industry of Salzburg received its death blow, the prosperity of the country was greatly diminished, and the free national and civic life was destroyed." The greater number of these emigrants eventually settled in Prussian Lithuania, where they were warmly and hospitably received. Others went to Bavaria, and Suabia, and a few even to England, some of the latter of whom ultimately crossed the Atlantic and settled in Georgia, where in the town of Ebenezer there still exists a colony of their descendants. The immediate effect of the emigration of these skilled artisans and workers was felt both in the city of Salzburg and the principality. Workshops, which had hitherto been busy hives of industry, deserted by their former occupants, failed to find new tenants, and fell into gradual decay, or were turned to other less remunerative uses. As had been the case with the Huguenots so was it with the _émigrés_ of Salzburg; their places could not be filled nor their loss replaced. Salzburg during the wars of Frederick the Great against Bavaria and France was frequently occupied by one or other of the contending nations, and was reduced to a state of poverty and distress from which it was a long time recovering. To such a wretched condition were the inhabitants of the city and principality reduced that there was serious danger at one time of the latter being secularized. But under the firmer and more beneficent rule of Hieronymus, Count of Coloredo-Wallsee, the last reigning Archbishop (1772 to 1803), several beneficial reforms were brought about in the administration of the country relating to its finances, police, agriculture, and other departments. But, notwithstanding these changes, ecclesiastical domination in Salzburg was destined to come to an end speedily, and at the Peace of Campo Formio, October 17, 1797, France by a secret treaty agreed to have the Archbishopric of Salzburg transferred to the Emperor Francis II. [Sidenote: NAPOLEONIC WARS] In the years 1800 to 1802 the principality was once more the scene of French invasions, and suffered severely not only from the ravages consequent upon the battles fought between the French and the Imperialists, but also from the heavy contributions of money and stores levied upon the people. The whole country soon became in a chaotic condition, and the Archbishop at last fled with his portable property and the most valuable treasures, leaving his See to its fate. The Imperial forces entered Salzburg under the command of Count Meerveldt on August 19, 1802, the General proclaiming that he took possession of the country in the name of the Archduke Ferdinand of Tuscany. Thus Salzburg ceased to be an independent spiritual principality and became the secular electorate, which it has remained ever since. On March 11th of the following year the fugitive archbishop resigned the secular power. Although there is no doubt that this change was welcomed by the people at large, who looked forward to reforms and greater stability of government, it was not found possible to effect the former at once. The still unsettled and warlike period in which Ferdinand I. came to rule over Salzburg was very detrimental to any radical reform or change of administration. By the Peace of Pressberg, December 26, 1805, Salzburg was transferred to Austria, and four years later passed into the possession of Bavaria by the Treaty of Vienna, and so remained until 1816. It was during the Napoleonic Wars that the Salzburgers, like the Tyrolese under Andreas Hofer, rose and fought for their country and for the Emperor of Austria. Quite a number of serious engagements took place, in the Lueg Pass, and the Mendling, and near Unken and Melleck, leading naturally enough to great poverty and devastation. Ultimately by the Treaty of April 14, 1816, Salzburg passed into the possession of Austria, and on May 1, 1816, the Imperial Commissioners entered into possession amidst the enthusiastic rejoicing of the whole population. This state of affairs lasted till 1850, when once more Salzburg became an independent Austrian Crown land, and eleven years later it was granted a separate government and a Diet. Since then the city as well as the province has prospered under the wise and enterprising rule of its present administration, and has become thoroughly incorporated in spirit as well as upon paper with the great Empire of which it forms an independent part. To its Archbishops of the sixteenth century Salzburg owed and still owes much. They were nearly all of them great and interesting personalities who not only influenced the civil as well as the religious life and evolution of the town, but had, in addition, not a little to do with the appearance it gradually assumed during the period we have mentioned. Under their rule Salzburg was to a large extent modernized. Many thirteenth- and fourteenth-century buildings were pulled down, to be replaced by much more magnificent if not more picturesque and interesting structures. It was then that the spirit of the Renaissance swept over the Alps from Italy, and in its train came the desire for magnificence in architecture, in entertainments, and in the dress and life of the Salzburg nobility. The Archbishops and ecclesiastical inhabitants also fell willing victims to the desire for extravagance and ostentatious display. Indeed, the former were, as one authority says, "the true Renaissance Sovereigns of the Italian school, who were selfish as regards their politics, and not at all particular regarding the means by which they attained their ends." It must, however, be allowed that though by no means unwilling for worldly enjoyments and pageantry, notwithstanding the fact that they professed in their religion the severer doctrines of Ignatius Loyola, they were worthy patrons and encouragers of art, science, and literature, and were animated by the desire to leave a lasting memorial of themselves and their beliefs in splendid ecclesiastical buildings. In Salzburg one finds their records on all hands, in coats-of-arms and tablets on which are recorded their names and deeds, for the benefit and instruction of those who succeeded them. [Illustration: ONE OF THE FINEST DOORS OF THE STATE APARTMENTS IN THE FORTRESS, SALZBURG] [Sidenote: REBUILDING THE CITY] During the period of which we speak the character and appearance of the city was almost entirely changed. The ancient mediæval buildings were pulled down, and replaced by magnificent palaces in which the nobility and ecclesiastical dignitaries dwelt in splendour and ease. Churches were erected in such numbers as to be almost unequalled in any other city of similar size. Most of these still remain, making Salzburg a place of spires and domes and handsome churches strangely picturesque and deeply interesting. Seen either from the ridge of the Mönchsberg, the Kapuzingerberg, or from the castle walls, especially at sundown on a summer's evening, Salzburg presents a picture of great beauty and colour, and one which is not easily forgotten. As was not unnatural with the secularization of the power ruling the Province the capital suffered heavily. For a time both its prosperity and its intellectual life underwent eclipse. For almost half a century its energies seemed to lie dormant, and it was only when the line connecting Munich with Vienna by way of Salzburg was constructed in 1860 that it woke once more to take an important place amongst the towns of north-western Austria. From that period till to-day the place has made steady progress. Till the middle of the last century the city occupied a comparatively restricted area within the old walls. And as a direct consequence of the numerous churches, convents, and other ecclesiastical buildings occupying a great deal of the space available the townsfolk were compelled to crowd their dwellings together, and to build the many storied houses which one finds in the older portion of the town in the neighbourhood of the Herrngasse, Sigmund-Haffnergasse, and Getreidegasse. It is in these narrow and gloomy--though undoubtedly picturesque--streets, in the architecture of which one can in many instances trace Italian influence, that the great part of the population dwelt, and much of the trade of the town was done. With more modern ideas the distaste for such confinement among the more ambitious and well-to-do of the commercial and artisan classes became manifest, and when at length the old walls were in places pulled down a new suburb arose on the other side of the river--as it did at Innsbruck--in the neighbourhood of the railway station, possessing wide modern streets, finer shops, and palatial villa residences, and also smaller houses for the occupation of the working-class community. In this portion of the town one finds not only some of the best hotels, but the Kurhaus with its pleasant gardens (closely adjoining the Mirabell Garden), the fine Theatre, and the imposing church of St. Andreas in the Gothic style. Opposite the railway station, set in a recess of foliage in the garden adjoining the Hôtel de l'Europe, is the famous statue of the Kaiserin Elizabeth, a pilgrimage shrine for most visitors to the town. The statue itself has been described as "simple but beautiful." To us it has always seemed by no means an adequate or even very skilful representation of a beautiful and queenly personality. The pose is not particularly happy, and the whole has to our mind a "doll-like" effect. [Illustration: A QUIET PASTURE] As time went by Salzburg reclaimed much ground from the rocky bed of the swiftly flowing river by confining the stream within more restricted limits. In former times, when the town was enclosed with walls, there was no such necessity, and the Salzach took its own course, encroaching much upon the lower-lying land along its banks. But nowadays on this reclaimed ground shady avenues of trees have been planted, which give a charming and distinctive character to this part of the city. Here, too, are some fine villas, where not so very many years ago was waste or wooded land, set amid trees and made pleasant by beautiful gardens, in which there seems to bloom a profusion of flowers all the year round. The position and future prosperity of the town as a tourist resort was assured when Salzburg became the starting-point of a second main line of railway leading to Innsbruck via Kitzbühel, and the picturesque Unter-Inn Thal, and the centre of a number of branch lines. It is through these modern developments that the life of Salzburg has so materially changed even within the memory of those who first visited it but, comparatively speaking, a few years ago. From a town of ecclesiastical and almost mediæval aloofness from the outside world, and from one which had for a considerable period seen its growth arrested and its life stagnant, it has sprung into being as a favourite summer and winter resort not merely for tourists, but also for those to whom the older portion of the town, its many historic buildings, castle, and fine churches, proves attractive. [Sidenote: SALZBURG'S ANCIENT FORTRESS] The most prominent of all buildings in Salzburg, and the one which has for most visitors the greatest attraction, is the fine old fortress of Hohen-Salzburg set high above the older town upon a tree-enshrouded and rocky spur of the Mönchsberg. The ancient fortress, which has witnessed so many stirring events within its walls, and from which past generations of inhabitants have looked down upon almost equally dramatic and stirring doings in the town below, that throughout the ages defied capture, and at last came to be looked upon as impregnable, was founded nearly eight and a half centuries ago by Archbishop Gebhard. As the centuries went by many additions were made to the original buildings, and the present castle dates in its chief portions from the last few years of the fifteenth and the first few years of the sixteenth centuries. These additions were principally the work of Leonard von Keutschach, Archbishop of Salzburg at the close of the Middle Ages. He was one of the great "building" archbishops to whose energies and enterprise the town at various periods owed so much. Of peasant origin he was not ashamed of his humble birth, and, being gifted with a sense of humour, chose a turnip as his armorial bearings. So frequently, indeed, are representations of this vegetable met with on escutcheons in various parts of the town, that the remark of one traveller who observed that "the Salzburgers appear to have sprung out of the earth" may be held excused. Severe looking as is the fine old fortress (now given over to the uses of barracks), in whose courtyards princes, archbishops, nobles, and many famous men of the past centuries have walked, it was, however, not merely a strong bulwark of defence, truly "ein feste burg" dominating the town and plain, but also a palace. Although the castle has been stripped of much of its magnificence there happily still remain traces of it in the so-called Fürstenzimmer (state apartments), which formerly occupied by the rulers of the Province were furnished and decorated with all the splendour which marked the most lavish period of Renaissance influence. Chief amongst the relics of the latter are the beautiful and delicately carved panelling, the gilt work, and the richly carved and moulded ceilings of the principal apartments. In wandering through these now almost deserted rooms one is tempted to conjure up the scenes of magnificence they must have witnessed. Tragedy, comedy, chivalry, hate, joy, sorrow, success, and failure, all, the often lurid though magnificent gamut of life in the Middle Ages, must have been welded into the very fabric and atmosphere of this impressive and deeply interesting building. Among the chief relics of bygone splendour and pomp of circumstance there remains the beautiful and it is said unique Majolica stove, a truly wonderful example of Gothic ceramic art. There are many interesting and quaint corners within the triple line of walls, which shut off access to the castle and proved so useful on many an occasion in former times, united with the fortifications of the Mönchsberg known as the _Burgerwehr_; but few excel in picturesqueness the old courtyard with its shady and famous Linden tree, ancient well, and time-worn walls. Here, as one lingers, towards sundown one sometimes hears the sweet-toned though halting notes of the organ within the tower playing some familiar hymn tune. The trembling notes, like those of an old singer whose voice has become feeble but has retained much of its sweetness, float out upon the still evening air with a mystic appeal which few that have heard them can, we think, have failed to have felt. For ourselves it is one of the lasting and unforgettable memories of Salzburg as well as of its castle. Nowadays the cable railway takes one to the summit in a few minutes, and one is spared the fatigue of the long climb up by the Nonnberg. The old Reckturm, in the dungeons of which unlucky prisoners were confined, and in the tower itself the terrible instruments of torture were kept and the torture chamber was situated, nowadays has a much more pleasant office to fulfil as an excellent "look out" place from which to view the widely extended prospect of the town and Salzach valley towards the north. [Sidenote: HOHEN-SALZBURG'S SIEGES] Many an assault was made during the Middle Ages and succeeding eras upon the old grey fortress, seldom resulting in anything save disaster or disappointment for the attacking force. Even the peasants, who, during the terrible rebellion of 1525, made repeated attacks upon the castle with the utmost fury and determination, failed to accomplish their object of capturing the stronghold, Matthew Land, the then Archbishop, and the high ecclesiastics who had taken refuge within its unscalable walls, to whom short shrift would have been given by the peasant leaders. For ages the Church had trodden the peasantry under foot, and in the Peasants' Rebellion there were terrible reprisals. But although the insurgents came near capturing Hohen-Salzburg they did not succeed. Their appliances were too primitive for successful assault, and their shots did little or no damage to the strong thick walls or buildings. On a marble column in the castle are to be seen the marks left by a cannon ball, which was one of the few that succeeded in entering the castle, and in this case it was through a window! A century later, during the Thirty Years' War of 1618-1648 which devastated the whole of the then German Empire, waged between the Evangelic Union under the Elector Palatine and the Catholics led by Maximilian the Great Duke of Bavaria, Salzburg, doubtless on account of the fact that its fortress was esteemed impregnable, was one of the few places left at peace and unmolested. We have already mentioned the fact that the Archbishops were not only exceedingly powerful ecclesiastics but also great diplomatists, and there is little doubt but that to their clever policy must also be attributed the town's immunity from attack during that troublous and universally disturbed period. Of the many distinguished ecclesiastics who have occupied the See of Salzburg as its Archbishops, the most interesting and perhaps the most important were two, separated one from the other by but a few years. One was Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau (1587-1611?) and the other Paris von Lodron. [Sidenote: BUILDERS OF RENOWN] Archbishop Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau, from having received his education in Rome, then the centre of Art and culture, came to Salzburg steeped not alone in the traditions of Italian Art but anxious to impress upon the town his knowledge and taste. He found an old Roman and neither handsome nor picturesque Cathedral, dating from the eighth century, in place of churches such as he had been accustomed to in Italy, ornate and beautiful. He is reputed to have been at no pains to conceal his distaste for the building, and when a few years before his death it was destroyed during one of the destructive fires, there were those who even accused the Archbishop of having himself set the church on fire, or at least of having instigated others to do so. But there is little truth in this story, though the Archbishop's satisfaction at the destruction of the ancient, inconvenient, and unornamental structure seems beyond question. That he fully intended to erect upon the site one of the finest churches north of the Italian frontier there is little doubt, but, alas! for human aims, he was not destined even to see the foundations laid. To him, notwithstanding his despotic character, his restless disposition, his shameful intrigue with the beautiful Salome Alt, the city of Salzburg owes a great deal, for he did much to transform an unpicturesque and dirty town with narrow mediæval streets into one of the finest cities of Germany. Many of the beautiful buildings, including the Gabriel Chapel, the Chapter House, the Neubau, and the arcades of the Sebastian Cemetery, owed their existence to his artistic taste and desire for improvement. It was to Paris von Lodron, the founder of the University which was dissolved in 1810 during the Bavarian occupation, his second successor, fell the task as well as the honour of giving to Salzburg a Cathedral worthy of it and of its long line of famous Archbishops and many historical memories. The original plan, which historians tell us would have resulted in a church of such magnificence that it would have been almost unrivalled by that of any in Europe, had to be considerably modified for several reasons, chief amongst which were considerations of cost and space. The former was rendered obligatory from the heavy expense entailed in keeping up the fortifications of the city during the time (the Thirty Years' War) the Cathedral was in course of construction. However, notwithstanding these circumstances, Paris von Lodron's work, which occupies a splendid position in the midst of three large squares, was designed chiefly by an Italian architect named Santino Solari (possibly from plans by Scamozzi of Florence), assisted by others in the late Renaissance style, is one of the most magnificent churches in Austria, although the stucco ornamentation is of a rather florid character. From the exterior, which is rather plain and severe, although it possesses a fine façade built of Unterberg marble, it is impossible to gain any conception of the charm and even splendour of the building. But immediately upon entering it, one is impressed with its beautiful proportions, and the resemblance to a marked degree in the general plan to that of St. Peter's, Rome. Indeed, there is little doubt as to the source from which Solari drew much of his inspiration, although due credit must be given to him for original details, the proportions, and general beauty of effect. The treasury of the church is worth seeing, as it is rich in relics of bygone ages, including an exquisite seventeenth-century monstrance encrusted with 1800 precious stones, rich vestments, and a fine crozier set with gems; and none should miss the interesting fourteenth-century bronze Romanesque font which stands in one of the side chapels to the left of the entrance. In its Cathedral Salzburg possesses a gem of architectural beauty which has been the admiration of generations of architects and students, and (as one authority says) "has probably provided more inspiration for the artist and the student of architecture than any other church north of the Italian Alps." On the Residenz-Platz, the centre of which is adorned by a beautiful fountain nearly fifty feet in height dating from the latter part of the seventeenth century, consisting of a colossal figure of Atlas surrounded by equally colossal hippopotami, the work of Anton Dario, is situated the ancient palace of the Archbishops, formerly known as the Residenz, now the Imperial Residence. This fine palace which was erected at various dates from the end of the sixteenth down to the first two decades of the eighteenth century contains many traces of the splendour which characterized the larger buildings which were erected by ecclesiastics at the time the influence of the Renaissance was at its height. The ceilings and wall of the principal salons and halls are especially notable, and in some cases are most elaborately decorated. The Government Offices which are opposite the Residenz although known as the Neugebäude (possibly because they included the Post and Telegraph office), in reality date, at any rate in part, from the reign of Archbishop Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau, although they have been modernized, altered, and added to from time to time. In the octagonal tower was placed, in the beginning of the eighteenth century, a beautiful _carillon_, the work of a watchmaker named Sauter at the commencement of the seventeenth century, known as the Glockenspiel, which chimes thrice daily at 7 a.m., 11 a.m., and 6 p.m. The Archbishops of Salzburg were not only in past ages ecclesiastics and diplomatists but also sportsmen. Most, indeed, seem to have been great lovers of horses. Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau, Salzburg, built some magnificent stables adorned with marble on the slopes of the Mönchsberg; attached to them were a covered riding school for use in winter, and another open-air one for summer use. Though the stables themselves are now barracks, the open-air school is still one of the sights of the town. In the side of the Mönchsberg were hewn in 1693 three great galleries for the accommodation of spectators of the sports in the summer riding school; they have long ago been overgrown with ivy and creepers which add greatly to their picturesqueness, but are still occasionally used for the purpose for which they were originally constructed. In the winter riding school there is an interesting ceiling fresco depicting a joust or tournament dating from the last decade of the seventeenth century. Several of the Archbishops of Salzburg appear to have had a liking for rock excavations, and the Archbishop Sigismund von Schrattenbach was one of the number. In the latter half of the eighteenth century, in 1767 to be precise, he constructed the Neuthor, a tunnel through the solid rock some four hundred and fifty feet in length, which it took two years to make. It pierced through the Mönchsberg and thus united the suburb of Riedenberg with the rest of the town. At the Riedenberg end is a statue to St. Sigismund in commemoration of the Archbishop, who placed his own medallion at the town end of the tunnel with the Latin inscription "Te saxa loquntur" (The very stones praise thee) above it. [Sidenote: THE SCHLOSS MIRABELL] To the Archbishop Wolf Dietrich von Raitenau, or rather to his passion for the beautiful daughter of a Salzburg merchant whose name was perhaps not inappropriately Salome, the charming Schloss Mirabell chiefly owes its existence. Here (so the story goes) the beautiful Salome Alt was installed as mistress, amid splendour and lavish expenditure befitting a King's favourite. For her were constructed and laid out delightful gardens, with fine terraces, shady walks, wide lawns of exquisitely "velvety" turf, the like of which we have seldom seen even in the "grass" counties of England; quaintly shaped flower-beds, fountains and ponds, mazes and avenues of fine trees. For her, too, were numerous groups of statuary, and single figures of a mythological and artistic character installed. Some of these are of considerable merit; and few are without distinctive decorative value in the surroundings amid which they have been placed. In the gardens themselves there is a constant succession of delightful flowers all the year round. On the occasion of our last visit the sweetly scented linden avenue was in full bloom, whilst roses were in profusion--we were told they bloom almost all the year round in this favoured and beautiful spot--and the jasmine, orange trees, and many other beautiful and homely flowers perfumed the summer air, and spread out in a riot of colour on every hand. Aloes, palms, Portugal laurels, daphne, and other shrubs afford relief to the eye, and in the background, towering high above the quietude of this old-fashioned garden, looms the vast and commanding Hohen-Salzburg, with its roofs and pinnacles shimmering and glancing in the sunshine of the upper air. In the gardens are also the interesting aviary of the Salzburg Society for the Protection of Birds, and the former Summer Theatre near the French Garden with the grassy stage and wings formed of "trimly" clipped hedges. The mansion itself suffered severely from a fire in 1818, but the Marble Hall and staircase which escaped are well worth seeing, as are also the decorations of several of the older rooms. FOOTNOTE: [15] Bosnia and Herzegovina have been recently annexed. CHAPTER VII THE ENVIRONS OF SALZBURG--HELLBRUNN, ITS UNIQUE FOUNTAINS AND GARDENS--THE CASTLE OF ANIF--THE GAISBERG--THE KAPUZINGERBERG--THE MOZART-HÄUSCHEN--THE MÖNCHSBERG--SALZBURG CHURCHES In the neighbourhood of Salzburg there are several beautiful castles erected by various holders of the See. Amongst them the charmingly situated Leopoldskron, lying to the south of the Mönchsberg, overlooking a lake covered in early summer with a profusion of water lilies and other water plants, and embracing a magnificent prospect of the environing mountains. The drive to Leopoldskron is one not to be missed. As one passes along the magnificent avenue, or _allée_, of trees, through flower-bedecked fields, and with the fresh air from off the river and mountains perfumed by the carpet of blossoms which lies stretched on either side of the road, one is able to realize to the full the rural charm which surrounds the historic and busy town just left behind. [Sidenote: HELLBRUNN AND ITS FOUNTAINS] But a little distance further, on the other side of the Salzach, is Hellbrunn, once an Archiepiscopal and now an Imperial possession. It is surrounded by a large deer park, and owes its origin to the Archbishop Marcus Sittich in 1613. It is pleasantly situated, and was, according to tradition, the retreat and pleasure palace of its founder, who was of a far more social and lively disposition than Archbishops, even in that somewhat lax age, were supposed to be, and here he installed his favourites. In the chateau itself there are some fine state apartments, in one of which are some interesting frescoes by Mascagni, Franz von Sienna, and Solari the younger. But the gardens and unique fountains and "waterworks," which are laid out and planned in the style so popular during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, are the great attractions of Hellbrunn, not only to the foreign visitors, but on Sundays especially to the Salzburg folk, and those of the neighbouring villages who flock in thousands to the chateau. In the gardens of Hellbrunn one finds the same velvety turf that so generally distinguishes those of other castles in this fertile valley of the Salzach; whilst in the ponds, lakes, fountains, and "trick" waterworks--invented by the Archbishop, so it is said, to amuse his favourites during his enforced absences upon his ecclesiastical duties and affairs of State--one has something quite out of the ordinary. Indeed, probably in no other garden in the world do unsuspecting visitors run such risks of a soaking or impromptu shower baths as at Hellbrunn. Jets start suddenly (at the turn of secret taps by the custodian, who seems to take a cynical delight, bred of many experiences, in the visitor's discomfiture) from rockeries, from the corners of plaster columns, from the mouths, finger-tips and eyes of statues, from the foliage of trees, from roofs of grottoes, from the edges of the very paths along which one is unsuspectingly walking, from, it appears, the very ground beneath one's feet. One is lured into a grotto to admire a statue or to "see something" which may or may not actually exist, only a moment later to find one's exit blocked by a curtain of water, which pours down from the outside rocks above the entrance. This lifts and one makes a dash for liberty, only to be assailed by jets of water converging or spurting across the path one has to follow. Visitors seat themselves upon a marble bench a few moments later, and a whole battery of jets plays upon the unfortunate sitters, or are so arranged that, whilst not actually playing upon them, to escape without "running the gauntlet," for the amusement of the more discreet or knowing onlookers, is impossible. On fine Sundays when there is usually a great crowd of visitors at this favourite out-of-town resort, which boasts of an excellent restaurant, there is, of course, plenty of fun when the jets begin to play for the lucky folk who have "been there before." Along one path leading from the chateau to the lawns and fish-ponds, the latter of which are crowded with huge carp and other fish, some of which are reputed to be as old as Hellbrunn itself, there are set in niches a number of figures, blacksmiths, armourers, millers, and the like with their anvils, forges, and mills worked by a tiny runlet of water. And not far from these is the famous mechanical Theatre, also worked by water power, with its organ, and some hundred and fifty figures in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century costumes, which give quaint performances, depicting a busy town, dancers (these latter very amusing with their pirouettes and posturings), soldiers, fighting, jousts, etc. Of the water grottoes that known as the Neptune--with, it is said, five thousand jets--is the largest, and there are also the Rainbow, Fairy, and Orpheus grottoes, each one bringing into play some fresh piece of mechanical or other ingenuity. In the deer park is situated the famous Monatsschlösschen upon a wooded knoll, from which a fine view is obtainable. This building was erected (some say for a bet) within a month's time by Archbishop Marcus Sittich. There was at the time a popular belief that he was assisted in the accomplishment of what was, at all events in those days, a wonderful feat by Satan himself. [Illustration: MOUNTAIN PASTURES] The Stone Theatre near by is also worth seeing. It has a naturally formed stage and auditorium, upon the former of which in ancient times pastoral and other plays were performed for the amusement of the Archbishops and their friends. [Sidenote: ANIF AND THE GAISBERG] The Castle of Anif, which is reached by a pleasant road from Hellbrunn in about twenty minutes, is well worth a visit. It is a most charming chateau dating originally from the second decade of the thirteenth century, of late years restored in Gothic style by the owner, one of the Counts Arco-Steppberg. It is built in the centre of a lake, and is surrounded by a well-wooded and beautiful park, and is of great interest as a well-preserved survival of the fortified domestic architecture of other days. It is beautifully furnished, and contains many finely decorated rooms, and a valuable art collection. The return to Salzburg through the fields at sunset is a delightful experience. To the back and to the left of one are the towering mountain summits tinged with the Alpine glow which turns their rocky peaks almost blood red, and their snow-fields a deep rose pink. And right ahead stands up, mystic-looking as some fairy fortress in the waning light, Hohen-Salzburg, its roofs and walls reddened and given the tints of nacre, and its windows shining like the open doors of furnaces. A never-to-be-forgotten picture. Both the Gaisberg, up which there is now a funicular railway, and at whose foot Aigen, with its interesting Church and Castle acquired by the family of Prince Schwarzenberg in 1804, lies, and the Kapuzingerberg should be visited by all who have the time, and for whom a wide and pleasant prospect of mountain ranges, valleys, and the Salzach, threading its silvery way dividing the city and flowing northward and southward through the valley, has attractions. The Gaisberg is ascended from the little village of Parsch, reached by tram from the city. The railway takes one through beautiful scenery in about an hour to the summit of the mountain, which is so favourite an excursion with the well-to-do Salzburgers, and from which such a beautiful prospect is spread out at one's feet. To the north one can catch glimpses of the undulating foreground of the Alps and shining lakes; whilst Salzburg now more than 4000 feet below looks almost insignificant, and like a toy town set in the midst of a green plain through which winds a thin, silver line, the Salzach. In the far distance is the magnificent range of the Alps, in which stand the Watzmann, 9050 feet; the Dachstein, 9990 feet, with its rocky pinnacles catching the sunshine, and its glaciers and snow-fields gleaming white, whilst in the further distance through the deep-cut gap formed by the Lueg Pass one sees the fields of eternal snow on the Hohen Tauern glinting at one, and on a quite clear day one can catch glimpses of the white peaks of the Grossglockner, 12,660 feet and the Wiesbachhorn, 11,900 feet, across the desolate-looking Steinerne Meer. The prospect has been compared, but somewhat loosely we think, to that from the Rigi. But, whether we think it finer or less fine, we can agree that in one respect the view and interest of the scene is not exceeded by its Swiss rival--the wonderful changes of light and shade which come and go over the landscape between the hours of sunrise and sunset, during which Nature seems to work with a brush full of the most delicate colours and uses them as no human artist could hope to do. From the Kapuzingerberg, which is only half the height of the Gaisberg, the view is not so extensive, but it is well worth climbing to see. On the way up one obtains most beautiful peeps of the city from two distinct points; whilst from the summit one gets a panorama which will satisfy all save those who have made the Gaisberg ascent first. The way up is, after a long flight of steps about two hundred in number, through a most delightful beech wood, where one is tempted often to stop to rest or to admire some vista of the valley or town seen through a framework of feathery, green branches. There are, too, on the Kapuzingerberg several interesting buildings. The first to be reached is the Church of the Capuchin Monastery built in the last year of the sixteenth century by Archbishop Wolf Dietrich. A beautiful old garden is attached to the Monastery, from which one has a fine prospect of the town and surroundings. Alas! it is only open to men, and thus by monkish custom women are shut out of one more "earthly paradise." [Sidenote: THE MOZART MEMORIAL] But to music lovers and many others who ascend the Kapuzingerberg the Mozart-Häuschen, situated in a charming little garden near the Monastery, will be the chief object of interest. This memorial to the master was presented to the city by Prince Camillo zu Starhemberg, and was completed in June, 1877, being thrown open to the public six weeks later, on July 18th, on the occasion of the first musical festival. This cottage, which formerly stood in the courtyard of the so-called old "Freihaus" in Vienna, has an added interest from the fact that in it was composed the opera "Die Zauberflöte." The furniture, it should be noted, is not the original but a clever and exact copy of the articles comprising it. The former is in the collection of Prince Starhemberg. The top step of the cottage is, however, said to be "veritable." In the cottage are kept a great number of wreaths with ribbon streamers, embroideries, etc., which have been sent by admirers of Mozart's genius. Also some beautiful tablets of embossed metal commemorating the first musical festival held in 1877. There is also hung in the cottage the picture "Mozart at the Spinet" by the Italian artist Romaco, a photograph of the only portrait of the composer painted from life which is known to exist, which was the work of Doris Stock of Dresden in 1787; and the pictures of the various performers in the operas given at Cassel. The bust, which stands outside the cottage, is the work of the well-known sculptor Edmund Hellmer, of Vienna, and was the gift of Baron Schwarz. As one stands in the garden, with its pleasant prospect, quietude, and beautiful flowers, one cannot but feel that few more suitable spots could have been selected for a memorial to a musical genius of Mozart's nature. Far better is it, indeed, than some more pretentious place nearer the haunts of men. [Sidenote: ON THE MÖNCHSBERG] The Mönchsberg and a walk along its ridge should not be missed by any one who has a little time to spare whilst at Salzburg. The explorer will be well rewarded for his toil. One is apt to estimate the Mönchsberg by its Hohen-Salzburg end, which so dominates the city. It is difficult, indeed, from down below in the narrow streets to believe that some 300 feet above one lie not only woods and tree-shaded walks, but even green, flower-bedecked fields. The most direct and interesting way up the Mönchsberg is by the Sigmund Haffnergasse and Hofstallgasse bearing to the left of the Fischbrunnen, and thence over the Mönchsbergstiege. On reaching the top of the flight of steps the way lies in the direction of Hohen-Salzburg as far as the passage leading into the Nonnthal and to Leopoldskron, then one climbs to the left, and after a little distance reaches the beautiful view point known as Konig Ludwig-Fernsicht, or King Ludvig's Lookout. The prospect from here is wonderfully wide and beautiful, embracing as it does the villas on the other side of the town, and the villages and farms of the valley with their picturesque background of mountain ranges, including nearer in the Göll and Untersberg. [Illustration: HOHEN-SALZBURG AND THE NONNBERG] To the left and on the way along the ridge to the fortress is situated the beautiful villa of the famous singer Bianca Bianchi, and from the projecting bastion in the same direction one obtains a fine view of the town below, and valley of the Salzach. Both in the direction of Mülln to the right, and of Hohen-Salzburg to the left, there are many fine views as one takes one's way either by shaded paths or through the fields which lead to the Bürgerwehrsöller, where there is an ancient watch-tower on the slope of the hill from whence one has a wonderful panoramic view of the city and its environs. From the opposite end of the rampart one obtains a widely extended prospect towards Reichenhall, Marzoll, Maxglan, and the Bavarian plain, which is not easily surpassed from the neighbourhood of any other town of the size in western Austria. One can then either descend to the Marketenderschlössl through the beautiful woods by one of the well-kept paths, and thence reach Mülln, or retrace one's steps, and walk right along to the Hohen-Salzburg end of the Mönchsberg, from whence by entering the fortress and descending by way of the Nonnberg one obtains a fine view of the other portion of the Salzach valley in the direction of the Gaisberg, Hellbrunn, and Anif. On the Nonnberg, so called from the Benedictine Convent built upon it, stands the fine Gothic Chapel founded in the first year of the eleventh century and beautifully restored in the fifteenth. In it is much fine stained glass, a winged altar piece of great interest; and there are also some interesting frescoes in the old tower. Unfortunately the cloisters are seldom if ever shown to visitors; they are the oldest now existent in the principality, and it is said even in the Austrian empire, dating as they do from the commencement of the eleventh century. They are charming and picturesque, and well worth the trouble which it is generally necessary to take in order to obtain permission to see them. In Salzburg there is such a wealth of interesting buildings and places that to describe all one has seen or can see there is no space. Perhaps of those remaining to which reference has not yet been made, most people visit the house in which Mozart was born, situated in the narrow, picturesque old Getreidegasse; the Franciscan, formerly the Parish Church; the Church of St. Peter, with its ancient and picturesque burial-ground beneath the shadow of the towering fern- and flower-clothed Mönchsberg, and the Caroline Augustus Museum. There are, of course, also the Dreifaltigkeits Kirche, with fine frescoes and carvings, and the University Church, both worth a visit. To Mozart's birthplace, along the quaint and narrow Getreidegasse with its beautiful old signs of wrought-iron work projecting from the shop fronts on either hand, come hundreds of English and American visitors annually. Now the house is also a Mozart Museum, with much of interest for admirers of the composer, antiquarians and students. In the birth-chamber itself one finds a most valuable series of family portraits, including some of Mozart's wife, Constance Weber; also those of his landlord and his wife, Lorenz Johann and Maria Theresa Hagenauer. There are also the "scores" of many of his operas, and other compositions, records of the Mozart family; and perhaps most interesting of all the small clavichord or spinet, and the grand piano or reiseclavier, which was a present from his brother Karl, on which he used to play. In the family sitting-room there are many interesting relics of the composer's father, mother, and other relatives, including Mozart's own pocket-book-diary, a large number of fragments of compositions, which from one cause or another were destined never to be completed, many letters of the family, copies of Mozart's three first published pieces printed in Paris, and several pictures of the house in the Rauhensteingasse, Vienna, where the composer for some years lived and ultimately, on January 5, 1791, died. Salzburg has well-honoured her famous son's memory by the several memorials of him within her gates, including the fine though simply conceived bronze statue in the Mozart-Platz which cost nearly £2000, and was erected by voluntary subscriptions in 1842. By the foundation of the Mozarteum or "Society for the Cultivation of Mozart," not only is the memory of the great composer kept green, but the support of the School of Music of the same name is ensured. Thus the city of his birth, which did him (as is so frequently the case) but little honour during his lifetime, has nowadays become the centre of enthusiasm for his works. Festivals of his music take place during the summer months, at which not only the famous and beautiful Viennese Philharmonic Orchestra takes part, but also the most celebrated conductors and artistes. Although Salzburg had been the residence of other famous musicians and composers, it is Mozart and his genius which dominates the ancient city's musical life, and proves so attractive an element to musicians and music lovers who visit it. [Sidenote: SALZBURG MUSICIANS] Michael Haydn, too, composer of much fine church music, was a resident in Salzburg and has a rather commonplace monument erected to his memory in St. Peter's Church. The latter is in the Romanesque style, founded in the middle of the twelfth century, and badly restored in the middle of the eighteenth, and is of great interest to the antiquarian and student of architecture. The portal consists of seven arches which gradually diminish in size, and are inlaid with strips of white and red marble. The very remarkable archings which strike one directly one has entered the building are portions of the original church. On a small altar near the vestry is a well-carved statue of the Virgin, said to be the work of one of the Archbishops, of about the end of the twelfth century, although there appears little real evidence in support of the suggestion. The frescoes in the nave, representing scenes from the Crucifixion, painted in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, are worth study. In Salzburg considerable store is set upon the monuments in the church, but few rank high as works of art, although marking the graves or being memorials of distinguished and historic persons connected with the city's life in the past. The beautiful though ruinous cemetery of St. Peter, which, with its crumbling tombs of the great dead, interesting and quaint mural tablets, and arcaded vaults belonging to some of the most important and famous Salzburg families, lies at the foot of the Mönchsberg, is, as well as the most picturesque, the oldest cemetery in Salzburg. It is difficult to exaggerate the interest and charm of the spot; always still, although set in the midst of a city, and within a few hundred yards of the principal and busiest thoroughfares. That it possesses a wonderful and mysterious attraction for tourists we can testify; and, indeed, we would almost go as far as to say that one meets more English and American visitors in this peaceful corner of the city than in any other spot on the southern side of the Salzach. The celebrated Monastery of St. Peter, founded by St. Rupertus in (about) 582, was, until the first decade of the twelfth century, the residence of the bishops and archbishops of the diocese. The present building was erected during the reign of Archbishop Max Gandolph during the period covered by the years 1661-1674. It can be visited, and the library is full of the most interesting and valuable MSS., early copper plate engravings, and consists of about 45,000 volumes and some 250 illuminated and other MSS., chiefly upon parchment. Several of the latter and some of the early printed books are practically priceless. The Librarian is always delighted to exhibit the treasures under his charge, and in him we found (as doubtless will all intelligent bibliophiles) a kindred spirit, and a most interesting cicerone. [Sidenote: THE MUSEUM] It is almost impossible in Salzburg, especially if one would really know something of the past life of the principality, and the city, to follow that excellent rule of avoiding museums. In the Salzburg Carolino-Augusteum Museum one finds so much that brings vividly before one other times and other customs. Although started but three-quarters of a century ago the Museum has already become a repository of the deepest interest, much frequented by students of all types, the antiquarian and the man of science. It was due to the initiative of Vicenza Maria Süss, one of the leading town officials at the period of its foundation in 1834. The work which he began was well continued and supplemented by that of Jost Schiffmann, the well-known Swiss painter, and an enthusiastic committee, largely to whose credit must be placed the excellent arrangement of the art and other sections of the collection. One of the most interesting and unique features of the Museum is the suite of rooms furnished accurately and entirely in the style of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; of these one of the most charming is the "Hunting Room" with its fine oak presses, pretty recessed window, and trophies of the chase. In the Hall of Antiquities are many interesting relics of the Roman occupation of the country, and also in the Lapidarium. A most excellent idea took shape in the Hall of Industry, where are collected together many excellent specimens of various "masterworks" of iron, woodcarving, etc. The Music Room contains some of the most valuable musical instruments of the last three centuries, including spinets, violins, and others, some of these priceless. In the Armoury are relics of deep interest of the terrible Peasants' War, including wooden cannon, crude swords beaten from scythes, executioners' swords, curious and cumbersome firearms, and some of the lances used by the Landsknechte. The Costume Room has many attractions for lady visitors, who linger not only to admire the fashions of the past, but to inspect the embroideries which came from the industrious and skilful fingers of past generations of women, "old" with the dignity, grace, and charm which the "new" woman so sadly lacks. On the same floor are the interesting Mediæval Kitchen, with its ancient and carefully kept copper and other utensils glinting at one from their hooks in the half-gloom of the recesses; the Ladies' Chamber, with its charming oriel, stained-glass window, colour of life of the period, and air of repose; the study, to show one the environment old-time students loved; a fine state-room; and a beautiful Renaissance Hall. After these vivid reconstructions of the past one passes somewhat regretfully to the higher floor and prehistoric things. The priceless Celtic helmet, found in the Pass of Lueg, interesting though it is, seems "lifeless" in comparison with what one has just seen; as do somehow Roman statues and arms, and similar objects. And one needs the beautiful and richly ornamented panelling, oriels, and similar objects of the final room to bring back colour into things. To visit and study this deeply interesting collection leaves one with a very good idea of the evolution of culture, science, and art during the last five centuries of the principality's history, one's knowledge of native art being easily further extended by a visit to the Kunstlerhaus near the Karolinenbrucke. Salzburg has produced at least one great artist in Hans Makart, who by common consent is esteemed one of the most vivid and brilliant colourists of his day. In some of the villages near Salzburg, as also during "fair" times and festival times in the city itself, one is able to witness some of the quaint, picturesque, and dramatic peasant dances for which the valley of the Salzach has some reputation. [Sidenote: A PEASANTS' BALL] We were especially fortunate whilst recently there in witnessing not only peasant dances such as we have referred to, but also a peasant ball. Amongst the dances specially notable was a variety of "Gaillarde," and "Allemande," a type of the dance known as "Siebensprung," where the male performers make a series of seven different movements with hands, elbows, knees, feet; and then almost touch the floor with their foreheads whilst their female companions pirouette around them. The "Allemande," with its graceful twirling and twisting, and interlacing of the arms, and graceful bending of the bodies of the dancers, showing off the lines of the women's figures, is especially picturesque. Then came types of other and more local dances, in one of which the women pirouetted round and round the room until scarcely able to stand, their short skirts gradually seeming to become inflated like balloons, and ascending inch by inch until knee high, when suddenly the dancers paused, their skirts fell, and with a sharp twirl and swish the latter were wound around their lower limbs in plastic folds. Then there was a pretty dance commencing with a figure of the "Allemande," and proceeding to a courtship in pantomime, in which the women peered shyly at their partners between the circle formed by the interlaced arms, and ending by the men stooping, and whilst continuing a waltz step, suddenly seizing their companions round the knees and lifting them breast high, all the while continuing to circle the room in a "springy" rather than a gliding waltz. Then followed a still more dramatic dance-play, in which the whole story of a peasant courtship from early days until the wedding was depicted in pantomime, with half a dozen characters beside the happy pair. Most of the performers were not only graceful and finished dancers, but were possessed of distinct dramatic gifts. The folk songs, accompanied upon rather weird instruments consisting of shepherds' pipes, guitars, fiddles, horns, and what, until it was put together, appeared to be a collection of short pieces of gas pipe of various lengths or strips of metal, were intensely interesting and musical. What struck us perhaps more than anything else, save the actual dancing and singing, was the charming manners of the women, and the perfect manners of the men. Peasants though they were, there was a complete absence of coarseness or roughness in general behaviour, in place of which one had perhaps a rather grave courtesy. And when at last it occurred to some of the men that perhaps the "foreigners" might like to dance, they approached the ladies of the party with a striking grace and courtesy of manner. The Salzburg girls, too, in their pretty costumes were just as gracious and charming as English girls of the upper middle class, when asked to favour some of the English men of the party with a dance. The scene was made even more kaleidoscopic in effect when at last the sombre evening dress of the latter mingled with and formed a foil to gay kerchiefs, snowy white bodices worn under a type of bolero jacket of the women, and the green and bright brown waistcoats and short knee breeches of the men. Across some of the waistcoats, which were many of them fastened with silver buttons, jangled quite a collection of coins, exhibiting (so we were told) the financial position of the wearer, so that any girl might know what a suitor or possible suitor was worth! We hope that no young man ever puts upon his waistcoat a single silver krone piece more than he is entitled to. But if very much in love to what deception of this kind might he not stoop? And mercenary indeed must be the maiden who would not in the end pardon his offence, which was so warm a tribute to the power of her charms. [Illustration: SALZBURG MARKETWOMEN] [Sidenote: IN THE MARKET] Even nowadays a good deal of "costume" can at times be found in the Market, which, surrounded by old-time building and dominated by Hohen-Salzburg, is very picturesque with its tiny stalls--some shaded by huge umbrellas--and buxom market women in short skirts, gay kerchiefs, and sometimes in types of the peasant costumes prevailing in the immediate district. As a general rule the market folk are good models both for artists and amateur photographers, though some of the younger women coquettishly pretend that they object to be photographed, whilst all the while they are desperately anxious to come into the picture. To leave this fascinating old-world town, where so much of the most beautiful in modern ideas stands side by side with ancient things, without a visit to some of the charming and interesting places in the immediate district--lovely lakes rivalling the deep-blue sky above them in the tint of their waters; peaceful valleys, where pure air invigorates scented by passage through pinewoods and across flower-decked Alpine pastures; wonderful peaks covered with that eternal weight of glorious snow, and bound about in some cases by the immemorial fastnesses of environing glaciers--should be impossible. Our only regret is that neither space nor the scope of the present volume permits of some description of the beauties which we have visited and which lie so close at hand; indeed, almost within call of the beautiful city set in a valley, and surrounded with majestic and lofty mountains, the lower slopes of whose wilder peaks are softened by pine forests, and fertile upper pastures. CHAPTER VIII SOME TOWNS AND VILLAGES OF SOUTH TYROL--MERAN, BOZEN, KLAUSEN, BRIXEN, SPINGES, STERZING, MATREI [Sidenote: MERAN] So many pens have described and praised Meran, the ancient capital of Tyrol, that there must be few adjectives of appreciation left unapplied to it. Many poets have also sung of this beautifully situated little town of some 8000 inhabitants which once played so important a part in Tyrolese history, and nowadays has developed into a fashionable health resort. It has by turns been called "the Jewel of South Tyrol," "Tyrol's sweet Paradise," and in one of the visitor's books "A Paradise of God's making and man's improving"! Artists love it, and therefore it goes without saying that Meran is both beautiful and picturesque. From whatever side one approaches the town, whether by the more usual route from the West via Innsbruck, and then by the little branch line of the Brenner railway from Bozen; from the south through Verona; from the north by way of Munich and Innsbruck,--one is at once struck by its wonderfully favoured situation amid vineyards, orchards and rich pasture land, set in a wide valley surrounded by beautiful mountain ranges, and watered by the Passer River. It is, indeed, a charming spot in which to either rest--as so many do--or from which to make excursions so varied in character, that they may suit all tastes. [Illustration: WINTER NEAR MERAN] The first view of the town, with its spires, huge hotels, white-walled houses and villas, and the ruins of Castle Tyrol set high on the north-western and vine-clad slope of the Kuchelberg, is one of great beauty. On the lower hillsides are chestnut groves and pine woods; and many of the villas and houses of the town itself appear amid them as though embowered in green. The railway from Bozen traverses the picturesque Etsch Valley, which is dotted with orchards, and follows the course of the Etsch to where it joins the Passer about three-quarters of a mile from Meran. The architecture of the town, as is the case with most places of any size in South Tyrol, is distinctly Italian in general characteristics. In fact, one of the things which makes Tyrol, as a whole, of unusual interest to students and artists is the variety of the domestic architecture found within its borders. Although there are many quaint corners and delightful byways in Meran, there is really only one important business thoroughfare, running almost due east and west and of considerable length, with arcaded shops known as "Unter den Lauben" (in the shade). It is probably because it has this aspect that one of the sunniest streets we have ever been in has been so amply provided with shady arcades; and in summer the latter can be appreciated to the full. In the season the long street is at times crowded with foreigners from England, Germany, Italy, and America, and has a busy and cosmopolitan air somewhat out of character with its general old-world look. Just off this interesting thoroughfare stands the Burg, or, to give it its fuller and ancient name, the Landesfürstliche Burg, in ancient times the town residence of the Counts of Tyrol. Retired as it is in the courtyard of the Magistrats Gebäude it is often overlooked by the passing tourist, although of great antiquarian and historical interest. Dating from the fifteenth century, the building has been admirably and sympathetically restored, and is a treasure-house of fine old furniture and _bric-a-brac_. There are also some interesting frescoes and coats-of-arms of former owners and inhabitants. It is, perhaps, difficult to realize that amongst the latter in the middle of the fifteenth century was a Scottish princess. But it was to the Burg that Sigismund, son of Duke Frederick of the Empty Purse, brought his bride Eleonora, daughter of James I. of Scotland, over the Brenner and via Bozen, to the house and home he had prepared for her reception. From Bozen onwards, we are told, the young couple's progress was marked by rejoicings and enthusiasm as they passed from castle to castle, until at last they came, in due time, to the then capital of Tyrol. Eleonora's ultimate popularity with the Tyrolese was, perhaps, even more owing to her skill in the chase than to her intellectual gifts, although the latter were very remarkable for a woman of that period. The translator of "The Book of Celebrated Women," by Boccaccio, waxes very enthusiastic over her, and he is by no means the only writer of the period who has left on record a tribute to the Archduchess' high mental and physical qualities. That Eleonora was of a scholarly disposition and gifted with "tongues" is proved by her translation of a French Romance of the period, "Pontus and Sidoni," into German. It is now a rare book, although copies are occasionally found, and it would appear to have had a considerable vogue at the time it was published. It was printed at Augsburg. In the preface one gathers that the translation was done by the noble authoress to "please his Serene Highness and Lord Sigismund, Archduke of Austria, her lawful husband." In this charming old palace, set back from the hum and bustle of the street, Sigismund and Eleonora dwelt for some years, happy in the pursuit of learning, the enjoyment of sport, and in the affection of the townsfolk. In the Burg it is possible to obtain a very good conception of what a mediæval nobleman's house really was like, for not only have many interesting specimens of furniture, presses, chairs and other fittings been preserved, but also household utensils, and other articles of common use. There are, in the byways and courtyards of the main street, several other most interesting houses dating from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which will repay the attention of students of architecture. And may we add the ubiquitous "Kodaker"? One of the most enduring impressions Meran leaves upon the mind is that of being in the true sense "a garden city." No other place of the size in Tyrol possesses so many beautiful and tree-shaded promenades, walks and gardens. But the notice "smoking strictly prohibited" which stares one in the face in the charming Gisela Promenade with its old and feathery poplar trees fringing the bank of the Passer, and in other similar resorts, is probably a regulation distasteful to many. Of "gartens" and cafés there is no lack. On the left bank of the river is the pleasant Maria-Valerie Garten, where--as is the case with other similar places--an excellent band frequently plays. Of the cafés at least the Café Gilf should be visited, on account of its beautiful vegetation and fine view of the Passer gorge and surrounding mountain slopes which one obtains from the "look out." [Sidenote: MERAN HERO PLAYS] To many visitors the Hero Plays, which, for the last fifteen years, have been performed annually, in the spring and generally in the autumn, with scenes from the lives of the famous son of the Passer Valley, Andreas Hofer, and his companions for the chief incidents, will prove of great interest. The plays, which include"Tiroler-helden" and one produced for the first time in August, 1901, entitled "Frederick of the Empty Purse," are acted entirely by peasants. Many are acquainted with the fine dramatic gifts of the Bavarian peasantry which have found expression in the plays at Ober-Ammergau; but those of the Tyrolese are less well-known and less widely recognized. Any one, however, who has seen one of the Meran "Hofer" dramas will probably agree with us that it was well worth seeing, and that the dramatic art displayed was not less praiseworthy than that of the more famous performances at Ober-Ammergau. The plays are given outdoors in a large meadow on a huge stage, and with natural scenery formed by a large chalet (with a bell turret above the central gable) and other smaller buildings on either side, with the hill slopes in the background, the stage being the street in front of the chalet, and the "wings" the side streets. The field is generally--especially for the autumn performances--boarded, and there are a limited number of covered-in boxes facing the stage for the use of those who prefer to be sheltered from the sun, which on fine days is somewhat trying in its intensity, as, of course, no sunshades or umbrellas are permitted. The natural beauties of the valley behind form an appropriate and altogether charming "back-cloth" for the scenery, which represents a portion of a Tyrol village with real buildings. The most popular of the plays with the inhabitants of Meran and the Tyrolese generally are undoubtedly those dealing with the period of national history when their country was engaged in its desperate struggle to free itself from the French and Bavarian invaders. The acting is always excellent, and distinguished by that spontaneity which seems so frequently to characterize outdoor representations. The naturalness which also distinguishes the performances is probably largely attributable to the fact that the actors have most of them been not only well acquainted with the incidents they pourtray since childhood, but are also in the main representing scenes and using language of everyday life; and are not engaged in attempting to interpret scenes and incidents in which they have no personal interest, or of which they have only gained a knowledge by close and tiresome study. [Sidenote: OLD-TIME COSTUMES] To the artist the stage management, which is remarkably good, and the delightful blending of the ancient costumes in charming tableaux and schemes of colour will make a special appeal. The plays not only add an undoubted and additional attraction to the quaint and charming town, but also are deserving of the highest praise from an artistic and dramatic point of view. Naturally Meran is over-full at the times of representation, so the wise traveller books his rooms in advance, unless he wishes (as many have done before now) to "sleep at the hotel of the beautiful star," which in plain English means in the open air, and on the ground. We have just mentioned the costumes which appear in the plays. At Meran the old costumes (though alas! they are being slowly but surely superseded) have been preserved to a larger extent than in almost any other place we know in Tyrol. The women's dress is undeniably picturesque, just as it is markedly German in general character. Hats are seldom worn, the hair is plainly and extremely neatly dressed, brushed back off the brow, and secured in a simple knot behind by means of a silver or silver-headed pin. The bodices are of velvet or cloth, of the "corselet" type seen in Switzerland and many parts of Germany as well as in Tyrol; and they are worn over a white chemisette with puffed sleeves, which end just above the elbow and are generally there confined by "ties" of coloured ribbon. The men's costume is scarcely less picturesque, consisting as it does of a high-crowned hat of felt or cloth, bound round with numerous bands of thin red or green cord, the first colour denoting a man is married (a useful danger signal for unwary spinsters!), and the second denoting a bachelor, eligible or otherwise. The jacket is usually of brown or blackish brown cloth; cloth knee breeches (we have seen buckskin on some of the "granfers") with wide red or green braces, and sometimes an embroidered waistcoat, completes the costume. One other feature is almost sure to strike the observer, the white aprons which so many of the men wear when engaged in work. On festive occasions silver belts are worn by some of the men in the surrounding valleys, though we fancy these are considerably less common now than they were even ten years ago. The variations of dress in the different valleys of Tyrol have been ascribed by a well-known writer upon the subject as rising from the circumstance that peasant costumes are very largely belated fashions of the town; which, obtained perhaps three or even four generations or longer ago, have in time come, by all save students of the subject, to be looked upon erroneously as a mode of dress evolved by the peasant wearers themselves. What in all probability really happened in many cases was, some visitors to the towns when in need of fresh clothes bought town-made and then fashionable garments which were copied by neighbours (as do villagers in England at the present time), and thus perpetuated from generation to generation, and not discarded until some fresh sartorial idea percolated its way slowly and in much the same manner to the often remote regions of these Tyrolese valleys and upper pastures. On the occasion of the "Hofer" celebrations or "Hero" plays one even nowadays sees a most interesting variety of costumes in Meran, although the differences are not so marked as in former times, and appear rather in small details than in immediately apparent variations. [Illustration: MERAN] [Sidenote: IN THE VINEYARDS] Amongst the many "Cures" of the Continental Spas and invalid resorts Meran possesses a unique one in the "Grape Cure." Nowhere in Tyrol can the interesting harvesting of the grapes be better seen than at Meran. The vineyards, for one thing, are more picturesque than in many places, by reason of the practice of largely training the vines over trellis work or rustic pergolas. In some vineyards these form perfect covered walks or arcades of delightful green, through which the sun filters to glint upon the purple and green-gold bunches of grapes hanging in profusion on either hand and above one's head. But, as may be imagined, the casual visitor does not have the freedom of the vineyards on the hillsides when once the grapes are ripening off. Then the gates, some of them adorned with rows of formidable-looking spikes and hooks with a great and persistent affinity for clothing, are closely shut against all intruders, and, in addition, that curious individual the Saltner, whose name is probably derived from the Latin word meaning forester, and hence guardian of lands of all kinds, is placed on guard. His costume is such as to bring alarm not only to the birds but even to human beings. Tyrolese children we believe have been brought up to regard the Saltner as a type of "Bogey Man" of a very efficient character. Usually he wears buckskin breeches or leggings, a broad belt in which there shines a whole armoury of weapons of a miscellaneous character comprising old pattern pistols, knives, and sometimes a "horse" pistol of dimensions almost entitling it to be spoken of as a gun. In his cap, which is of an uncommon shape, are such a collection of feathers, martens' tails, plumes, and odds and ends of ribbon as to cause it to resemble nothing so much as the head-dress of a Sioux Indian. Notwithstanding this "terrific" personage, it is not very difficult with the expenditure of a few kreutzers to obtain permission to enter a vineyard in process of harvesting. The labour employed is chiefly that of women and girls, who, armed with sharp sickles or large knives with heavy and curved blades, stand beneath the trellises and hold a wooden tray in one hand beneath the bunch to be severed. One skilled sweep of the sickle and the latter falls into the tray with a minimum of damage to the luscious fruit. Here and there along the paths are wooden tubs into which the trays are emptied from time to time. And these tubs again are borne away by men to the huge vats or tubs bound with iron, which are slung to a framework or trolley on wheels to which oxen are harnessed, and by them brought to the nearest convenient point in the vineyard. Then when the vats are full almost to the brim, two men take up their positions beside them, and proceed to crush and pound the grapes, stems and all, into a dark-red, uninviting-looking mess with long-handled, heavy wooden hammers. In many Italian vineyards it is still the custom to "tread" the juice out, a practice which is far less cleanly and hygienic (though it is said more thorough and economical) than the Meran method. After the juice is all expressed it is set aside to ferment, and the other processes of wine making are afterwards gone through. The famous grape cure consists apparently of eating as much of the fruit as one possibly can. Many doctors affirm that no particular benefit is derived or can be hoped for unless upwards of two pounds of fruit is consumed daily, the maximum quantity desirable being nine pounds! Immense as this may seem, we have been assured that some "patients" have considerably exceeded this amount. Perhaps the grape cure is so popular because, for one thing, to eat a reasonable quantity of fully ripe and freshly gathered fruit is by no means a disagreeable task for most people, and because it can be taken anywhere. In the cafés one sees crowds undergoing the cure; on the numerous and shady seats of the Gisela Promenade one sees folks eating grapes. And practically in every street and alley, and along the mountain paths in the vicinity of Meran one meets people with brown-paper bags, or if taking the cure very seriously with little baskets, all eating grapes as though their future well-being depended upon the quantity they could consume in a given time. The "old stagers" generally divide their daily quantity into two or three portions; taking one early in the morning before "Halbmittag," the second about mid-day, and the third at sundown. To its many other attractions Meran has added for the holiday maker that of a good band, which performs during the season really most excellent music in front of the Kurhaus, or in one or other of the public gardens at Obermais. The Kurhaus, with its sheltered Wandelhalle or promenade, naturally forms the pivot upon which the more social side of the daily life of Meran turns. Here one meets not only the invalid, but the traveller from all parts of the Continent; and in the Kurhaus gardens one finds also those "birds of passage," who alight for a time on their way further north or south. [Sidenote: SPORTS AND PASTIMES] The Sports Platz is one of the best in Tyrol. On it are held tennis tournaments, cycle races (less than formerly), trotting events, and horse races; whilst in the winter months the centre is converted into an excellent skating lake. The races are largely attended by Italians as well as natives, and at the larger meetings there is generally some event of interest and importance from a sportsman's point of view. A big race day at Meran has many of the social and picturesque elements of the smaller events at Chantilly. The ladies don their best toilettes, and the beautiful surroundings and brilliant sunshine all go to make a picture of great charm and animation. On the outskirts and in the immediate neighbourhood of Meran are so many ancient castles that the town might well be called the "city of castles." Just outside the Papist Gate is the half-ruined Schloss Zenoburg, standing on a precipitous rock; whilst prettily situated at Obermais stands Schloss Rubein with a famous avenue of cypresses. Along the picturesque Bozen road is Schloss Katzenstein; which, seen across the fields from the hillside, looks like a grim outpost guarding the valley. Then there are also the Schloss Gojen, with its environment of shady and odorous pine forests, and background of snow-capped mountains; Schloss Vorst, but half an hour's drive from Meran, and finely situated upon a rocky eminence overlooking the valley, and several others of which could be told stories of romantic and historic interest. And last, but greatest of them all, there is Schloss Tyrol which was destined to give its name to the whole of the country. As it is one of the most famous it is probably also the best known of all castles to the average tourist and traveller in Tyrol. So ancient is it that historians have been able to discover a mention of it at so early a period as the last decade of the fourth century A.D. But, notwithstanding this fact, the records relating to its earlier days are neither full nor reliable. Of the life that went on within it and the fate that possibly overtook it during the period covered by the years (about) A.D. 400 to A.D. 1000 little, indeed, is discoverable. Its present ruinous condition arose partly from neglect during the troublous period of the wars at the end of the eighteenth and commencement of the nineteenth century, and partly from the fact that during the Bavarian occupation of the country in 1808-9, the then Government sold the castle for the ridiculous sum of a couple of hundred pounds for the purpose of destruction so that the stones could be used as building material![16] [Illustration: SCHLOSS TYROL, NEAR MERAN] [Sidenote: ANCIENT CASTLES] Castle Tyrol stands a relic of past glories, feats of arms, strenuous living, and chivalry on a rocky ridge or spur of the mountains above the vineyards, which climb upwards towards the white and imposing castle walls. Behind and above rise the pine forests running upwards to meet the rocky slopes of the Kückelberg and Vintschgau range. The most ancient portions of the present building are some of the walls, a porch, and two marble doorways dating from about the twelfth century, and the chapel. In the latter there is a fine representation of the Fall of Man, and interesting carvings. From its commanding position it is only to be expected that a magnificent prospect is to be had of the Adige Valley, the chain of the Ulten-Thal and Mendel mountains, and the vineyards upon the slopes which swell upwards from the valley. Seen either soon after sunrise (which few people, we imagine, do) or just at sunset, the views from the castle, more especially that from the Kaisersaal, are of wonderful pictorial beauty and charm. Though we have too little space to devote to the many delightful places in the Meran valley which invite exploration, or to mention the numerous walks which tempt the pedestrian, we must give a passing word or two to the Château or Castle of Schönna, which lies nearly two thousand feet above sea-level like a hoary and time-worn sentinel at the entrance to the Passeier Valley. It is easily reached from Obermais by an excellent road suitable even for cyclists, and is well worth a visit owing to the representative collection of old weapons gathered within it, and its picturesque situation. Dating from the early years of the twelfth century, it is an excellent example of the ancient feudal fortress-residence of those far-off times. A mention of the Château Lebenberg, distant about an hour and a half's walk from Meran, is justified--although it is now a pension--by reason of its excellent state of preservation, and the historical paintings in several of the most interesting rooms. The walk, too, along the side of the mountains by way of Marling and picturesque St. Anton is one to be enjoyed and remembered. Some ten miles northward in the Passeier Valley, just a little distance beyond the village of St. Martin, where one sees many examples of the wall paintings which are more especially numerous in the towns and villages of Southern Tyrol, stands the most famous national pilgrimage place and historic shrine, Hofer's Inn, called _Wirth am Sand_ or the "Sandy Inn," literally the "Inn by the Sand." It is quite an unpretentious building standing by the roadside, and would scarcely attract the notice of passing travellers. It is entered by a gallery reached up a short flight of steps. The interior is scrupulously clean, and although it is plainly furnished one is rather the more impressed by this circumstance which leaves the famous Inn, where Hofer was born on November 22, 1767, much as we are told it was in his time. From the pleasant dining-room on the first floor, with curtains of spotless muslin to keep out the almost blinding sunshine of the valley, there are fine views towards Meran, and of the towering mountains across the stony bed of the Passer. At the Inn there are some interesting relics of the patriot, and pictures of him. One shows him as a big, strongly built man of not much above average height, with a short nose, a fine and lofty forehead, dark eyes, and a rather ruddy face, well-marked eyebrows, and the famous long beard. At one time Hofer wore no beard, and the story goes that his growing one--which ultimately was declared to be the longest in the valley--arose from the chaff of his companions, who asserted that his wife forbade him to wear one. Whether the tale be true or not it has very general acceptance, and we all know that Hofer's beard was ultimately one of his distinguishing features during the campaigns in which he was engaged. There is a very pleasant balcony on the outside of the house which, tradition asserts, was often used by Hofer and his companions when holding their meetings or councils of war to devise some scheme by which their beloved country could be freed from a foreign yoke. [Sidenote: HOFER RELICS] Hofer's last letter, which is one of the most treasured of the relics, even exceeding in interest the clothes which he wore when shot at Mantua, is a splendid testimony to the dignity and greatness of the man, which surmounted all troubles and disasters and was not lessened or alloyed by triumphs. In it he speaks of his old home, of the rushing Passer, of the beautiful mountains he would see never again, and then goes on to say, "It is the great God's good will that I die at Mantua," and then, "Farewell, beautiful world," adding, "but at the thought of quitting it my eyes scarcely even moisten." Then follow the words, "I am writing this at five in the morning; at nine I shall pass into the presence of God," with the date "20th February, 1810." Far up the mountain side above his old home is the spot where Hofer hid with his wife from November, 1809, till five o'clock on the morning of January 18, 1810, when he was captured and taken under strong escort first to Meran, and ultimately to Mantua. He had refused to fly to Vienna or take refuge on Austrian territory. He wished to remain amongst his people, perhaps with a vain hope of once more attempting to accomplish Tyrol's freedom. It is with regret that most travellers leave Hofer's old dwelling. The whole Passeier Valley is, of course, teeming with historic memories, of the gallant doings of the patriot and his companions. Near Schloss Tyrol itself was fought one of the most notable engagements, and a victory won when the French, driven from their position on the Küchelberg, were surrounded by the peasant forces; whilst just outside Meran another skirmish took place, as a result of which the French troops were forced to evacuate the town. [Sidenote: SUNNY BOZEN] From Meran to Bozen by rail is rather less than twenty miles, and about the same distance by the road, which runs through the valley of the Etsch, or Adige, and in places along the lower slopes of the hills. It is a picturesque journey by either, and for cycling quite delightful. One crosses the Talfer just before reaching Bozen, which lies in a wide basin at the junction of the valley of the Etsch, with the smaller but picturesque Sarnthal, surrounded by great reddish brown crags and precipices of the porphyry mountains on which the semi-tropical cactus grows, and one gets sombre groups of cypresses, and here and there vineyards, and pine-clad crags. The town is a strange mixture of the German elements of Tyrol and the Italian. Its architecture, too, is "an admixture of that of north Italy and South Germany, here and there transfused so that it preserves characteristics of both." It is perhaps for this very reason a town of great charm, and one of considerable beauty. Its surroundings, which include the famous Rosengarten, and many beautiful little valleys and gorges present attractions for a longer stay than one at first contemplates. It is, moreover, one of the busiest (Bozen people claim that it is _the_ busiest) towns in Tyrol, with a population going on towards 20,000, including its outskirts, yet it possesses some most delightful gardens. Seen from almost any point of the lower slopes of the surrounding hills, cactus, and vine-clad, and resembling in general luxuriance of vegetation Italy rather than the Tyrol of but a little further north, Bozen is charming. Below one is spread out a garden-like city, which with all its bustling life yet looks more like a holiday resort than a commercial town, with numbers of white-walled villas dotted amidst green fields, vineyards and gardens, in the latter of which blossom all the flowers one knows and loves, and many less common in England. [Illustration: A STREET IN BOZEN] One of the oldest towns in Tyrol, it stands practically on the site of the Pons Drusi of Roman times. It has for "time out of mind" stood at the cross roads where the Brenner and the Vintsgau routes divide. In the past, Roman armies have passed through it, have crossed the Talfer, or have lain encamped in the fields of its basin-like site. And after them came the Merchants of the Middle Ages, trading between civilized Italy and barbarian northern lands. Still later came Emperors and pilgrims travelling to the "Eternal City," Crusaders outward and homeward bound, roving singers, and hordes of free lances and mercenaries. In a word, Bozen's past must have been a stirring one, and the lives led by her citizens full of the colour of life and gallant deeds. Anciently, too, the town was fought for and tossed hither and thither by those powerful civil lords the Terriolis, Counts of Tyrol, and the militant spiritual lords the Prince Bishops of Trent. For this reason, and on account of many fires and "grievous o'erflowings of the Talfer in past times," of the most ancient of all Bozens there are comparatively few traces, though within the old town there are yet traceable some interesting relics of the Middle Ages. In those long back times Bozen was a place of even greater commercial importance than now. To its four annual markets or fairs people from many lands came, and it became the depôt and centre of the great transport trade by the two chief passes leading from Italy into Tyrol and thence to Germany and Austria. As was not unnatural Bozen merchants had a standing of their own, and were, according to one authority, "not a little purse proud and exclusive in their dealings, save when the latter meant that financial advantage would thereby accrue to them." Although Bozen does not commend itself to most tourists from higher latitudes for a lengthy stay, at least not in summer, as the basin in which it lies, though making it delightfully sheltered in winter, causes the town in the months of July and August to be decidedly hot and rather enervating, there are several places in the immediate neighbourhood to which one can flee for fresher air and cooler days. The town has somewhat declined commercially from the high position it once held, when the trade which flowed into Tyrol through it and northwards out of it was chiefly along the high-roads and over the passes; and thus through Bozen a very appreciable percentage of the whole southern and Italian trade passed. But nevertheless it is still a most flourishing and interesting town. A native writer says, on this subject, "Bozen ... has during the last decade largely recovered the ground it had temporarily lost through the making of railways, and the decline of transport along the high-roads of the passes owing chiefly to the increased facilities that have arisen for conveyance of merchandize by sea." Certainly one is soon able, when in the town, to realize that in two branches of trade at least Bozen occupies an undoubtedly high position in the commercial world, those of wine, and fruit growing and exporting. The hillsides are literally studded with vineyards and orchards, and Bozen fruit has gained for itself an almost world-wide reputation. From the artistic side, too, Bozen claims the attention of all who are interested in legendary lore, architecture, and antiquarian matters. As one passes along its chief streets, or explores its byways in the older part of it, one is delighted on almost every hand by vistas of fine houses, shady and charming courtyards, buildings with strangely constructed roofs, and fantastic gable ends, quaintly shaped bay windows, vaulted colonnades, and here and there, stowed away where least one would expect to find them, smaller courtyards with trellises covered with vines, and perhaps an ancient well of rust-red marble to give a finishing touch to the charming picture. [Illustration: A SOUTH TYROL FARMSTEAD] Numbers of artists pause at Bozen yearly on their way south into Italy via Verona to study the rich treasures in the galleries of the cities of Northern Italy, or to rest awhile on their return journey northwards. In Bozen is plenty to paint and plenty to admire, and the townsfolk are noted for the hospitality which still (notwithstanding the great influx of tourists of late years) distinguishes the frank and warm-hearted people of Tyrol in general. [Sidenote: BOZEN PARISH CHURCH] Chief amongst the buildings which will attract one's attention stands the Pfarrkirche or Parish Church, which with its elegant tower and open spire, over two hundred feet in height, forms a monument to the artistic and constructive skill of its Swabian builder Johann Lutz in the first years of the sixteenth century. The church is splendidly situated at one corner of the fine open Waltherplatz, which is planted with shady horse-chestnut trees, and, its roof of copper-green tiles set in a pattern, contrasts admirably with its walls and spire of red sandstone. In ancient times the building possessed two spires, both of which were destroyed or so injured as to necessitate their pulling down long before Lutz built his elegant structure. The church itself, which contains a fine altar-piece by a pupil of Titian, and a remarkable stone pulpit dating about the first decade of the sixteenth century, is, in the main, fourteenth-century work, although it was not actually finished until the third decade of the fifteenth, so some authorities state. In the centre of the Johann Platz stands a fine though simply conceived statue to Walther von der Vogelweide who was born about 1160 at Lajen, near Waidbruck, in which the poet is shown standing clad in a loose robe, with a biretta-like cap on his head and his hands crossed whilst holding a lute. The statue is the work of the late Heinrich Natter, one of the most famous of native sculptors, who was also the artist of the famous Berg Isel Hofer Monument, of the very finely conceived and well-executed statue of Ulrich Zwingli at Zurich, and many other works. One of the most charming of Bozen streets is undoubtedly the Laubengasse, which greatly resembles the main street of Meran, with its shady arcades on either side under which the shops are situated, and where one can promenade and do one's shopping protected from the sun in summer and the rain in winter. The Karnergasse and Silbergasse are interesting streets, as is also the Goethestrasse leading to the fruit market, where one finds during market hours many interesting types of peasants from the neighbouring villages as well as of the townsfolk themselves. We saw some of the most gorgeous of kerchiefs worn over the shoulders and crossed over the breasts of Bozen or Gries fruit-sellers, which gave an air of quite southern colour and brightness to the little Platz, in which oranges, almonds, melons, figs, and even prickly pears were displayed for sale with all the other fruits one might expect to find, including magnificent cherries in the earlier part of the fruit season. The costumes of the Sarnthal with the big, broad-brimmed felt hats worn by both men and women, and the gay "Kummerbunds" of the men worn under short "Eton"-shaped jackets, are also seen in Bozen on festive occasions. The Museum, in which there are many interesting exhibits, including some old peasant costumes well worth the attention of artists, is an imposing building or "block" in the Königin Elizabethstrasse, with corner turrets and an imposing central tower. Of the more picturesque and older buildings none excels in charm the Franciscan Monastery and Church in the Franziskanergasse. The courtyard, shaded by trees which throw a diaper of shadow and sunlight on the paving stones, with the delicately pretty porch leading into the church, is a spot of sheer delight for the artist and the dreamer of dreams; who there, amid the quietude of ancient things, can the better conjure up visions of other days when Bozen streets rang to the passing of armies, and men at arms, and in them were heard the cries of mediæval merchants selling their wares drawn from north and south. In the Franciscan Church there is a fine altar, and belonging to the Monastery there are some beautiful cloisters. The library, too, should not be overlooked by those interested in early books and similar treasures. On the outskirts of pleasant Bozen, a fine view of which is obtained from the Calvarienberg, there are many charming excursions. Towards the west lies the finely situated Castle of Sigmundskron on a hill between mountains overlooking the river in which there is good fishing: the Mendel Pass, 4500 feet, ascended either on foot, by carriage or by the mountain railway; Tisenser Mittelgebirge, studded with most interesting ruins, and from whence one obtains extensive and beautiful views of the surrounding mountain chains and of Meran. [Sidenote: CASTLE OF RUNKELSTEIN] Towards the north lies the deeply interesting Imperial Castle of Runkelstein, which, dating from the middle half of the thirteenth century, was extensively restored in 1884-88, and finally presented by the Emperor of Austria to the town of Bozen. Situated upon and almost entirely covering a huge mass of rock, it overlooks a bend of the swiftly flowing Talfer, and occupies one of those commanding and almost inaccessible positions beloved of builders in the Middle Ages. The Castle, irrespective of its interests as an architectural survival of a long past age, is much visited on account of the famous frescoes which are contained in a building now known as the Summer House. As one climbs up the steep and narrow path to the castle drawbridge one can the better realize how safe the ancient owners (who were not above raiding the neighbourhood, and of engaging in predatory warfare with their neighbours) must have felt when they had once heard their iron-studded door clang behind them, and seen the ancient drawbridge swung up by its chains. Till the introduction of artillery, indeed, such a fastness would have been practically impregnable. The frescoes to which we have referred are especially interesting from the fact that they undoubtedly exhibit a very primitive art. At the time they are supposed to have been painted, that is to say towards the end of the fourteenth century, art even in its home, Italy, was in a comparatively elementary and even grotesque stage of evolution. The figures, which are black with a pea-green background, are, as an American girl said, "Noah's arkical and too funny for words," though we are bound to confess that the irreverence of the remark deeply offended a worshipper of mediæval art who was of the party. The paintings in the first room depict a German version of the story of Tristan and Isolde, which would appear to diverge materially from the one of Sir Thomas Malory, as set out in the "Morte d'Arthur." The main story can, however, be easily followed. In the second chamber the frescoes, which were a very common form of decoration at the period at which they were done and should not be considered in the light of being of especial significance, depict a complete version of the legendary story of Garel, following the version of a Styrian[17] thirteenth century poet named Pleier. It is generally considered that this Garel was founded upon or was identical with the character of the Gareth or Beaumains of the "Morte d'Arthur," although the evidence is not absolutely conclusive. To English people the fine fresco of the famous Knights of the Round Table sitting in company with King Arthur and Queen Guinevere will naturally be of the greatest interest, although each of the quaint drawings to illustrate the mediæval legend has an abiding fascination for all to whom the past is of moment. Nor are the outside walls of this quaint pavilion left unadorned. On them are single figures and others in groups of two and three depicting well-known mediæval personages of historical and legendary note: Tristan and Isolde; William of Orleans and Amelie; William, Duke of Austria, and Aglei; pairs of lovers whose fame has outlived the centuries; the three hero kings of ancient Christendom, Arthur of England, the Emperor Charlemagne, and Godfrey de Bouillon. Amongst the large number of figures here depicted may also be seen other groups of three comprising celebrated knights, dwarfs, giants, and other real, mythical, or legendary characters; a gallery of portraits which has probably no equal in any other castle in the world. The story of the deeds of the characters thus immortalized would fill many volumes, and provide some of the most romantic and interesting reading imaginable. [Illustration: ST. CYPRIAN AND THE PEAKS OF THE ROSENGARTEN] One quits the historic spot with a sense of the greatness of the past as well as with a lingering regret that nothing after all can adequately conjure up for one the stirring scenes, strenuous and vividly "coloured" life, romance and chivalry, that the walls and rooms of Runkelstein must have witnessed. In an easterly direction from Bozen lies the Eggenthal and its famous waterfall. The road through the former is one of great picturesqueness and grandeur--along the hillsides, across high bridges, and through gorge-like rock cuttings, which to be fully appreciated cannot be travelled better than a-foot. In the same direction, too, lies the beautiful Karrersee, surrounded by its belt of sombre pines above whose feathery tops shine the rocky peaks and snow-clad summits of the Dolomite giants. [Sidenote: THE ROSENGARTEN] From Bozen, too, the famous Rosengarten, which lies to the east of the town, should be visited. But it is not a garden of roses after all, but a collection of stupendous and rocky peaks which blush red at sunset. Those who expect flowers other than alpen rosen, gentian, and the like, will be disappointed, as was the young lady who undertook the excursion in the hope of seeing roses galore such as one may find in the "attar" districts of the Balkan Provinces and especially in Bulgaria. But if from Bozen one looks merely for the rosy hue to tint the skyward-piercing pinnacles of rock, which have been poetically called the "Rosengarten," or rambles in the picturesque and beautiful valleys and tiny defiles at their feet, one will not be disappointed. And the "roses," like other similar phenomena, are in a sense a weather glass; the deeper the red they glow the finer the ensuing day. At first a plum-hued twilight, such as one gets in the Maloja valley, seems to fall down out of the sky, and then the mountain peaks commence to receive their baptism of crimson. Then at last, as the sun sinks behind the interposing Guntschna Berg, only the highest peaks continue for a short time longer to glow with increasing, and then fading, depth of colour, till at length the plum-bloom shadows conquer the "roses" and the cool twilight comes. The origin of the descriptive phrase "the Rosengarten" is (so far as we have been able to discover) lost in the mists of antiquity. But there is a rather pretty legend concerning the Garden itself. Long ago (the story tells us), when men were perhaps happier and certainly less sophisticated and cynical than they are now, and believed in fairies, gnomes, and magic, there lived a dwarf named Laurin or Laurenz reigning over the other dwarfs, who inhabited a country in the centre of the Schlern. By some means or other this dwarf managed to see and fall in love with the beautiful, golden-haired sister of a retainer of Dietrich of Bern, in Switzerland. After having seized her he bore her to his palace of crystal in the interior of the mountains, and there kept her prisoner. Soon, however, the brave and gallant knight Dietrich, and his squire, who was named Dietlieb, determined to rescue the abducted maiden, and for this purpose they came up from Italy where they were at the time, and finding an opening entered the Schlern, and after a fierce fight succeeded in conquering the dwarf, notwithstanding the fact that of course the latter was assisted by a magician. Laurin was not, however, killed, but spared by Dietrich at the request of Dietlieb. It was unfortunate clemency, however, as Laurin, professing himself grateful and offering them refreshment after their labours and fight, gave them drugged wine, so that when they awoke they discovered that they had been bound and cast into a dungeon of the dwarf's castle. From this predicament they were happily freed by Dietlieb's sister, Simild, and after another fierce encounter with the dwarfs they defeated them, and trod the famous Rosengarten roses underfoot, their places being taken by those that bloom at sunset upon the peaks above the site of Laurin's mythical palace. That, at all events, is the story we have been told, and though the Rosengarten and its miniature valleys are beautiful enough for real roses to have their home there, none grow there now save figurative ones caused by the sunset light. The Rosengarten is a fine centre for mountain ascents, and the famous Vajolett towers and other rocky pinnacles present unfailing attractions to the adventurous rock climber, even though nowadays there can be very few "virgin" peaks or pinnacles to scale. From the Rosengarten itself as well as from Bozen one can witness the blooming of the roses, and the really wonderful and entrancing play of colour, light and shadow over the stupendous peaks which forms an unforgettable experience when seen during the late afternoon of a summer day and onwards till twilight comes to gradually throw its blue and mystic mantle over the valleys and the mountain summits. [Sidenote: KLAUSEN] North of Bozen, prettily situated by the banks of the Adige, and some one thousand seven hundred feet above sea-level, stands the little, though somewhat important, town of Klausen, with its long, narrow street following the configuration of the gorge in which most of the houses lie, dominated by the great Benedictine monastery of Säben perched upon a steep vine-clad promontory overlooking the town and river, and six hundred feet above it. A castle till the end of the seventeenth century, the convent was attacked by the French in 1809, and from all accounts the nuns were not respected, for upon the walls of one of the towers on the hill is a painted crucifix, which the people of Klausen say was placed there in memory of one of the nuns who, pursued by the soldiery, jumped to her death over the battlements. The first impression of Klausen is that of cleanliness, for the tall houses strike one in the brilliant sunshine of a summer day as very white, though most of them are relieved by patches of vivid green, where window shutters hang upon the walls or keep the sunshine from the windows. Klausen folk are fond of flowers, too, for many hang trailing from balconies; pink and red geraniums, a variety of clematis, and bunches of ruby-coloured valerian, and tufts of yellow and orange nasturtiums. There are generally many monks about the streets, too; sombre-looking figures in rough frieze habits, who look at the stranger with mild curiosity, and then pass on their silent way up the hillside, or through the one long, narrow street which runs between the mountain side and the rushing river. Klausen women bore a brave part in Hofer's struggle against the French and Bavarians, and dressed in their husbands' and brothers' clothes gave material aid in driving back the French through the pass in 1797. There is not much to see in Klausen itself, but as a typical southern Tyrolese village it is interesting. Picturesque it certainly also is, set amid crags and rocks of purple porphyry, whose bases and lower slopes are beautified by the greenery of many vineyards, and half encircled by the rushing Eisack. Near by is the famous Castle Trostburg, romantically beautiful with grey walls and red-tiled roof perched high above the pine forest which clothes the steep sides of the rocky spur upon which it stands, and with a patch of vineyard clinging to the wall of its upper square and solid-looking keep. The climb up to it is a steep one, but the view one obtains into the Grödener Thal and of the surrounding heights well repays one. [Sidenote: OSWALD v. WOLKENSTEIN] The castle is one of the comparatively few still remaining in the possession of the family with whose history it has for many centuries been identified. The Counts of Wolkenstein date their occupation from the twelfth century, and one of the most famous of the line was that Oswald born at Castle Trostburg in 1367, or about, whose romantic adventures might form the basis or plot of half a dozen historical novels. As a Minnesinger he set out early in life upon his travels in a gallant and adventurous age; devoted, one must imagine, to the service and adoration of the fair sex, as were supposed to be Minnesingers in general. Like many another adventure-loving lad, he ran away from his ancestral home, light of heart and equally light of purse, to wander through the world singing his way to fame and fortune, or to failure and poverty, as the case might happen. He appears in the first instance to have attached himself to the suite of one of a party of Tyrolese nobles under Duke Albrecht III., of Austria, who were bent upon a filibustering expedition into Lithuania, a district then lying between Poland and Courland. Afterwards he wandered far and wide over the world, visiting in turn Russia, England, Spain, France, and then sailing for the East, and travelling through Asia Minor and Persia. He seems, from contemporary and other accounts, to have been "everything by turns, and nothing long," except that he probably always kept up his "minnesinging." He certainly was page, soldier, sailor, and sea-cook; and for all one can tell these were but the chief occupation of many he followed during his wandering and adventurous life. At all events he appears to have acted at times as tutor, turning the half score of languages he had picked up to good and practical account. Amongst his more knightly adventures were campaigns against the English in the service of the Earl of Douglas--he was probably present on August 10, 1388, at the famous battle of Otterburn (Chevy Chase)--previously against the Swedes in Denmark in the service of Queen Margaret, who in 1397 united the kingdoms of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden together. Among his more peaceful victories and doings was the favour which he found in the eyes of the Queen of Aragon, who appears to have not only admired his poetic gifts, but to have loaded him with personal favours, caresses, and presents of jewelry. For several years after his visit to Spain he wandered about, and then at last (like the prodigal son) set his face towards Tyrol. No one recognized him, and he appears to have fallen under the spell of the daughter of a neighbouring knight, who, however, would not consent to marry him unless he would first obtain his knighthood by becoming a Crusader. Deeply in love with the fair Sabina and not doubting her sincerity, Von Wolkenstein took ship for Palestine, and in due course attained the coveted distinction by gallant conduct in battle, in consequence of which he attracted the attention and gained the personal friendship of Sigismund of Hungary. Alas! for his hopes. On returning to Tyrol covered with glory, and a "true knight," he did so only to find the fickle and deceitful Sabina married to another. In addition to this he was only just in time to see his father die. As a younger son he inherited the castles of Castelruth and Hauenstein, Trostburg and its lands descending to his elder brother. [Sidenote: A KNIGHT'S ADVENTURES] His roving disposition was not likely to be stayed now that he had lost both his intended wife and his father, so he once more set out on his travels, this time in the retinue of his friend Sigismund, in whose company he visited several countries. For several years he wandered through western Europe and as far south-east as Egypt, where he appears to have been received with much honour. Once more back in Tyrol in 1405, he became involved in the political upheavals which were caused by the drastic measures of reform instituted by Duke Frederick of the Empty Purse, against which the Tyrolese nobles fiercely rebelled. The ex-Minnesinger took the part of the latter, and in consequence drew down upon himself Frederick's vengeance. The latter burned his two castles, and compelled Von Wolkenstein to flee for his life to the protection of a relative who was the owner of the castle of Greifenstein, which is situated on an inaccessible pinnacle of rock between Bozen and Meran. Duke Frederick and his forces hotly besieged the castle, but failed to reduce it; and although Oswald was severely wounded and lost the sight of one eye he escaped, and a little later joined an expedition against the Moors in the train of John I., King of Portugal. During the severe fighting which took place, and at the capture of Ceuta in 1415, he appears to have so greatly distinguished himself that, we are told, "his fame was such that the troubadours enshrined his deeds in their songs." Ultimately, he came to his own in Tyrol owing to an act of the Council of Constance in Baden, which not only condemned John Huss--amongst many ecclesiastical enactments--to be burned, but also ordered that Duke Frederick, now an outlaw, who had burned Oswald von Wolkenstein's castles, should rebuild them, and restore to the knight all the property that he and his followers had seized. It is not easy, however, to comprehend how an outlaw who was fleeing from one place to another in fear of his life was to accomplish these things, nor how property taken by the soldiery years before, and probably long ago converted into cash or other uses, could be given up and restored. We are told, however, that after visiting France in Sigismund's train Oswald returned to his favourite castle of Hauenstein, the ruins of which nowadays are so lost in the vast pine forest which surrounds them as to be almost undiscoverable. Then Sabina, his old love, once more comes upon the scene, this time as the claimant of the castle on account, so she alleged, of an unrepaid loan made by her grandfather to the Wolkensteins. She invited her old suitor Oswald to join her in a pilgrimage to some shrine for old acquaintance sake; and when he came to her, unsuspecting and unarmed, she promptly had him seized, thrown into a dungeon, and there kept him a prisoner in chains. He lay in treacherous Sabina's castle until by chance Sigismund, hearing of his parlous state, intervened on his friend's behalf, and Oswald von Wolkenstein was set free. He was, however, so maimed by rheumatism and the fetters which had galled him that he ever afterwards went lame. Once more he was cast into prison, this time by Duke Frederick's machinations, and lay in a horrible underground and tunnel-like cell in Vellenberg not far from Innsbruck. He had married in 1417 Margaret, a daughter of the house of Schwangau, after a long period of betrothal, and to her he was deeply attached. On his second release, after three years' incarceration, he returned to Hauenstein to find his wife dead, and his home fallen into disrepair from neglect. A few years later we find him, unconquered in spirit though broken in body, at Rome to attend the coronation of his friend Sigismund, who but a year or two later was driven from the throne. In 1435 Oswald once more, as a man of fifty-eight, returned to forest-enshrouded Hauenstein, where he died nine years afterwards, never having again left it. Of course, the castle is haunted by the spirit of this unhappy and adventurous knight and Minnesinger, and there is still this belief amongst the peasantry of Seis and the neighbourhood round about. And the few who have ever ventured near the ruined pile after sundown aver that those who do are sure to hear the ancient Minnesinger chanting a dirge-like lay, accompanying himself upon his lute. But if this be so Oswald's spirit has wandered far from his body, for his remains repose at Neustift near Brixen. He was not only one of the most picturesque and romantic figures of the band of Minnesingers who were so numerous during the Middle Ages, but also in a measure an historical figure. By some authorities he is considered to be the last of these strange wandering minstrel adventurers. Probably it would be more correct to speak of him as the last really great Tyrolese "Minnesinger;" but, whichever estimate be right, his place on the roll of fame relating to the deeds and songs of these is assured by reason of his gallantries, misfortunes, and adventurous and knightly doings. [Sidenote: ST. ULRICH] On the way to Klausen one is wise to make a diversion down the narrow but picturesque Grödener Thal to St. Ulrich, which charming village, situated in a basin and almost surrounded by thickly wooded slopes, and beyond them stupendous and rocky peaks with the serrated pinnacles of the Langkofel in the background, is the centre of the Toy industry of Tyrol and an increasingly popular tourist resort. The road is a steeply ascending one, and one comes upon the first glimpse of the village, which stands midway down the valley between Waidbruck and Wolkenstein, quite suddenly. One's first impression is of a typical Tyrolese village of considerable size, its white--very white--houses standing out clear cut and prominently against the background of dark-green pines, and the lighter green of the valley fields in which they are, many of them, set. Of late years the clean-looking cottages of the villagers, the balconies of which are as often as not hung with delightful flowers, have been supplemented by good and large hotels, villas, and other modern up-to-date tourist accommodation. But, nevertheless, St. Ulrich is not yet spoiled, and there are still many of the almost mahogany-coloured barns and storehouses left, with their picturesque balconies running right round them, on which the grain and herbs are placed to dry, wood to season, and other stores are kept, forming so sharp a contrast to the hotels and white houses. Although we imagine St. Ulrich's chief attraction is its quaint and interesting toy-making industry, there are many others including most beautiful scenery, and the numberless excursions which can be made from it. In winter time, to quote the quaint phraseology and spelling of a local guide-book, it has "a very strange charme for the friends of Tobogganing and Ski-sport has the valley in the always mild and snowy winter-time." And regarding the accommodation offered, the same luminous authority goes on to say there are "very comfortable stabled hotels and land-houses extraordinary fit as a summerset for residence, likewise for a start place for numerous high-parties to the Dolomites." But let us give a brief description of the Toy Industry, which chiefly serves to differentiate the village from all others in Southern Tyrol. St. Ulrich's wares are ultimately sent all over the world, and whether in New York, London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, or Rome one is almost sure to find amongst the toys, carved figures of saints, crucifixes, artists' "lay figures," chalets, and other articles some examples of work from this famous valley of wood carvers. The fact that nearly 3000, or about three out of every five, of the inhabitants are engaged more or less directly in the work will give some idea of its magnitude. The carving industry at St. Ulrich is supposed to date from about the commencement of the seventeenth century, and there are some figures of the Virgin and Saints still extant in churches of the district bearing dates of that period, and other images of apparently much earlier date, which show that even in those remote times the carvers of St. Ulrich and the Grödener Thal possessed considerable skill and reputation. It was, however, one Johann von Metz who at the commencement of the eighteenth century appears to not only have raised the standard of the work of carving to greater perfection, but also to have organized and extended the sphere of the trade itself. In the years which immediately followed, the peasants were in the habit of themselves setting out into other lands with stocks of their work for sale; and some at least, according to tradition, found their way to England, and even across the Atlantic, where they abandoned the active work of carving for that of establishing trading depôts in connection with St. Ulrich, and thus they distributed the work done in the far-off and almost then unknown Grödener Thal throughout the commercial world. Nowadays to sally forth with their stock-in-trade on their backs or in a cart is no longer the practice of the workers. The greater number are employed by firms which act as wholesale distributing agencies for them, to whom they take their weekly output of work. Most of the villages of the valley are employed in the carving industry; St. Christina, for example, making a speciality of "lay figures" and hobby horses. Not only are most of the men of the villages in the Grödener Thal thus employed, but also many of the women and children. And it is no uncommon sight to see quite mites cutting away at blocks of the softer kinds of wood by the roadside or on the doorsteps of the cottages; and sometimes one meets the women on their way down from the woods or upper pastures with their barrel-like receptacles upon their backs, roughly shaping some article which will be finished off when they get home. [Sidenote: "TOY LAND"] Some of the carving done is really good, but it cannot be said to be cheap. One cannot find bargains in St. Ulrich, or, for the matter of that, in any of the villages of "Toy Land." The demand is too great, and the means of distribution too well organized for the peasants to care in the least whether one purchases a "bit" or not. There are practically no shops where carving is sold by the workers themselves, as nearly all are employed under contract or otherwise by wholesale dealers. But the tourist can generally visit one or other of the large _ateliers_, where, in particular, the carving of images and more elaborate articles is done under the superintendence of artists. It is an experience and a sight well worth spending an hour or two over. In that time, by watching several figures at various stages approaching completion, one can obtain a very good and clear idea of the different transformations which the rough-hewn block undergoes ere it assumes its final shape of a Virgin, St. Joseph, St. Antony, or St. Christopher. Many of these statues and smaller figures are sent to a different workshop for painting and gilding; and it is chiefly in the white chalets on the mountain side that the toys and smaller articles are made. The goods are stored principally in the larger houses of the villages. One of the chief depôts bears the name of the man who developed the industry, whilst other well-known merchants are Insam, Purger, and Prinoth. In these warehouses one sees shelf upon shelf laden with toys, figures, dolls, and other carved work; miniature waggons, monkeys on sticks, hobby horses painted in gay and let us add entirely "unnatural" colours, with flaming red, jet black, or piebald manes. The toys are of all prices, just as they are of many sizes and qualities as regards "finish;" hobby horses costing from half-a-krone to several florins each; dolls ranging in price from a halfpenny and even less to five or six kronen. Figures intended to form the contents of Noah's arks are there by the bushel, the cheaper kind bearing, it must be admitted, but faint and partial resemblance to the animals they are intended to represent; the better kinds being excellent miniatures of lions, elephants, tigers, giraffes, bears (especially good these), and the hundred and one smaller animals and insects of the patriarch's great family party; and accompanying all the delightful smell of freshly cut pine and other woods in the warehouses given over to unpainted things, and the somewhat overpowering smell of new paint in the others. Some of the dolls, more especially those which have Tyrolese costumes represented in wood, need great care in carving; and others are swiftly done, some by elementary machinery. The best wood used is the _pinus cembra_, or Swiss pine, which originally grew thickly on the sides of the mountains, but has now largely to be imported owing to the fact that whilst the trees have been cut down by the thousand, scant provision appears to have been made for the future by planting others. There is, however, plenty of the wood still left in the immediate neighbourhood. Nowadays at St. Ulrich there is an excellent Imperial School of Drawing, and modelling, and there would appear to be a distinct advance of recent years in the carving (of animals and figures especially) in consequence of the teaching given, though in their main characteristics the animals and small figures produced have not much varied from the ancient types. The church of St. Ulrich, although comparatively modern, dating only from quite the end of the eighteenth century, has a beautifully adorned interior; rather ornate and highly coloured perhaps, but interesting and typical. There is also in it a Mater Dolorosa by Maroder, and in the sacristy a fine marble Madonna by a pupil of Canova, Andrea Colli. The restored chapel of St. Anthony is also worth seeing, as it possesses a remarkably fine altar-piece, the work of Deschwanden. [Sidenote: CONCERNING DIALECT] There is a distinct dialect in the villages of the Grödener Thal, locally known as Ladin, which is said by philologists to be directly derived from the Latin tongue, and to date from the days of the Roman occupation. It is certainly so different from the dialects of modern Italy that it is almost impossible for the stranger, even though well-versed in those, to understand it. In some points it may be said to resemble the Grisons Romanche, and Romanese of the Engadine; but the parallel is not at all a close one, and needs several distinct qualifications. Although a deeply interesting one to philologists, it is impossible to deal with the question at all fully here. Certainly one would be inclined to think that this peculiar dialect has an Etruscan origin, for it is well-known that considerable remains of that people have from time to time been unearthed in the Grödener Thal, and, indeed, in the immediate neighbourhood of St. Ulrich itself. St. Ulrich is charming in winter, when the village is half-buried in snow, and the lower slopes of the environing mountains provide excellent toboggan "runs," and ski-ing grounds. How different the little place appears under these conditions from the sunny spot set amid green fields and pleasant pastures that it is in summer, only those who have seen it under both conditions can easily realize. And truly (as the local guide we have before quoted says) "in winter there are many grateful excursions for the high-flying parties, and swift ski-ing." By "high-flying parties" one should doubtless understand those who wish to ascend the higher slopes. Costume still survives at St. Ulrich and in the Grödener Thal, where (although less worn than even a decade ago) one still meets with women wearing the old style dress, with huge broad-brimmed felt hats trimmed with wide ribbons, and having short "streamers" down behind, or the still quainter high "sugar-loaf" hats, shaped almost like those of dancing dervishes, fitting down over the ears and allowing only the least suspicion of the forehead to remain visible. Wide linen collars, almost large enough to be called capes, with either plain edges or scalloped, and handsome aprons of silk, brocade, or other materials; wide skirts and a profusion of ribbons go to make up a costume which is always picturesque and often actually handsome. From Klausen, to which one returns on one's way northward, one proceeds to Brixen, charmingly situated in the valley of the Eisack, amid green fields, and pastures, and afforested slopes. The twin towers of the Cathedral in the centre of the picture at once catches the eye from whatever point one approaches the town. [Illustration: SUMMER TIME NEAR ST. ULRICH, GRÖDENER THAL] Brixen, though little more in size and population than a large village, is yet one of the most interesting places in Southern Tyrol. It is not only historically and architecturally important, but is a pleasant place from which to explore the beauties of the neighbouring Puster Thal, Valser Thal, and Lusen Thal if only one's time permits. Anciently it was one of the most notable towns in Southern Tyrol, for it was during nearly a thousand years, and, in fact, until 1703, the capital of an ecclesiastical principality, with a long line of distinguished bishops, some of them almost as much noted for their militant as their spiritual qualities. It is still the seat of a bishopric, and in the town are many evidences of its past ecclesiastical importance and splendour. Artists find much in Brixen to attract them, as do also students of architecture, and although the valley is wider than in some similar resorts, making mountain ascents longer before one can reach the higher peaks, there are many excursions to be made, and interesting villages to be visited. That it is an attractive town its many visitors make evident, and in the pleasant gardens, which seem always cool even on the hottest summer day, situated between the Eisack and the smaller Rienz, one meets not only with interesting Brixen types (sometimes peasants in costume), but also most of the foreign visitors who may be staying in the place. [Sidenote: BRIXEN CATHEDRAL] The Cathedral, dating from the fifteenth century, is a handsome and even striking building, with its lofty twin towers, and their beautifully "weathered" copper domes. These are the oldest parts, most of the building itself having been restored and rebuilt as recently as the middle half of the eighteenth century. There are some extremely beautiful and interesting cloisters, with numerous frescoes on the groined roof, and some quaint mural tablets and tombstones. The view from the cloisters upon a sunny day across the courtyard is one of great charm in its play of light and shade, tempting one to linger in their hoary coolness and solitude. There is also an ancient chapel of St. John, dating from the eleventh century, containing some good frescoes of the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries. The tombstone of the famous Oswald von Wolkenstein is in the inner courtyard, which lies between the Cathedral and the Church of St. Michel, depicting the knightly minnesinger in armour with lance, and pennon, and lyre. Near this is also an interesting copper relief, depicting the scene of the Resurrection, placed there as a memorial of a noted local coppersmith named Hans Kessler, who lived in the first half of the seventeenth century. One reaches the Bishop's Palace by several interesting streets, in which some of the more ancient houses are to be found. There is a charming courtyard with colonnades, and a delightful garden, peaceful and full of flowers and the sentiment of other days. And here, fortunately, the traveller can gain admission for half an hour's restful contemplation of its beauty, and perhaps the study of some of the historical events which the town has witnessed. From Brixen to Sterzing one traverses the widening, narrowing, and again widening valley of the Eisack. Past Spinges, with its memories of the fierce battle in 1797, when General Joubert was marching through the Puster Thal to make a junction with Napoleon. His advance was not, however, permitted unchecked. The inhabitants of Spinges might not be many, but they were Tyrolese. It happened, too, that a few companies of the Landsturm were in the neighbourhood, and so these and the men of Spinges marched out to meet Joubert's immensely superior force. The French troops were armed with bayonets as well as guns, and the barrier they made was found unpierceable by the brave but badly armed patriots. But the opportunity or need produced the man as it had done rather more than four centuries before in Switzerland when Arnold von Winkelried gathered the Austrian spears into his bosom at Sempach. In this case it was one Anton Reinisch, of Volders, who "played the man," and heroically leapt, scythe in hand, amongst the French bayonets, a score of which pierced his body, and thus, hewing right and left ere he fell, carved a way for his comrades, and enabled them to break up the French lines. [Sidenote: THE MAID OF SPINGES] But Spinges will be celebrated still more in romance, as it has been in history, by the act of that anonymous maiden "the Maid of Spinges," who, during the fight around the church of the village, mounted in company with the men the wall of the churchyard, and, armed with a hay fork, helped, by her strong arms as well as her example, to successfully repel three fierce attacks of the French soldiery. Unknown[18] by name, yet the fame of her courageous act, typical as it was of those of many others of her sex during the long and fierce struggle waged by the Tyrolese against the invaders of their beloved land, has descended through generations. On the other side of the valley to Spinges is Franzenfeste at the mouth of the defile known as the Brixener Klause. Few people stop at Franzenfeste, we imagine. To ramble on the hillsides would be an act of foolhardiness, for they are honeycombed with forts. It is a great strategic position, commanding the Brenner and the entrance to the Puster Thal; and investigation of the hillsides and neighbourhood, it is needless to say, is not encouraged by the Austrian Government. It is possible in the future that the spot which saw much fighting in 1797 and 1809 will again be the scene of military operations, and a struggle not less fierce, and far more bloody. Who knows? [Sidenote: STERZING AND MATREI] Sterzing, with its sunny main street of which a most charming vista is got as one enters the town through the ancient gateway on the Brenner road, and shady arcades which remind one of the "unter den Lauben" of Meran, stands on the site of a Roman settlement, Vipitenum. It is situated at the junction of three beautiful valleys, the Ridnaun Thal, Pflersch Thal, Pfitscher Thal, in a broad basin-like depression, encircled by shapely mountain slopes, and on the right bank of the Eisack. Though nowadays possessing a population of less than 3000, Sterzing at once strikes one as having an air of importance and prosperity, hardly in keeping with its small size. Formerly, however, the town was an important mining centre, and the larger of its quaint and picturesque balconied and bay-windowed houses owe their origin to the wealthier inhabitants of the past. Marble quarrying and polishing is still carried on somewhat extensively, and doubtless helps to retain an air of commercial life and industry in the quaint old place. Sterzing is wonderfully decorative and compact in general effect; and there are a surprising number of fine and interesting buildings to be seen in its narrow old-time streets. The Rathaus, with its striking bow windows, is of late Gothic architecture, and in it is a fine fifteenth-century altar-piece, and some interesting and well-executed wood carvings. This building, now used by the town officials and magistrates, was formerly doubtless a mansion of a wealthy merchant. In it is one of the best preserved specimens of a Gothic ceiling, dating from about the middle of the fifteenth century, that we have seen in Tyrol in any private house of similar size. The church has been extensively, but on the whole well restored. It dates from the sixteenth century, and has a Gothic choir of note, and nave and aisles restored in the Rococo style, the ceiling paintings of which are by Adam Mölckh. The general effect of the interior is good, and the church has some interesting architectural details. The decline of Sterzing is attributable to the same cause as that of many other townlets and villages upon the old post-roads, and the roads over the passes which have gradually become less and less used as railroads have multiplied. But, in the case of Sterzing, its gradual descent from the position of importance it once occupied, traces of which are found in the numerous fine houses still standing, was undoubtedly more owing to the exhaustion or abandonment of the mining industry than to the coming of the railway which so seriously affected the road traffic of the Brenner Pass. Near Sterzing, it should be remembered, Hofer and his peasant forces fought the first big engagement of the struggle in 1809, which ended in the defeat of the Bavarians, who were driven back across the Brenner, Hofer having crossed the Jaufen from his home at St. Martin in the Passeier Valley. Matrei, or, as it is also called, Deutsch-Matrei, is the only place of any size or importance which we have not already described on the line between Sterzing and Innsbruck, or along the Brenner road. The little town is charmingly situated, and like others of similar character and altitude (it lies nearly 3300 feet above sea-level), is becoming more and more resorted to by tourists and travellers upon the Brenner route. The Castle of Trautson, belonging to Prince Auersperg, stands on the hillside above it. Sterzing forms a fine centre for ascents and excursions, and there is a most interesting pilgrimage church on the north-eastern flank of the Waldrast Spitze dedicated to the Virgin, and known by the name of the mountain; it dates from the middle of the fifteenth century. Its foundation was in consequence of a peasant's dream, in which he was directed to go to the woods, lie down and rest, and there he should be told what to do. When he had done this the Virgin appeared to him, and bade him build a chapel on the spot over an image of her which had miraculously appeared no one knew how some years before. To this chapel was given the name of Maria Waldrast (Wood's rest), and although the monastery, which was built on the spot more than a century and a half later, in 1624, is now but a ruin, the pilgrimage is even nowadays made by the devout to the church which is so beautifully situated more than 5300 feet above sea-level. FOOTNOTES: [16] For further details of the castle's history, see Prokop's interesting account.--C. H. [17] Some authorities state Pleier was from Salzburg or the Salzkammergut. [18] A Some authorities assert that her name was Katherina Lanz, and that from about 1820 till her death in 1854 she lived as housekeeper to the priest at St. Virglius near Rost, high up in the Enneberg Valley.--C. H. CHAPTER IX SOME TOWNS AND VILLAGES OF WALSCH-TYROL: TRENT, ITS HISTORY, COUNCIL, AND BUILDINGS--ROVEREDO AND DANTE--ARCO--RIVA Trent, which is easily reached from Bozen through the Etschland by the Bozen-Verona line, which winds through some delightful scenery and passes many a ruined castle perched high on inaccessible heights, is not only a large town of upwards of 25,000 inhabitants, but was anciently one of the wealthiest in Tyrol. It is generally supposed to have been founded by the Etruscans, and both Pliny and Ptolemy make mention of it; but whoever designed Trent seized upon a beautiful situation, and the builders have left behind them in the quaint town, broad streets, handsome palaces of dead and gone nobles, and a forest of towers and spires, delightful survivals of mediæval days. Surrounded by limestone crags, the city itself, notwithstanding its Italian character and fine atmosphere, gives one at first sight an impression of lack of colour which is not usually the case with Italian towns. Regarding the foundation of the city and the origin of its name, there is at least a local tradition that it was founded in the time of Tarquinius Priscus, about B.C. 616, by a body of Etruscans led by Rhaetius; and these founders, although so far removed from the sea, instituted the worship of Neptune, from which circumstance the ancient name Tridentum was derived. Be this as it may, the circumstance is interesting, as in these Etruscans under the leadership of Rhaetius one can perhaps discover the origin of the Rhaeti, who ultimately gave so much trouble to the Empire of Rome. At any rate, Rhaetius gave his name to the district in the immediate vicinity of Trent. The interesting Castle Del Buon Consiglio, which forms so dominating a feature of the town, and possesses a circular and lofty donjon of the type of Guy's Tower at Warwick, with its fine Renaissance loggia in the inner or fountain courtyard and several storied arcades in the older, was once the residence of the Prince Bishops, but now used as barracks. In it is preserved an ancient inscription relating to the government of the town, which proves that the regulations and statutes were very largely modelled upon those of Rome itself. Those who can do so should certainly endeavour to visit Trent during the latter part of the month of June, not merely from the fact that this month is charming by reason of the beauties of nature, the wealth of tender new foliage and delightful climate, but also because on the 26th of the month falls the Festival of Saint Vigilius, the patron saint of Trent, and the martyr missionary who anciently did much to Christianize the country. At this _fête_ the ancient city, whose by-ways and narrower streets are full of interest, picturesqueness, and charm, is seen at its gayest and best. All the many churches are crowded with worshippers, thousands of whom have flocked down from the surrounding mountains and come in from the various villages of the Etschland, bound first upon religious observances in honour of their patron saint and afterwards to take part in the characteristic games and amusements which give the city for the time being such a festive and Bank Holiday air. In former days the more violent amusements were often supplemented by the performance of religious dramas, somewhat on the lines of the better known and more elaborate plays of Ober-Ammergau and the Brixenthal, and also by the illumination of the surrounding hills by huge bonfires, which are said to have had their origin in the religious observances of even more remote times than that of the Etruscan occupation. Saint Vigilius, who was born at Rome, eventually became the Bishop of Trent, and ultimately suffered martyrdom during one of the many persecutions which took place, and were similar in character to those of the fourth century. The city during its early wars was several times sacked, and more than once burnt by the Bavarian hordes which overran the country and even at last reached the gates of Rome itself. Thus Trent came to be built at various periods upon former foundations, and researches of recent times have tended to show that, as was the case with Rome itself, the comparatively modern Trent is built upon soil several feet above the level of its first site. One Italian authority, indeed, states that the streets of the original town lie some fourteen feet below the level of those of the present. Traces of at least three distinct lines of walls marking the growth of the city at various times have been excavated, leading also to the discovery of many interesting relics of Roman days, including tessellated pavements, portions of an amphitheatre of considerable size, ornaments, household utensils, etc. The bishops still retain their title of Prince, but they lost their power as territorial rulers at the time of the secularization which took place throughout Tyrol, and also in the principality of Salzburg. [Sidenote: THE COUNCIL OF TRENT] Although this ancient city, which is characterized nowadays by a cleanliness and order so often found wanting in Italian towns, has undergone many vicissitudes and has been the scene of important historical events, to the Trent folk of to-day and to many of the visitors who come to it the chief events in connection with its history will undoubtedly remain the sittings of the famous Council which commenced in the year 1545. Many may wonder how it came about that so comparatively small a town should have been chosen as the meeting-place of a Conference intended to attempt the co-ordination of the beliefs and doctrines and the regulation of ecclesiastical affairs of the whole of the then Christian world. Probably the sole reason for this selection was the geographical position of the city, which lay then, as it does to-day, a frontier town, so to speak, between Italian and German influences, and though situated on Austrian soil, yet containing an Italian-speaking population. The Council opened on December 13, 1545, and continued its sittings (with interruptions) until December 4, 1563, the last being the twenty-fifth in number. The meetings of the Council took place at various times during the reigns of three Popes, Paul III., Julius III., and Pius IV., and amongst the enactments of the Council the Canon of Scripture, including the Apocrypha, was confirmed, and the Church named as its sole interpreter; that traditions were to be considered as equal with Scripture, and the seven sacraments of Baptism, Confirmation, the Lord's Supper, Penitence, extra-Unction, Orders, and Matrimony were also confirmed; transubstantiation, Purgatory indulgences, celibacy of the clergy, auricular confession, and other matters were dealt with. The first sitting was held under Cardinal Del Monte, the papal legate, who rose amidst the assembled prelates and representatives and asked them whether it was their wish, "For the glory of God, the extirpation of heresy, and the reformation of the clergy and people, and the downfall of the enemy of the Christian name, to resolve and declare that the Sacred General Tridentine Council should begin and was begun?" The whole company, we are told, answered "Placet," a Te Deum was sung, and it was agreed that the first sitting of the Council should be held on the 7th of January. The sittings were continued at various times without any untoward event till the year 1552, when Maurice of Saxony invaded Tyrol, and although the Council was sitting, most of its members fled the country after having re-enacted the various decrees and ordinances which had been previously passed. Ten years later, what was to all intents and purposes another Council met at Trent, and a solemn service was again held, at which Cardinal Gonzaga was elected president. A quarrel seems to have arisen between some of the archbishops and bishops and one of the French envoys. The former did not agree to some of the terms of the proposition made by the Archbishop of Reggio, whilst the latter raised an objection to the Council being considered a continuation of the first Council. The building in which the Council sat has been stated at various times to have been the Cathedral, in the Piazza del Duomo, but there seems very little doubt now that the place of meeting was not there but in the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore, situated on the Piazza of the same name. In it on the north wall of the Choir hangs a large picture representing some three hundred of the various chief dignitaries as they sat in the Council Chamber. The members numbered nearly a thousand in all, and in addition to the cardinals, archbishops, bishops, abbots, chiefs of religious orders, and representatives from the University, there were also present ambassadors from the Emperor of Germany, and from the Kings of France, Spain, and Portugal, from the republic of Venice and Genoa, from Switzerland, and from the German electors. There were at first serious disputes regarding the mode of conducting the business of the Council: what subjects were to be brought up for discussion, and which of those so brought up should have precedence. The German prelates and representatives appear to have been favourable to the discussion of subjects of a more practical nature, realizing as they did that one of the chief causes of disruption and want of unanimity in the Church was the presence of practical and easily located abuses. They therefore strongly urged that the first work of the Council should be of the nature of reforms affecting these abuses. On the other hand, the Italian prelates and envoys were most favourable to the discussion of matters of doctrine and ecclesiastical observances. These differences of opinion were, however, ultimately overcome by an agreement that for each session of the Council dealing with dogma there should be one held to consider the question of practical reforms. The first president, Cardinal Del Monte, frankly acknowledged that many abuses had crept into the Church, and to prove the sincerity of his reforming proposals voluntarily yielded up his pluralities of office; and this example was followed by the Prince Bishop of Trent, who offered to resign the See of Brixen. In 1547, owing to an epidemic then raging in Trent, the first session was closed, and the next sitting took place at Bologna. Charles V., who had been a very active promoter of the Council, objected to the change of venue and insisted upon it being adjourned. It again sat in 1551 at Trent, and an interesting feature of the sitting was the presence of Protestant delegates and envoys from Maurice, elector of Saxony, and from the elector of Brandenburg. Queen Elizabeth declined to send any representative, preferring to accept the decisions of an English convocation. After transacting a considerable amount of business the Council was adjourned, and did not again meet for a period of eleven years. On that occasion many points came up for discussion, and a considerable number of measures of practical reform were agreed upon. One of the most important was the suppression of the alms gatherers, men who were sent for the purpose from Rome to different countries with power to sell indulgences. It was by this means that a large amount of the money with which St. Peter's, Rome, was built was obtained. [Sidenote: DECREES OF THE COUNCIL] Amongst other important matters decreed by the Council was that prohibiting the sale, printing, or keeping of any books whatever on sacred matters under pain of anathema and fine imposed by a canon of the last Council of Lateran, unless first approved of by the ordinary. It also provided that offenders should have their books burnt; should pay a fine amounting to a hundred ducats; should be suspended a year from the exercises of their trades; and goes on to add that they should be visited with a sentence of excommunication; and, finally, should their contumacy become worse, be so chastised by their bishop by every means granted by the law that others might take warning from them and not be tempted to follow their example. It was also decreed that even those who lent forbidden books, which included the writings of arch-heretics, such as Luther, Calvin, and others, even though in MS., should be liable to the same penalties; and all those who should have any such books in their possession, unless confessing the author's name, should themselves be regarded as the author. Cardinal Lorraine, who attended with fourteen bishops, three abbots, and eighty learned doctors of divinity on behalf of King Charles IX. of France, was charged with instructions from that monarch to entreat the Council to concede the following reforms and benefits: that in France the sacraments might be administered, the psalms sung, prayers offered up, and the catechism taught in the language of the people; and that the sacrament should be fully administered to the laity. Also that some strenuous means should be taken to check the licentious lives of the clergy; and that the Council should make any concessions tending towards peace and the abatement of schism which did not controvert or interfere with God's word. The French ambassadors also asked for clear instructions concerning the doctrines governing the uses of images, relics, and indulgences; and also they were instructed to urge argument against exacting fees for the sacrament, benefices without duties, and many other things which the more liberal minded and progressive of the prelates regarded as grave abuses in the Church. One astonishing objection which Renaud Ferrier, the then President of the Parliament in Paris, in company with Lansac, raised before the Council was to the dogma that the Pope's authority was supreme, their contention being that the Council was above the Pope! As we have said, this important Council on religion came to an end in December, 1563, when the President moved its dissolution. Before the closing scene, the acts of the Council were finally agreed to and signed, "the ambassadors also adding their names." Then the President dismissed the members in the following words: "After having given this to God, most reverend fathers, go ye in peace." To which all present replied, "Amen." Then Cardinal Lorraine rose and called down the blessing of the assembly upon the then reigning Pope, Pius IV., and also upon his predecessors, Paul III. and Julius III. "By whose authority," said the Cardinal, "this sacred Council was begun; to them peace from the Lord and eternal glory and happiness in the light of the Holy Saints." To which those present answered, "By their memory ever held in sacred benediction." Then there were prayers for the reigning monarchs whose ambassadors were present, for the holy oecumenical synod of Trent, whose faith and decrees all present declared they would keep for ever. Then came the final scene, when the Cardinal, standing in the midst of the vast assembly, declared in a loud voice, "Anathema! anathema! to all heretics!" To which there came the reply, "Anathema!" And thus ended not only the Council of Trent, but also the last great general Council of the Roman Catholic Church. [Sidenote: THE CHURCHES OF TRENT] The church of Santa Maria Maggiore, in which the Council held its sittings--a rather plain red marble building, which, however, has a fine Lombardian campanile--will always be one of the most interesting churches amongst the many of Trent. Severe outside, the interior is exceptionally ornate. The organ-loft, completed in 1534, twenty years after the commencement of the church, is one of great beauty. Designed by Vincenzo Vicentin, it has a white marble balustrading, the supports of which are thickly encrusted with decorative work and statuettes of delicately fine workmanship. In the church are also several interesting and good pictures, amongst the number one ascribed, though possibly incorrectly, to Tintoretto. There are one or two interesting traditional stories connected with this church. The first relates to the beautiful organ, and runs as follows: "So fine a tone and so esteemed was the work of the now--so far as we have been able to ascertain--unknown organ builder, that the Town Council are said to have determined to blind or maim him so that it should be impossible for him to construct another instrument like it for any other city. The unfortunate man, unable to get the Councillors to give up their diabolical intention, asked as a last favour to be allowed to play on the instrument he had made ere the barbarous sentence was carried out. But as soon as he was in the organ-loft he set to work and irreparably injured the vox humana stop which he had invented, and which had been the greatest attraction of the beautiful instrument; and thus he punished the Council who had determined to reward his genius in such a terrible manner." The other legend is of the crucifix, still to be seen in one of the side chapels of the Cathedral, which on the occasion of the final Te Deum, when the Council was disbanded on December 4, 1563, was seen to bow down in token of approval of the constitutions and enactments which had just been signed. Of the fifteen or sixteen churches of Trent, the Cathedral, which was commenced in the eleventh century and finished in the fifteenth, in the form of a Romanesque basilica with a lantern above the joining of the cross, is the most important. It is built of the same reddish brown marble as the church of Santa Maria Maggiore, which stone abounds in the immediate neighbourhood. There are some remnants of seventh or eighth century carvings, notably the Lombard ornaments of the three porches, which are of great interest. The interior of the church, which is dedicated to Saint Vigilius, contains many frescoes and some good pictures and other objects, including a Madonna by Perugino, a copy of the Madonna Di San Luca in the Pantheon, which was presented to a Bishop of Trent whilst on a visit to Rome in the middle of the fifteenth century, and has ever since been an object of great veneration to the townsfolk and peasantry of the district round about. The Museum in the Palazzo Municipale, which, at any rate, a year or two ago was unfortunately closed during the months of July and August, when many tourists are in Trent, contains some very interesting Roman antiquities, including inscriptions, household utensils, ornaments, coins, pottery, and similar objects, and is well worth an hour or two for inspection. [Sidenote: DANTE AND THE VAL SARCA] Dante's connection with Trent does not appear to be, even at the present time, very clearly proved, although there would seem to be no doubt whatever that the poet spent some few months, at least, in the Trentino. This theory gains some considerable support from references which occur in the "Divina Commedia" to the Trentino, which (various authorities state) are so detailed as to be only possible from personal knowledge. It may, however, be pointed out that, as in the case of Shakespeare, who described many places quite accurately to which he could never have been, it is possible Dante's knowledge of the Trentino was not gained from personal experience, and the theory advanced of his sojourn in the neighbourhood, based upon references to the district in his works, is not unassailable. A considerable number of books, pamphlets, and articles have been written, however, by Italian, German, and English scholars and students of Dante in support of different theories regarding his visit to these parts. One of the most learned and thorough writers upon this subject--Zaniboni--appears to have no doubt that Dante was in the Trentino, but that the "Inferno" was not written during his supposed visit to the Castle of Lizzana, but soon after his return to Italy. Other authorities have inclined to the view that the Val Sarca, near the tiny village of Pietra Murata, is the real scene of Dante's "Inferno"; and those who know this desolate and even terrible spot, where the very ground seems blighted, the heat intense between the towering and craggy cliffs, and the whole of the valley the scene of a horrible desolation, with huge boulders tossed hither and thither, and not a blade of grass and scarcely a patch of lichen to be seen, will be inclined also to support this view. But whatever the truth may be, Trent has put in a claim to Dante in the shape of the magnificent monument to him, from a design by Zocchi, erected in 1896 in the centre of the Piazza Dante, near the station. The figures around the base of the column upon which the statue of the poet stands, with his right arm upraised and outstretched, and his left pressing a roll of MS. to his breast, are remarkably well executed, and the whole effect of the memorial, with its background of craggy mountains and its environment of flower-beds, is impressive. There are, of course, numberless interesting buildings, and also several other churches worthy of study and attention; but, perhaps, amongst all the domestic buildings and palaces of Trent, including the Palazzi Wolkenstein and Sizzo, and the Tabarelli, in which are magnificent private collections of pictures and other _objets d'art_, none exceeds in romantic and legendary interest the Teufelspalast, which has been known by several other names at various times, and latterly as the Palazzo Zambelli. This beautiful home (now a bank) was built by George Fugger, a relative of the wealthy banker, Anthony Fugger, of Augsburg. The legendary story is as follows:-- George Fugger having become acquainted with one Claudia Porticelli, a beautiful young woman of Trent, fell desperately in love with her, and although the fair Claudia does not appear to have discouraged his suit, she was too proud to yield too readily to his proposals, and in addition was very patriotic, and inclined to the view that a Tyrolese maid should marry a Tyrolese man. It was in pursuance of this idea, when at last her lover pressed her strongly for an answer, that she told him she would never marry a man who lived so far away from her beloved home, and that she wondered how any one who did not possess a tiny _pied à terre_ in Trent, should for a moment think that he could have any claim upon her affections. This reply to his suit might, one would think, have discouraged most people, but George Fugger, who possessed vast wealth, had no intention of yielding up his claim, or his supposed claim, to the beautiful Claudia without a struggle; and, moreover, Claudia Porticelli, although discouraging him so distinctly, had (like a woman) put off the evil day of giving a final answer for a period of a little more than twenty-four hours. In this delay, George Fugger saw the solution which great wealth and determination of character placed within his reach. He determined, therefore, within the short space remaining before Claudia gave him his final answer, to build a house "worthy of the human gem whose casket it was to be." [Sidenote: A SATANIC COMPACT] Twenty-four hours or so in which to build a palace was, however, such an impossibly short time that no man could hope to accomplish the task by human aid alone. Therefore (so the legend goes) he sought the help from a source to which no good Christian would think of turning, namely, that of the Devil. In legendary lore there are many stories of the Devil assisting men and women to an accomplishment of their desires, but almost invariably at the price of their souls. George Fugger, however anxious for the Devil's assistance, was too keen a man of business to wish to endanger his soul; so the object he set himself to accomplish was to obtain the Evil One's aid without paying the Evil One's price. The Devil was summoned, and he willingly enough undertook the task upon the usual condition, of the surrender at the end of life of the soul of the person he was helping. George Fugger, without hesitation, signed the bond with his blood, only stipulating for the insertion of a small clause, which provided that his Satanic majesty should on his part do Fugger one small service ere claiming the price of his assistance. The Devil must have been in a good humour, for he agreed to this quite willingly and unsuspiciously, and the two parties went their way, each well satisfied with his part of the bargain. Teufelspalast was, naturally enough, of magnificent design, and at the time it was built was furnished with the most luxurious fittings and decorations that the mind of man or devil could imagine. Marbles of different kinds entered largely into its construction, and the gilding, decorations, and carvings were such as to become famous throughout even a country noted for great and beautiful palaces. When the building was completed, the Devil summoned the owner, and asked him to name the little service that he was to do him. George Fugger had thought out his little scheme of outwitting the Devil, and he took a bushel of corn and strewed it over the different floors of his vast mansion. Then he said to the Devil, "See! If you can gather together all the corn strewn about the palace grain by grain, and deliver it back to me without the loss of a single grain before morning, then my soul shall be yours. On the other hand, should you fail to do this, my soul remains my own as well as the palace you have built." The Devil, we are told, was not in the least disconcerted by the task which had been set him, and without doubting for a moment that he would successfully accomplish it, he set to work to gather up the grain. In the end, just before sunrise he had completed his task, all but the finding of five grains of the corn. He searched high and low for the missing grains, but to no purpose, and ere he could find them daylight, which was to mark the end of the time allotted for his task, began to appear; but the Devil, notwithstanding the absence of the five grains, consoled himself with the thought that Fugger would never discover the loss of five grains amidst the many hundreds of thousands of others which he had heaped up in the measure. When Fugger came to see whether the Devil had performed his task or not, he counted out the number of grains of corn, and, of course, discovered the absence of the five, so he asked the Devil where they were. "Oh," said the Devil, "they are there, the measure is piled quite full up, and you cannot be so particular as all that." Fugger replied, "That is all very well, but five grains are missing, and I must have them, or you have not performed your task, and lose all claim to my soul in return for the palace you have so marvellously built me." The Evil One replied, "You have miscounted the number. I have built your house and picked up all the grains of corn, and I am not going to be done out of my part of the bargain; besides, you cannot prove that there are five grains short." "Oh yes, I can," replied Fugger; "stretch out your right hand." And the Devil, not seeing that it could be any harm to comply with the request, forthwith stretched out his great hand. Fugger seized it, and said, "There lie the five grains under your own claws. The corn I set you to pick up had been sanctified by being offered before the Holy Rood, and for this reason you were prevented from fulfilling your purpose. You have not collected the grains into your measure by dawn, as agreed, and therefore our bargain is annulled." The Devil was in a terrible way. He did not see how to escape conviction of failure, and so he sought to terrify Fugger by an exhibition of his Satanic wrath. He set to work and began to attempt to tear down the building which he had so recently completed. But he no longer had any power over the palace, and only succeeded in breaking a sufficiently large hole in the wall to enable him to fly through it and depart. For many years this hole, which had been bricked up, was shown to visitors, and was esteemed by many of the Trent people of the lower class as proof positive of the superhuman origin of the palace and the truth of the legend. The end of the story is just what might be expected. The fair Claudia, who probably never meant to refuse the rich banker, consented to marry him, now that he had a home in Trent. And there they lived, so it is said, happily ever afterwards, and in due time died. [Sidenote: THE MADONNA ALLE LASTE] In the immediate neighbourhood of Trent are several other buildings and places of very considerable interest and of great picturesqueness. One favourite excursion is to the chapel of Madonna Alle Laste, which lies on the hillside to the east of the city, about half an hour's stiff walking from the Port Aquila, a little way off the road to Bassano. From this spot one not only obtains good views of the town, but can visit on a spur of the mountain the celebrated marble Maria Bild, to which there is an interesting legend attached. This "picture" has been an object of veneration with the people of Trent and the district round about for centuries. Some time about the middle of the seventeenth century this fine tablet was sacrilegiously injured and disfigured by a travelling Jew, much to the rage and indignation of the people of Trent. And although a German artist, Detscher by name, did his best to restore the carving, it was impossible for him to entirely obliterate all trace of the injury it had received. But, so the legendary story goes, by some miraculous power it was altogether restored in one night, and this miracle so increased the veneration in which the Maria Bild was held that people thought there was no kind of disease too desperate that it could not be cured by prayers at such a holy shrine. Several miracles are ascribed to this wonderful carving, which became so venerated that ultimately a chapel was built for it and placed in charge of a hermit; and later on a community of Carmelites was established on the spot by reason of the generosity of Field-Marshal Gallas, and this remained until the secularization, now many years ago. The convent buildings, however, still stand, and from them there is a fine view of the distant range of mountains, and the foreground slopes covered with peach and other fruit trees. With the many other interesting walks and legends attached to the scattered villages which lie in the immediate neighbourhood of quaint and historic Trent there is no space to deal. Most travellers must leave Trent reluctantly, for it is beautiful in situation and deeply interesting from all points of view. To the south and south-west of it lie two interesting towns. The first is Roveredo, the second Arco; the former, though a less frequented and less historic town than Trent, is yet one of some importance and remarkably well situated. It dates from Roman times, and received its name Roboretum in consequence of the enormous oak forests by which it was surrounded. The high road which leads to it, owing to the fact that it was one of the ancient ways into Tyrol, is crowded with ruins of ancient fortresses and of castles in a state of more or less decay. Most of these, including Predajo, Castlebarco, Beseno, Lizzana (at the last named of which Dante lived during the first few years of the fourteenth century, after his banishment from Florence), and others took part in the various struggles for the possession of Tyrol which were waged at different times between the Emperor of Germany, the Republic of Venice, the Prince Bishops of Trent, and other powerful families of the district who carried on private and other feuds throughout the Middle Ages. [Sidenote: A BURIED CITY] At the time of Dante's banishment from Florence Castle Lizzana was the home of the Scaligers, who gave shelter to the poet during his exile. Not far from the Castle is that famous Sclavini (or land slip) di San Marco, which is in reality a vast "_steinmeer_," and is probably rather of the nature of a great and possibly pre-historic moraine, than a land slide. But be this as it may the locality of this immense accumulation of huge rocks thrown hither and thither no doubt provided the poet with at least the inspiration of the descent into the Inferno,[19] which runs as follows:-- "The place, where to descend the precipice We came, was rough as Alp; and on its verge Such object lay, as every eye would shun. As is that ruin, which Adice's stream On this side Trento struck, shouldering the wave, Or loosed by earthquake or for lack of prop; For from the mountain's summit, whence it moved To the low level, so the headlong rock Is shivered, that some passage it might give To him who from above would pass; e'en such Into the chasm was the descent: and there At point of the disparted ridge...." CARY'S Translation. There is a legend that a beautiful city, once known as San Marco, which was destroyed by a landslip that took place at the beginning of the ninth century, lies buried under the gigantic rocks. At any rate, in the Middle Ages this belief prevailed, with the result that the peasants of the district were for ever digging amidst the _débris_ in the hope of finding some of the vast treasure which tradition said had been buried with the city. The story, which possesses an almost Boccaccian touch of humour, goes on to say that on one occasion a peasant, whilst thus excavating, came across a vast boulder, on which was written in letters of fire in Italian, "Fortunate will they be who turn me over." Naturally enough, the peasant was in a state of great delight; surely this was an indication that the riches for which he sought would be found hidden underneath the stone. Calling his neighbours together, and, doubtless, promising them a share of the spoil, after almost superhuman exertions, the great rock was rolled over; but instead of finding in the cavity disclosed the treasure which they expected, they found but another inscription on the under side of the rock of a jocular and taunting nature, also in Italian, which, literally translated, ran as follows: "Thanks for turning me over; I had a pain in my ribs." As the Italian peasant, of all others, cares little for unremunerative toil, and is easily depressed by such sarcasm, we are told, "From that time forth the supposed ruined city of San Marco and its buried treasures were left in peace." Not far from this spot, too, on the other bank of the river, is the home of another legend of a deep cavern, concerning which there is a tradition that years and years ago it was the retreat of a cruel, white-bearded hobgoblin who lived on human flesh--children by preference--and that whoever should have the courage to explore the cavern to its depths would find at the end of it the remains of the hobgoblin, and that his spirit would reward the adventurer by telling him where a vast treasure lies hidden. Possibly the legend had some origin in the fact that the district close here was once infested by a fierce band of robbers, who plundered and robbed, not only travellers, but the people of the country round about. Towards the end of the twelfth century the band became so formidable that the then Bishop of Trent despatched a force against them and destroyed the robbers' lair, building on the spot where it was, and from whence they were accustomed to attack travellers, a hospice for the protection of wayfarers, the chapel of which was dedicated to St. Margaret. [Sidenote: ROVEREDO] Some dozen miles southward from Trent, down the pleasant valley through which the Adige wends its tortuous way, lies Roveredo or Rovereto, a busy and prosperous town famous for its silk culture, situated on both sides of the river Leno, and dominated by the ancient castle, which, built by the Venetians, has withstood many a fierce siege. The silk trade, that gives Roveredo its chief importance, was introduced into the town as far back as the middle of the sixteenth century, and has contributed very greatly to its continuous prosperity. Strangely enough, the principal family of Roveredo at the beginning of the eighteenth century established business relations with England, and a prosperous trade was the result. The town is prettily situated, and from the hillside above it presents the usual characteristics of red roofs and white walls which distinguish most Italian towns. It has many charming by-ways, flights of cobble-paved steps leading up through quaint arches into zig-zag, narrow streets of great picturesqueness, in exploring which one is tempted to spend much time, particularly if possessing a camera. Its chief streets, however, are wide and handsome, notably the Corso Nuovo, planted with shady trees, leading from the railway station to the town. Although there are seven or eight churches in Roveredo, none of them are of any great moment, but there is a good altar-piece, supposed to be the work of Giovanni da Udine, in the church of St. Rocchus, a building erected in the middle of the seventeenth century owing to a vow made by the inhabitants to do this during a visitation of the Plague if the scourge was stayed. Although not a place to stay in for any considerable length of time, Roveredo is undoubtedly worth a visit from those who like picturesque architecture, and also on account of its pleasant situation. Arco, which is on the way to Riva, lies almost due west of Roveredo, but is reached by rail circuitously, via Mori, Nago, and Vignole, and is picturesquely situated in the midst of laurels, palms, and olives, dominated by the large and ancient castle situated on a pine-clad rock high above the town. This castle was bombarded by the French, and destroyed during the War of the Spanish Succession in 1703. The church, a prominent object of the pretty town, is of considerable interest, and amongst other places worthy of note is the château of the late Archduke Albert, which has a remarkably fine winter garden. Arco has of recent years gained some note as a health resort for invalids with a consumptive tendency and, in consequence, possesses quite a number of excellent hotels. From Arco to Riva is but a few miles, and, if possible, these should be travelled by carriage in preference to the train, as the road lies through the most delightful meadowland, fertile, and stretching upward on either hand to the towering heights which shut in the valley. Riva, which is the Tyrolese port of charming Lake Garda, is one of the most delightful spots in all Tyrol. As one stands on the promenade, far towards the south stretches the beautiful lake, whose deep-blue waters and exquisite environment of mountains have been sung by poets and described by travellers in every language of Europe. At the head of the lake there is a very busy scene of coming and going tourist-steamers, sailing craft piled with merchandise, hay, and other produce, giving the little harbour quite a business-like air, which, combined with unusual picturesqueness, cannot fail to charm every one who comes to it. The town itself is situated chiefly at the foot of the precipitous Rocchetta, on the sides of which olive trees, figs, palms, aloes, and other vegetation grow; whilst above one hangs a deep-blue Italian sky, luminous in summer with the brilliant sunshine of northern Italy. A wanderer in the quaint streets and by-ways, some of the former of which are arcaded, will come across many a picture and many a piece of charming architectural detail for canvas and camera, whilst close to Riva, on the shore of the lake, is the little village of Torbole, the resort of artists, who find in its primitive character of a fisherman's hamlet a veritable mine of delightful subjects for pictures. The Parish Church of Riva deserves attention; it is really a handsome building, and has much of interest in its interior. On the outskirts of the town is the church of the Immaculate Conception, which was built by Cardinal von Madruzz for the purpose of enshrining a wonder-working picture of the Blessed Virgin. Two churches which have their origin in times of plague, those of San Roch and San Sebastian, erected in 1522 and 1633, are found in the town. The district round about has the distinction of supplying the whole of Tyrol with the branches of olive which are used on Palm Sunday; and Riva was long considered the most northerly limit at which olive trees would flourish. This idea, however, has of recent years proved to be erroneous, as they are now cultivated as far north as Bozen. [Sidenote: A WONDERFUL VIEW] The ascent of the Altissimo di Nago, although a tough climb for all save practised walkers, is well worth the trouble, as the panorama of the lake obtained from the summit is one of astonishing beauty. Many visitors to Riva also go to San Giacomo for the purpose of seeing the sun rise, just as the ascent of the Rigi is made. Behind one extend mountain range upon mountain range, and lofty peak upon peak of rocky and snow-clad Alps; whilst to the south lies the beautiful Lake Garda, of royal blue in the growing light, and the widespread plains of Lombardy on either hand studded with fair cities, of which number Milan, if the atmosphere be clear, will seem--though actually far distant--to be so close that a good before-lunch stroll should enable one to reach it. This favoured town not only takes one to the southern limit of Tyrol, but provides a charming rest-place, from which many interesting excursions may be made before setting one's face, reluctantly it will surely be, northward once more, through perhaps the grander but less soft and rest-provoking scenery of wilder Tyrol. FOOTNOTE: [19] Dante's "Inferno," Canto XII., lines 1-12. CHAPTER X. AMONG THE DOLOMITES, WITH NOTES UPON SOME TOURS AND ASCENTS To many who visit Tyrol the most interesting district of this delectable land is the Dolomite region, which forms by far the greater part of the South Tyrol Highlands and offers not only unique opportunities for climbers, but also much impressive and beautiful scenery. It is only in comparatively recent years that the Dolomite of south-eastern Tyrol has become a popular holiday-ground of tourists and travellers. But a few decades ago it was--except to geologists, a few artists, mining experts, and the more enterprising climbers--a _terra incognita_, a region scarcely more known to the general travelling public than the centre of Africa. Even nowadays it is far less frequented by western European holiday-makers than it deserves to be. Formerly there was some excuse for an ignorance and neglect which a lack of easy transit, good roads, and railways to near-by points might be held to condone. But at the present time so much has been done to throw open this fascinating mountain district to the traveller, rest-seeker, and artist that the excuse can no longer be urged. Concerning the climate, scenery, people, and accommodation now offered to travellers, much can be said in praise. Indeed, regarding all of these, it would be difficult to say everything one might without running the risk of being accused of partiality or exaggeration. In this portion of Tyrol (as, indeed, may be said also of others) one still meets with hospitality and courtesy at inns and rest-houses which are not chiefly based upon the expectation of personal aggrandisement or monetary reward, just as one still finds quietude wedded to splendid scenery and beautiful prospects not yet exploited. In the Dolomite region, though its popularity is yearly increasing, one can yet happily meet with comfortable hotels, which are not overrun by the type of tourist for whom a good dinner is more than fresh air and scenery, and dress clothes and gorgeous costumes of an evening a _sine quâ non_. In a word, we have found that the Dolomite region is free from many of the disadvantages of Switzerland--that most exploited of European countries, and the one in which nowadays perhaps the least quietude and rest is to be found--and provides a playground for the mere pedestrian as well as a most attractive region for the exercise of the climbing instinct. It must be admitted, however, that in the less frequented passes and valleys one has occasionally to "rough" it in a mild kind of way, and that one needs to be a good and enduring walker to "do" the region on foot. But although some of the inns in the lesser known valleys are yet somewhat primitive, the cooking is usually good, and the beds, though the linen may be coarse, will be found almost without exception spotlessly clean. It may be added that French is of little use in the Dolomites, except in the hotels at the most frequented tourist resorts, such as Toblach, Cortina, Karer See, Bozen, etc., Italian and German being generally spoken--the former almost everywhere in the region; the latter chiefly in the Gader Thal, Grödener Thal, and the district north of the Ampezzo Thal; although in scattered hamlets south of the latter, here and there one finds peasants speaking both. The Dolomite region is most accessible from the Venetian frontier, Bozen, or Bruneck; and the true Dolomite district, which contains all that is most magnificent as regards scenery and attractiveness to the mountaineer and geological student, lies midway between the points we have mentioned, and covers the comparatively small area of some fifty miles by forty miles. Even nowadays there remain many peaks in the Dolomites yet untrodden by the foot of, at least, modern man, as well as numberless delightful paths amid exquisite scenery, where flowers carpet the earth and tiny streams make their water-music. Along which by-ways, from sunrise to sunset, one can travel amid the great silence of the hills without meeting a single fellow-wayfarer. Many of the summits are upwards of 10,000 feet in height, and they who first climb their rocky walls, deeply fissured sides, and ice- and snow-clad peaks, will have accomplished tasks not inferior to those performed by the intrepid mountaineers of the past who have scaled the great heights of the Alps or the Himalayas. [Sidenote: THEORIES OF ORIGIN] Ever since geologists have speculated and argued concerning the origin and nature of natural phenomena, there has been a conflict of opinion amongst Tyrolese, German, and French geologists in particular concerning the Dolomites. But although speculations have been many, and various plausible theories have from time to time been advanced, it may, we think, safely be said that none have been absolutely proved or universally accepted. Baron Richthofen is perhaps the ablest exponent of what is commonly known as the Coral Reef theory of origin, and this has of late years been largely accepted by leading geologists of different nationalities. [Illustration: ALPENWIESE, ON THE SEISER ALP] Baron Richthofen bases his theory chiefly upon the following points: "(A) The isolated nature of the mountains themselves, and the fact that their sides are frequently so steep and clear-cut as to preclude any suggestion that they have been so made by the ordinary processes of attrition, and that in general form they resemble atolls. (B) That in their substance there are often found fossils and deposits of a strictly marine character very closely resembling those found in coral reefs; in addition to which the configuration shown by many of the peaks is almost exactly similar to that found in the coral reefs of to-day, with precipitous and almost perfectly vertical sides, where they would have been (if the coral-reef theory is the correct one) constantly scoured by the tide, and with much less precipitous sides on the inner or lee side. (C) The fact that there is no trace discernible of any volcanic origin. (D) They also, in their general shape and lines, enclose spaces in a similar way to that which coral reefs invariably enclose." There are many other points of resemblance advanced in Mr. G. C. Churchill's exhaustive "Physical Description of the Dolomite District," into which it is, however, unnecessary here to enter more deeply. Of the Schlern, the magnificent peak which rises from so wild and picturesque a wooded ravine to a height of 8402 feet, Baron Richthofen makes the positive assertion that it is a coral reef, and that its entire formation is owing, like that of the "Atolls" of the Pacific and Indian Oceans, to animal activity and deposit. The Dolomites, which may be said to stretch between the Eisack, Etsch, and Puster-Thal towards the south-east, and extend over the Tyrol border into the Venetian district, derive their name from the well-known geologist, Dolomieu, who lived in the eighteenth century, and during the latter part of it travelled extensively in Tyrol, and was the first to call the attention of scientists and others to the peculiar structural formation of the southern mountain ranges. It may be briefly here said that their material is largely limestone, but is distinguished from the other chalky Alps by a special admixture of magnesia. The fact that long ages ago the sea must have covered this region, and did so for a period of long continuance, is proved by the circumstance that, when climbing, one often finds on the very summits of the highest peaks fossilized sea-shells. Many authorities are inclined to the belief that some at least of the Dolomites have been assisted in their growth, if not actually formed, by volcanic agencies, and this theory is borne out by the fact that craters are traceable in some of them even to-day. But whatever may be the true origin of these magnificent peaks, there can be no doubt regarding their unique formation. It may be urged by some that the Dolomites do not possess the severe and apparently unapproachable majesty of the snow-clad Middle Alps, with their mighty glaciers and fields of perpetual snow; but as regards their beauty of colour, the wildness of their romantic scenery, closely connected with the most lovely and panoramic of landscapes, they are unequalled, just as the climate of the district in which they stand is delightful and invigorating. In this comparatively small area one has a variety of scenery unsurpassed by any, so far as we know, on the Continent of Europe. Within the confines of the Dolomite region one has the wide range of lofty mountains and terrific cliffs, in places reminding the traveller of the cañons of the Rocky Mountains, with pinnacles, battlements, and towers, rearing themselves on every hand like ruined and Titanic fortresses, yet with their wildness softened in a measure by their beauty of colour when gilded by the sunrise or bathed in roseate hue of sunset light. Between the lofty peaks which rise skyward into the very vault of heaven, as it seems to the wayfarer at their feet, stretch lovely, winding Alpine valleys, often well-wooded and with turf of a most delightful greenness strewn with myriads of Alpine blossoms. Through valleys sweet with the odours of pinewoods and flowers run rushing torrents or more quietly flowing streams, which often have their origin in tiny, dark-blue Alpine lakes set amid environing pine forests, in whose tranquil waters are reflected the towering rocks and secluded woods which surround them. To these beautifully situated spots, which are peopled by happy and friendly disposed peasants, come year by year an increasing number of travellers from other countries of Europe and from America, flocking into all the more frequented parts intent upon enjoying the beautiful scenery over which hangs, during the summer months, a vault of deep-blue sky, looking all the bluer by contrast with the snow-clad Dolomite peaks, whose grandeur and fascinating beauty are not easily forgotten by those who have once gazed upon them. [Sidenote: TOURING FACILITIES] One of the great advantages of touring in the Dolomites to pedestrians, and cyclists more especially--although cycling provides plenty of "collar-work"--is the wonderful network of roads which cross the country in all directions. The surface of these roads is generally excellent, although several of them reach altitudes of between five and six thousand feet above the sea. The gradients have been well seen to, the road ascending by winding curves up the hillsides mostly by such easy stages as enable them to be traversed either on foot, in a carriage, motor-car, or even on a bicycle without much difficulty or fatigue. In this manner one reaches the open, sunny plateaux and ridges which serve to divide the separate groups of mountains one from the other, where the traveller can almost always find accommodation in good modern hotels or in well-arranged and modernized inns. It is in the possession of these numerous well-managed and excellently appointed hotels and inns that the Dolomite region excels; and they are of such variety as regards size and the kind and cost of accommodation which can be obtained at them, that almost all tastes and purses can be suited. This has been more especially the case during the last decade, in which new routes have been opened up, and further and adequate hotel accommodation provided. Huge buildings, affording every possible comfort and modern convenience, patronized by the wealthy visitor, hotels on a less grand scale, suited to the requirements of the well-to-do middle classes, and yet more modest, though not less well-managed and comfortable, establishments, where for an almost incredibly small sum pedestrians and tourists of more restricted means can obtain excellent food, are all to be found in the Dolomite region. In the larger hotels at the more noted resorts, of course, one finds much the same "life" as that prevailing at such places as Ischl, Semmering, Pontresina, St. Moritz, and Lucerne, where bands play during dinner, ladies wear elaborate Parisian toilettes, men dress for dinner, and climbing is, for most of the visitors, quite a secondary consideration to that of enjoying "smart" society. In the smaller places one finds greater simplicity and, to our thinking, greater charm, with more of the life of the people in evidence and less of the exotic. But the Dolomites themselves present many attractions to the climber, and yet provide numerous ascents which can be undertaken by the comparatively untrained and inexperienced. This is largely owing to the fact that they consist chiefly of isolated groups of mountains of great height, but which, owing to their isolation, are not approached by long and toilsome journeys ere the actual climbing itself commences, such as is often the case with the greater peaks of the Central Alps. Numbers of the higher ones, reaching to upwards of 9000 feet in height, may be ascended without any great fatigue by well-made paths, thus providing for the tourists who are not expert climbers plenty of exercise with just those elements of adventure and inspiration which prove the greatest charms to all climbers, and the reward at the end which comes to those who penetrate the higher regions of a purer atmosphere, and a larger outlook upon the glorious beauties of mountainous districts. There are, of course, many other Dolomite summits which can only be ascended, and should only be attempted, by practised and hardy climbers, for whom great heights and the risks attending their ascent possess no terrors. It is generally conceded that the district provides both for the inexperienced and most experienced climbers some of the most interesting mountain ascents in Europe. In the Dolomite region, especially of recent times, climbing has made extraordinary progress. Summits, the ascent of which a few years ago was looked upon as a great achievement by even good climbers, are now scaled by numbers of people every year; and each year brings additions to the conquered peaks, some of which were a decade ago looked upon as absolutely unclimbable, and likely to remain so. The Dolomites are, indeed, gradually becoming as well known to climbers and would-be climbers of even the countries of Western Europe as are the Swiss Alps, and annually a larger number of lovers of Alpine scenery take their holidays in this region; and of late years the district has been visited by many even in winter time. In summer, although much accommodation has already been provided for tourists, it is, up to the present, decidedly insufficient for all the visitors who flock to this region during the months of July, August, and September. It is, therefore, advisable for any one who wishes for a comfortable time during those months to secure rooms in advance at all places which are to be visited, more especially at those centres of attraction to which the greater number of tourists are in the habit of gravitating. [Sidenote: DOLOMITE GROUPS] The Dolomites may be divided into the following groups, running from east to west.[20] (1) The Sextner Dolomites, the most important summits amongst which are the Drei Schuster Spitz, 10,375 feet, which is ascended generally from the Fischelein Boden; the Elferkofel, 10,220 feet; the Zwölferkofel, 10,150 feet; Oberbacher Spitz, 8700 feet, and the Drei Zinnen, 7897 feet, two absolutely bare peaks of sulphurous limestone, streaked with pale orange, rising grandly and boldly from behind the Monte Piana plateau like two huge scored and fissured fingers of a Titanic hand. (2) The Ampezzaner Dolomites, with Monte Cristallo, 10,495 feet, with its many peaks veiled by snows, glassing itself in the agate green waters of the lovely pine-environed Dürren See. Monte Antelao, 10,710 feet; the three Tofanas, ranging in height from 8565 feet to 10,635 feet; and the Sorapis, 10,520 feet. (3) The Agordinischen Dolomites, with the Nuvolau, 8685 feet; Monte Pelmo, 10,395 feet; and Monte Civetta, 10,565 feet, whose western face from Caprile was unascended till as recently as 1895, when Messrs. Raynor and Phillimore, with two Ampezzo guides, made the ascent. (4) The Grödener Dolomites, which embrace the beautiful Rosengarten, the Schlern, 8415 feet; the Sella-group, including the Sellajoch, 7275 feet; Rodella, 8155 feet, and other lesser peaks; and the Geislerspitzen, with its highest peak, Sas Rigais, 9930 feet. (5) The Fassaner Dolomites, consisting of the groups of the Latemar, 9166 feet; the Marmolada, the highest of all the Dolomites, a huge group with several peaks, including the Puntadi Penia, 11,020 feet; the Marmolada di Rocco, 10,820 feet, and other magnificent and lofty summits; and the Pala Group, including the Cimone Della Pala, 10,450 feet, the Pala Di San Martino, 9830 feet, and the Pala Della Madonna, 8336 feet. There are numberless interesting and picturesque excursions to be made in this charming region of the Dolomites, but the space at our disposal will only permit of the mention of a few of the most accessible, interesting, or picturesque. [Illustration: MISURINA LAKE] INNICHEN THROUGH THE SEXTEN THAL TO LAKE MISURINA. Innichen, reached from Toblach through a beautiful pine (larch) forest, is a prettily situated townlet on the Puster Thal road, with good accommodation for visitors. It possesses a fine monastery church, dating from the thirteenth century, which is one of the most interesting and unique buildings in Tyrol. It contains some very extraordinary and grotesque figures and faded frescoes, and a small chapel built in imitation of the Holy Sepulchre by one of the villagers, who once made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. The road leads a little below past the village into the Sexten Valley, the principal hamlet of which is Sexten, or St. Veit, which is nowadays a charming and much-frequented summer resort, where one may wander amidst almost illimitable pine forests, and enjoy fresh mountain air and quietude surrounded by exquisite scenery. From Sexten one reaches in about an hour Fischlein Boden, by way of Moos, along a beautiful path through the pine woods, from whence one obtains an admirable view of the head of the valley, with the Drei Schuster Spitze, the Oberbacher Spitze, Drei Zinnen, Elferkofel, Zwölferkofel, and Rothwand, and an almost unrivalled vista of snow peaks. From this point, passing the Zsigmondy Hut, 7320 feet, one comes to the Bacherjoch. From the Zsigmondy Hut, the Elferkofel and the Zwölferkofel may be ascended, both of which are, however, very difficult. Over the Bacherjoch a footpath leads to the Drei Zinnen Hut on the Toblinger Riedel, 7895 feet, on past the celebrated Drei Zinnen to the pretty Misurina Lake, tree-bordered and mountain environed, one of the most charming and picturesque spots in the Dolomites. TOBLACH THROUGH THE AMPEZZO THAL TO SCHLUDERBACH AND CORTINA. From Toblach there is an excellent excursion through the Ampezzo Valley to Schluderbach and Cortina. The starting-point is situated on the watershed of the high Puster Thal, and is a great place for consumptives and different forms of fresh-air cures. It is visited by people from almost all parts of the world, and in consequence the hotel accommodation is excellent and even luxurious. The village of Toblach itself is at the head of the Ampezzo road, which here leaves the Puster Thal at an altitude of nearly 4000 feet, and leads due south, passing between the Sarlkofel, 7740 feet, on the right, and the Neunerkofel, 8418 feet, on the left. The Puster Thal railway, which comes within about a mile of the village, makes Toblach easily accessible, and it is in the neighbourhood of the station that the huge modern hotels are built, acting, as it were, as gateways to the beautiful Ampezzo Valley. The road through the latter is a magnificent one, well suited for motoring if care be taken in descending some of the sharp curves which lead down into Cortina; and especially beautiful upon such an evening in June as we traversed it, just as the sunset hues were illuminating the higher peaks with that roseate glow which is destined too soon to fade to purples and through them to the slatey blues of twilight. From Toblach the ascent is very gradual to the pretty and romantically situated Toblach Lake; and thence one passes on to Landro at the head of the valley of the Schwarze Rienz, where rise the lofty and snow-clad Drei Zinnen with the waters of the Dürren See, jade green and beautiful in colour, with Monte Cristallo with its cap of eternal snow and its glacier, the Piz Popena and Monte Cristallino, rising in the background. From the Dürren See to Schluderbach, 4730 feet, is a distance of less than two miles; and here, too, one finds a beautifully situated village surrounded by fine scenery, and provided with excellent accommodation for tourists whether they be but passing along into Italy or inclined to make a lengthy stay. [Illustration: A ROAD THROUGH THE DOLOMITES] SCHLUDERBACH--CORTINA. From Schluderbach the road passes over the boundary between Tyrol and Italy, through a beautiful forest, past a deep ravine, down to Ospitale, 4835 feet, situated at the base of the Crepa di Zuoghi, 6745 feet, and afterwards skirting the Peutelstein or Podestagno, 4945 feet, by a wide though sharply curving road skirting precipitous slopes and crossing the deep gorge of the Felizon by the Ponte Alto, down to Cortina d'Ampezzo, 4025 feet above the sea, reached by carriage from Toblach in about seven hours, and distant from it just over twenty miles. [Sidenote: CORTINA] Cortina is beautifully situated on the left bank of the River Botta, with the fine Tre Croci Pass (which takes its name from the three large wooden crucifixes) opening away behind the town eastward, and the Tre Sassi Pass widening out before it westward. The town is the principal one in the commune of Ampezzo, and is surrounded by stupendous heights and grand snow-clad mountains, amongst which are some of the most splendid of the Dolomites. For years past Cortina has been so considerable a resort of tourists and rest-seekers that splendid accommodation is nowadays obtainable; and one of the first impressions made by the place upon the traveller who comes to it after that of its picturesqueness is its prosperity. It is far cleaner, too, than most Italian or semi-Italian towns of its type. Though the climate is so favourable--even in the coldest of winters the thermometer seldom falls far below freezing-point--the soil of the district is very poor, and the appearance of most of the mountain-sides and valleys is bleak. There is in consequence little agriculture and no cultivation of the vine in the immediate neighbourhood of Cortina. Indeed, throughout the Ampezzo Thal pasturage and timber-felling, and not agriculture, are the chief industries, although wood-carving and the manufacture of gold and silver filigree work is carried on to a very considerable extent. The festivals and fairs of the district are amongst the most important of south-eastern Tyrol, and at them one still sees many of the charming peasant costumes which have had here, as elsewhere, a tendency to die out. The huge silver-headed hairpins of the girls form a particularly noticeable feature of their elaborately and neatly plaited coiffures. The main street of Cortina is a sunny and picturesque one, many of the houses possessing quaint, irregular roofs, and the church, little piazza, and hostelries making up a charming picture, with a beautiful vista of pastures and mountain summits at the end of the street. The church, with its stately detached campanile, from the gallery of which, nearly 250 feet above the level of the street, there is a fine and extensive view of the town and valley, is one of the largest for many miles around, and contains, amongst other things, an unusually handsome altar, and some beautiful wood-carvings by Brustolone. The churchyard (unless recently altered) is a desolate though a picturesque spot, unfortunately a standing memorial of indifference for the memory of those who have passed away, and irreverent neglect. All who reach Cortina, whether they stay long or merely for a few hours, should go to the Aquila Nera Inn, if only to see the interesting and varied paintings of two of the sons of a former proprietor named Ghedina which adorn the walls of the dining-room, staircase, the outside of the "Dependance," and even the whitewashed walls of the outhouses and stables. The subjects are of great variety, displaying in many cases much technical skill and imaginative gifts, and comprise military and religious figures and designs, grotesques, and on the walls of the square-built and solid-looking Dependance are some large groups representing painting, sculpture, architecture, and other domestic subjects, especially noticeable being the painter-like and clever manner in which modern objects, such as telegraphic instruments, cameras, steam-engines, etc., have been handled. From the top of the campanile, in which are hung great bells, one has the village and the valley spread out at one's feet, with the Ampezzo Thal stretching north and south and the passes of Tre Croci and Tre Sassi stretching east and west. [Sidenote: BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS] In the valleys surrounding Cortina there are many beautiful wild flowers and specimens of Alpine flora, amongst the most noticeable of which are the wild daphne and the smaller mountain gentian; we fancy, too, that in another very beautiful though small pink flower with waxen petals, which grew in large clusters, we found the _Androsace glacialis_, although two botanically learned friends differed as to the correct name of this charming specimen. On the way to Cortina via Schluderbach one can, by branching off southward soon after leaving the village, reach, either on foot through the woods or by a good carriage road through the Val Popena, the beautiful and nowadays much-frequented Lake Misurina, in which the peaks of the Drei Zinnen and the tree-clad lower slopes of environing hills are charmingly reflected. The lake, although of comparatively small size, is justly considered one of the most beautiful in Alpine regions, and on its banks several large hotels have already been erected for the accommodation of the increasing number of visitors who come to this quiet and lovely spot which lies nearly 6000 feet above sea-level. One of the most picturesque excursions in this extreme southern limit of Tyrol is by the carriage road, which, after passing through the village, traverses the forest and by a gradual ascent reaches Tre Croci, 6000 feet above sea-level. All along this beautiful road, which traverses the slope of the Crepe di Rudavoi, one obtains the most beautiful peeps of the huge cliffs of Cristallo to the right, with fine vistas of the Marmorole and Sorapis on the opposite side. At Tre Croci the beautiful Ampezzo Valley suddenly bursts upon the view with the huge mass of the Tofana right across the valley, whilst in the distance and to the south-west appears the serrated ridge of Croda da Lago; and yet further distant the snow-clad summits of Marmolada. From Tre Croci the beautiful road runs direct to Cortina down a rather steep incline. Although the former means of reaching Cortina from Schluderbach by the high road and through the Ampezzo Thal is the more easily accomplished, none who have taken the road by way of Misurina will regret its greater length because of its greater interest. SCHLUDERBACH--PLÄTZ WIESE--PRAGSER WILDSEE--NIEDERDORF From Schluderbach, too, there is another road branching northward from the Imperial Road to Niederdorf on the Bruneck-Innichen-Toblach line, leading over the Plätz Wiese, upwards of 6500 feet above sea-level. There is a fine hotel on the Plätz Wiese, about two hours from Schluderbach, and it is from thence that one ascends the Dürrenstein, 9320 feet. This easily climbed mountain, although not providing much excitement for the expert Alpinist, is one of those which amply reward the climber for the fatigue and trouble of the ascent. As one stands upon the summit one has spread out around on all hands a most astonishing and magnificent panorama of the Dolomites, as well as of the glaciers and Middle Alps which lie to the north. Amongst the great heights and groups, on a good day plainly visible from the mountain, are those of the Tauern, Ortler, and Adamello, and the beautiful Pragser Thal, with amongst the chief heights the Hohe Gaisl, 10,330 feet; Cadini, 9320 feet; Monte Cristallo, 10,495 feet, with its glacier, and many other giants of the region. [Sidenote: PRAGSER WILDSEE] The road from Plätz Wiese continues past the little watering-place Alt-Prags to Niederdorf, to reach which occupies about three and a half hours. There is from this road another, branching off and leading past the watering-place of Neu-Prags, with its prettily situated houses and hotels, to the lovely Pragser Lake, nearly 5000 feet above sea-level, and distant from Niederdorf seven and a half miles. Pragser Lake, or the Pragser Wildsee, is one of the most beautiful, secluded, and romantic of all the Alpine lakes, surrounded and sheltered as it is by the mighty walls of the Seekofel, 9220 feet; the Herrstein, 8035 feet; Col de Ricegon, 8770 feet; Hochalpenkopf, 8420 feet, and many other wild and impressive heights. In the olive-green waters of the lake itself the two first-named giants are reflected with wonderful distinctness and beauty; whilst on the slopes of most of the surrounding mountains the silvery, star-like flowers of the edelweiss and the royal blue gentians grow with a luxuriance scarcely equalled in any other part of the Dolomite region. The climate of this Alpine lake is indeed bracing and health-giving, for on the hottest summer day one finds a cool and refreshing air coming down from the mountains and traversing the surface of the lake, whilst in the evening the temperature is not materially lowered, as so often occurs at places having such a considerable altitude and set amid great peaks, so that one can remain in the open air quite safely, even though lightly clad, until the beautiful Alpine twilight wraps the lake and its shores in a mantle of mysterious beauty, and night seems to descend from the summits of the great peaks around. No one, however, should think of visiting Pragser Wildsee in the summer season without first bespeaking accommodation at the beautiful hotel situated on the borders of the lake, or they may find themselves compelled (as have been many others before them) to turn their backs upon this lovely spot for lack of accommodation, as this is always crowded with visitors during the months of July, August, and the early part of September. This charming resort is most easily reached from Niederdorf, situated on the Puster Thal railway, one station eastward from Toblach. CORTINA--FALZAREGO--BUCHENSTEIN. From Cortina the old Imperial or high road takes one out of the Dolomites to the south-east into Venetian territory to Belluno, an interesting and picturesque old town standing on a hill between the Piave and Ardo, which at this point flow together. The Cathedral, built chiefly by Tullio Lombardo in the early years of the sixteenth century, was unfortunately greatly damaged during the earthquake in 1873; but it has been largely restored, and contains, in addition to many interesting architectural details, some fine altar paintings. From the summit of the campanile, which is upwards of 200 feet in height, one obtains a most exquisite view of the old town and surrounding country. The Prefecture, in the Piazza del Duomo, is a fine early Renaissance building dating from the end of the fifteenth century, and was originally the Palazzo dei Rettori. Belluno will shortly be connected by rail with Cortina, and possess a station of its own. The new Dolomite road, however, travels from Cortina in a south-westerly direction to the rock-strewn Falzarego Pass, 6945 feet, lying in the shadow of the Hexenfels, 8126 feet, whilst to the south-west rises the impressive, snow-covered Marmolada, with the Col di Lana, 8084 feet, in the foreground of the picture. From this pass one can ascend the Nuvolau, 8460 feet, from the summit of which there is a panoramic view of the railway and surrounding peaks. At the other end of the pass the new Dolomite road descends more than a thousand feet into the valley of Andraz, a little, picturesquely situated village from which several interesting excursions can be made, near which lie the ruins of a very ancient castle bearing the same name. Buchenstein, the chief village of the Buchenstein Valley, distant from the end of the pass some nine miles, is reached by the road from Andraz. There are some excellent inns, and the village is splendidly situated and makes a good centre for holiday makers. [Illustration: A PEEP OF THE DOLOMITES] BUCHENSTEIN--CAPRILE--ALLEGHE SEE--ARÁBA. Near it a little road branches off to the south-east, which, leading through Italian territory and crossing a stream, leads to Caprile, just over the Italian frontier, descending on the left side of the Val Cordevole, with fine views of the Val di Livinallongo. The village of Caprile, at the far end of which is the short Venetian column, surmounted by a lion of St. Mark, a relic of the days when the Venetians ruled the district, is a somewhat straggling one, with many of the houses built upon arches. The church is ordinary, although there are some quaint decorations to the organ-loft worth seeing. But, disappointing as is the village itself, its beautiful surroundings, with the truly magnificent prospect of Monte Civetta, and the beautiful Alleghe Lake, tempt one to prolong one's stay. From Caprile the road leads to the Lake, which lies at the foot of Monte Civetta. The high road, however, which is fairly level, leads first of all to the village of Arába at the foot of the Pordoijoch, 7355 feet. BRUNECK--ENNEBERG--ARÁBA. On the way to Arába one can also reach, direct from the Puster Thal station, St. Lorenzen, through the wildly beautiful and romantic Enneberg Thal, which forms the shortest route to the middle division of the great Dolomite road. One peculiarity of the Gader or Enneberg Thal, and other similar valleys of the district, is the fact that the peasantry speak neither German nor Italian (although in some valleys the latter language is gradually becoming more used), but the patois known as Ladin, which somewhat resembles the Romanche of the Grisons district, although each valley has certain peculiarities of dialect. No doubt these latter will in time die out, and German will become the common language of the more German valleys, and Italian of the more Italian. The carriage-road, which is 45 kilometres (28 miles) in length, is not suitable for motors; it leads past Pedrazes, 4350 feet high, and Corvara, 5110 feet, to Arába. Near Corvara lies the way over the Grödener-Joch, 7010 feet, into the beautiful Grödener Thal, often sung by the poet Walther von der Vogelweide. WAIDBRUCK--GRÖDENER THAL--ARÁBA. The usual starting-point, however, for the latter is Waidbruck, to the south of the Brenner road between Franzenfeste and Bozen. From Waidbruck, 1545 feet, which lies at the head of the Grödener Thal, with the Trostburg, 2040 feet, towering above it, the road goes to St. Ulrich, 4055 feet, distant eight miles, the chief village in the wide valley, prettily situated and surrounded by tree-clad slopes, beyond which rise some magnificent rocky Dolomite peaks. The church, dating from the end of the eighteenth century, has a beautiful interior, containing some excellent examples of the woodcarving for which the Grödener Thal has for ages been and still is famous. [Illustration: THE LANGKOFEL] [Sidenote: SOME DOLOMITE PEAKS] From St. Ulrich it climbs upwards through the valley, which at each step becomes more beautiful and more magnificent, to St. Christina, 4685 feet, with its mountain pastures dominated by the huge Langkofel-Joch, 8800 feet, and many other impressive heights, such as Secéda, 8270 feet, Geislerspitzen, 9930 feet, to the north, and the Plattkofel, 9740 feet, to the south; the Stella Group to the south-east, with the Col dalla Piëres, 9055 feet; and the Pitzberg, 6020 feet, Puflatsch, 7140 feet, and the more distant Rosengarten and the Schlern to the south-west. From St. Christina the road continues over the hill to St. Maria in Wolkenstein, to Plan, 5290 feet; from whence mule tracks lead over the magnificent Grödener-Joch, with its protection hut, or hospice, 7010 feet, into the Enneberg Valley to Arába; and also over the great Sella-Joch, 7275 feet, to Canazei, in the Fassa Valley, which lies southward of Pordoi. There are several excellent and interesting ascents which can be made from the Grödener Valley. First of all there is the romantic Geislerspitzen, which, however, should only be attempted by the skilled climber, as it is both a laborious and difficult ascent. In the same category, though more difficult, and suitable only for hardy mountaineers, are the Grosse Furchetta, with its highest point 9930 feet; Kleine Furchetta, a few feet less; the Fermeda-Thurm, 9440 feet; and the Gross Nadel, 9250 feet. Starting from the Sella-Joch, the magnificent Sella, with the Boè Spitz, 10,340 feet, as well as the wildly rugged Langkofel, can be ascended. From the Sella-Joch also one can easily ascend the Col Rodella, 8155 feet, which lies to the south-west of the former, from which summit one obtains a very fine and extensive panoramic view. ARÁBA--PORDOI--CANAZEI. In Arába, the second part of the new Dolomite high road, which comes over the Pordoi-Joch to Canazei, in the Fassa Thal, the way ascends in wide zig-zags through a beautiful and broad Alpine valley, in which those interested in botany will find a wealth of Alpine flora scarcely excelled by that of any portion of Tyrol, up to the heights of the Pordoi-Joch, where there is an inn at which meals can be obtained, and from which a most magnificent circular panoramic view extends. From this place well-made tourist paths extend in many directions to the Boè-Spitz as well as to the Fedaja Pass, 6710 feet, and the frontier between Tyrol and Italy; a most attractive road, with the huge snow peaks and glaciers of the giant Marmolada close at hand. The new Dolomite road goes from the Pordoi-Joch in a south-easterly direction, traversing a magnificent forest with wonderful and ever-changing views of the craggy peaks of the Dolomites, and thus on to Canazei in the curve of the Fassa Thal. CANAZEI--FASSA THAL--NEUMARKT--TRAMIN. This little town, 4790 feet, distant from Arába just over twelve miles, is charmingly situated, and much resorted to by tourists as a centre from which to make numerous interesting short tours in the Dolomites. The inns are simple in character though comfortable, and for that reason many will find that they possess an attractiveness exceeding that which one finds in hotels of a more pretentious class. The high road leads near Canazei, past Gries, Campitello, Vigo, and Möena, to Predazzo, the chief town in the Fassa Thal, 3340 feet, about nineteen miles from Canazei. The place occupies, so we are told by Baron Richthofen and other authorities, including de Saussure and Churchill, the site of an ancient volcanic crater, although it is indeed difficult for those unversed in geology and seismic phenomena to realize the fact. Predazzo, which stands in a broad valley at the junction of the Val Travignolo and Fleims Thal, is a prosperous town, mainly owing to the mineral wealth in the immediate neighbourhood, which of late years has been developed and worked, and the fertile nature of the valley. The inhabitants are principally iron workers, farmers, and hay or timber merchants, and their sphere of trade is a far wider one than the uninitiated would imagine, extending as it does throughout the Austrian Empire, to Germany, Switzerland, and other countries. The town cannot, however, be described as either very picturesque or pretty; there are too many saw mills and iron furnaces in it, and these in a measure serve to destroy the beauty of a naturally pretty valley. But the painter of figure studies and tiny domestic pictures, and the camera user with an eye for quaint "bits" may find them in the older portion of the town amongst the wooden buildings; and picturesque groups of women and girls are sure soon to reward the patient artist or photographer who takes up a position commanding the stone fountain in the main street, to which many come daily to draw water. There is a fine new church, which, however, cannot displace in one's artistic or sentimental affection the old one with its Tyrolese belfry and weather-worn look. The famous and curious old house known as the Nave d'Oro, now an hotel, but once the home of Giacomellis for hundreds of years, is worth inspection, as some of the armorial bearings of this erstwhile noble family still appear above the old carved doorways, and serve as decorations of the ceilings and fireplaces. The visitors' book contains what must be one of the most valuable (so far as scientists and geologists are concerned) collections of autographs to be found in any Tyrolean hotel. Predazzo is one of the finest geological centres in Eastern Europe, and in the immediate neighbourhood of the town many beautiful and varied minerals and crystals are found, amongst them the Tourmaline granite, Uralite porphyry, and the Syenite porphyry, with its marvellous crystals, which, so far as we have been able to ascertain, are unique to this district. Although Predazzo is chiefly--and, in fact, almost entirely--given over to mining, smelting, and timber-cutting, there is yet, amid all the hum of the timber sawing-mills, and the roar and smoke of the furnaces, a considerable lace-making school for women, where this most delicate of industries is taught and practised. Some exquisite specimens of lace are to be seen, and can be purchased at moderate cost. An interesting fact in connection with the rich pasturage on the slopes of the Latemar is that it belongs by common right to the descendants of the original families founding the village, and was given to the latter by a grant dating from the Middle Ages, but by whom made it does not appear absolutely certain. The road leads on through the Fleimse-Thal, past Cavalese, where there is an ancient palace of the Bishops of Trent, which has a painted façade. The building is now used as a jail. There is here a fine Gothic parish church, standing on a hill, with an old marble entrance porch, and some interesting pictures by native artists. The road then leads one on to the railway station at Neumarkt-Tramin, which is twenty-four miles from Predazzo and ninety-eight miles from Toblach. [Illustration: MOUNT LATEMAR] VIGO DI FASSA--KARER SEE. At Vigo di Fassa, 4565 feet, the chief village in the Fassa Thal on the road to Bozen and the Karer Pass, the road branches off, leading in a westerly direction over the Pass, 5270 feet, and past the Karer See, 5030 feet, which lies at the base of the Latemar, to Bozen. [Sidenote: THE VAJOLET AND SCHLERN] Karer See is one of the most beautifully situated places between the Rosengarten and Latemar, and is also one of the most celebrated and fashionable resorts in the Dolomite region. From its situation and numerous delightful walks and excursions which can be taken from it, it is especially suited for a lengthy stay, and for these reasons partakes somewhat of the nature of the well-known Swiss resorts such as St. Moritz, Pontresina, Engleberg, and other places of a similar character. Many of the hotels are most beautifully situated on the borders of the lake, with a picturesque background of pine woods, beyond which tower the serrated and deeply fissured summits of the Dolomites, with striking views of the great peaks of the Latemar, Rothwand, Ortler, Oetz Thal, and Stubai Alps. From Karer See the Latemar and the Rosengarten, whose highest point is 9780 feet, are easily visited, and among the excursions which those who are not expert climbers can take is that from Karer See, by the Rosengarten, past the Ostertag and Ciampedie hut, 6530 feet, to the Vajolet hut; or past the Kolner hut, 7630 feet, over the Tschager-Joch, to the Vajolet hut, 7430 feet. Starting from the Vajolet hut, one can ascend the Vajolet Thürme through a ravine filled with _débris_ and a steep slope usually covered with snow; the Rosengarten Spitz, 9780 feet, and the Kesselkogel, 9845 feet; Cima di Laura, 9440 feet, and several others. All of those mentioned are difficult ascents, and should only be attempted by expert climbers and with guides. From the Vajolet hut a fairly good footpath also leads over the Grasleiten Pass, 7100 feet, to the hut which occupies a magnificent position with an extensive view of the giant Dolomites in the immediate vicinity, and towards the west a fine prospect of the Presanella and Ortler Group. From this point the path leads through the Bärenschlucht up the Schlern. WAIDBRUCK--SEIS-SCHLERN. The Schlern, which is a huge accretion of Dolomite rock, towering above the green, undulating plateau which forms its base, the middle peak known as the Alt-Schlern or Petz, 8402 feet, is the highest of the series, although several of the peaks approach it in altitude within a few hundred feet. The Schlern forms one of the most attractive groups of Dolomite peaks, on account not only of the magnificent view which rewards the climber, but also because excellent accommodation for tourists and climbers has been provided on the slope of the Alt-Schlern just above the plateau, at a height of 8040 feet. There are situated the Schlern house, belonging to the Bozen Alpine Club, with upwards of thirty beds, and the Schlern Inn, containing a little over half that number. The starting-place for the ascent of the Schlern is usually Waidbruck, already referred to, and from thence a carriage-road leads by way of Kastelruth and the charmingly situated summer resort Seis, 3285 feet, to Bad Ratzes, 3950 feet, situated in the wild but well-wooded gorge of the Frötschbach. Between Seis and Bad Ratzes, set in the forest, are the ruins of the ancient home of the Minnesinger Oswald von Wolkenstein. From Bad Ratzes the peaks of the Schlern can be easily reached by a mule track, although serious climbers generally take up their residence at either the Schlern House or the Schlern Inn whilst ascending the various peaks which can be most easily reached from that point. BLUMAU--TIERSER THAL--ROSENGARTEN. From the Schlern and Rosengarten district one proceeds from the railway station to Blumau, 1020 feet, near Bozen, into the renowned and picturesque Tierser Thal. The carriage-road from Blumau takes one through pretty scenery in about two and a half hours to the little village of Tiers, and then on to Weisslahn-Bad, 3818 feet, from whence tourists' paths have been made leading up the Schlern to the Grasleiten hut, and over the Niger to the Kölner hut, from which one can then either ascend the Rosengarten, or proceed through beautiful flower-bedecked Alpine meadows to the charming Karer See. KARER SEE--BOZEN. From Karer See the road, which, though a fair one, is not practicable for motors, winds, gradually descending, through beautiful woods to Welschnofen, 3865 feet, a favourite summer resort, situated in a fine open valley with splendid views of the towering serrated ridge of the Latemar on the right, and on the left the beautiful Rosengarten. From Welschnofen there is a good road to Birchabruck, 2895 feet, a pretty place where the Welschnofen Thal branches to the left, and the wildly romantic Eggen Thal, leading to Bozen--which is the principal town in southern Tyrol--to the right. FASSA THAL--PANEVEGGIO--SAN MARTINO--TRENT. At Predazzo there branches off from the high road another good road which leads over the Rolle Pass, 6510 feet, into the Pala Dolomites, and then over Primero, 2350 feet, on one side towards Venice, and the other towards Trent. This fine high road threads its way through a splendid forest to Paneveggio, 5055 feet, a pleasantly situated village--set amid pine woods--from which one can return over the Lusia Pass, 6745 feet, to Möena, and ultimately to Karer See, with magnificent views of the Colbricon, the Cimon della Pala, and the Oetz Thal Alps in the background. From Paneveggio, too, the road climbs up the Rolle Pass, which forms the watershed between the Adige and Brenta, and then descends to San Martino, 4740 feet, which is charmingly situated in a beautiful wooded dell at the foot of the Dolomites. The road from the head of the pass to San Martino, once a monastery, is by stupendous zig-zags cut through a splendid forest. Yearly the little village is becoming more and more popular, owing to its beautiful situation, the equableness of its climate, and the many charming excursions which can be made on every hand suitable either for the pedestrian or the climber. The Imperial road from here descends rapidly to Primiero, and then traverses a wildly romantic ravine full of boulders, and with tree-clad mountain slopes to Primolano, on the Italian frontier, and thence to Tezze, 740 feet, which is the present terminus of the railway, and is the principal point on the Val Sugana road uniting Tezze with Trent, 640 feet, the chief town of the Italian Tyrol, with 25,000 inhabitants. These, then, are a few briefly sketched tours in the Dolomite region which will, as we ourselves know, well repay the seeker after magnificent scenery, pure air, and solitude, or society, as the case may be. Quite recently a most excellent and original type of relief map of the Dolomites has been published, which on account of its clearness and comprehensive character makes it a very valuable, if not positively indispensable, companion for all who wish to travel in this most interesting, though somewhat complicated district. Fortunately the map, which is published at a remarkably moderate price, is to be obtained at all the principal railway stations of the south Austrian railways, and one cannot do better than obtain a copy ere setting out for a Dolomite tour, whether it be an extended one or not. We would call particular attention to the fact that the Dolomites being, many of them, on the frontier between Austria and Italy, there are numerous fortresses dotted about in quite unsuspected corners, the sketching and photographing of which, or even of their immediate surroundings, is very strictly prohibited. Warnings on signboards are erected at all the points of danger, and the instructions placed thereon should on no account be disregarded. The consequences of so doing are likely to be extremely unpleasant, and possibly lead to the at least temporary incarceration of the offender. FOOTNOTE: [20] The heights given are those appearing in the latest edition of Baedeker's "Eastern Alps" and the publications of the Vienna and Austrian Alpine Clubs. CHAPTER XI THROUGH THE UNTER-INNTHAL: KUFSTEIN--KUNDL--RATTENBERG, AND THE STORY OF WILHELM BIENER--BRIXLEGG, AND ITS PEASANT DRAMAS--THE FAMOUS CASTLE OF MATZEN--ST. GEORGENBERG, AND ITS PILGRIMAGE CHURCH--CASTLE TRATZBERG--SCHWAZ The first view one has of Kufstein from the railway, or rather of its ancient fortress of Geroldseck, which dominates the prettily situated little town, is almost bound to evoke the remark that it is a Salzburg in miniature. Indeed, the parallel is not an inapt one, for the partially tree-clad and rocky eminence on which the last stronghold held by the Bavarians at the end of the invasion of 1809 stands bears considerable resemblance to the greater Mönchsberg with the town spread out at its feet. The river Inn has narrowed ere it reaches Kufstein, which may be called the border town of north-eastern Tyrol, and now flows rapidly onward to meet the Danube. The place is pleasantly situated; but it is rather on account of the interest and beauty of its surroundings than to the town itself that its growing popularity as a holiday resort must be chiefly ascribed. And yet, with that ancient and grim old castle above one, with its huge round tower dominating the rock on which it stands, and the charming valley and pine-clad slopes of the environing hills spread out on either hand, one is tempted to linger in the town. The Castle, which in all probability occupies the site of Roman _Albianum_, marks the position of one of the oldest settlements in Tyrol. Even in the times of Charlemagne there is at least one record of the place "Caofstein," accompanied by some interesting details. From its position near the borderland of an antagonistic race Kufstein's history is romantic, stirring, and chequered. As a well-known writer upon Tyrol aptly says, "For centuries it was turned into a political shuttlecock, now taken by force of arms, then by stealthy surprise, now mortgaged, then redeemed or exchanged for some other possessions by its whilom owners."[21] And its general fate and varying fortunes were similar to those of other frontier fortresses, such as Kitzbühel during the Middle Ages. The grim fortress upon the rock, somehow or other, when seen in the fading light of evening, seems to bear its story of cruelty, rapine and harshness on its face. Many a gallant heart in the old days, which people are so prone to label "good," pined or fretted to death within its walls; and, unless tradition is entirely at fault, many a noble maiden and dame also were incarcerated and died tragic deaths within its thick, grim walls, and in its sunless dungeons. The history of the fortress, so far as it concerns us, may commence with its cession to Bavaria in or about 1363 by the Duchess Margaret, the last of Count Albert's successors as rulers of Tyrol, when she found herself unable to govern the country. She had acquired the estates of Kufstein, Rattenberg, and Kitzbühel on her marriage with Louis of Brandenburg; and when she ceded Tyrol to Austria it was stipulated that these properties should revert to Bavaria. [Sidenote: SIEGE OF KUFSTEIN] These possessions remained Bavarian until the reign of the Emperor Maximilian I., when the two latter gave allegiance to him. Kufstein, however, refused to yield, and so in 1504 Maximilian appeared before it, and commenced a siege. This event is particularly interesting, as some authorities state it constituted the first occasion on which proof was given that the introduction of artillery meant the death-knell of mediæval fortresses, however strong and hitherto regarded as inaccessible they might be. We are told, however, that the guns brought to bear upon the Castle by the Emperor in the first instance were quite ineffective, so much so, indeed, that the Governor, named Pienzenau, whose sympathies were strongly Bavarian, aroused the Emperor's anger by causing some of the garrison to sweep up with brooms the dust, which had been the only damage done by the besiegers' guns to the Castle walls, which were of great thickness, and also to dust the latter themselves with the same articles in full sight of the besiegers. The guns were either too small, or had been placed at too great a distance from the Castle to do more than graze it with their shot. Finding his culverins and "serpents" of no avail, the Emperor dispatched some one to Innsbruck for two monster guns, known as _Weckauf_ and _Purlepaus_, which the Governor of that town, Philip von Recenau, had recently cast at the foundry. These weapons, of which drawings are extant, although the chroniclers of the time do not mention their calibre or dimensions, were of considerably larger size than "Queen Elizabeth's Pocket Pistol" at Dover, and threw balls of about 300 pounds in weight, it is said, for a distance of nearly two thousand yards. The arrival of the great guns put a very different complexion upon the siege; and after they had been brought to bear upon the castle, and had been fired,[22] it was found that their shot not only penetrated the fourteen-feet-thick walls with ease, but even the rock itself was pierced, according to some historians, to a depth of eighteen inches. Pienzenau now wished to surrender to the Emperor, provided his life was spared. But Maximilian did not forget the incident of the brooms, which bears some slight analogy to the historic "broom" incident connected with the Dutch Admiral Van Tromp, who hoisted one at his masthead in derision of the English, whom he claimed to have swept off the seas. "So he is anxious to throw away his brooms, is he?" the Emperor is said to have remarked. "He should have taken this course before. He has caused by his obstinacy the walls of this fine fortress to be so shattered, so he can do no less than give his own carcase up to a similar fate." And although great efforts were made to obtain pardon for Pienzenau and some of his more important supporters they were unsuccessful, the Emperor remaining quite obdurate. It is this execution of a brave man (whose courage and fidelity to his nation should have aroused nothing but admiration) which is a stain upon the Emperor's record. No less than five and twenty of the principal defenders were condemned to be executed. The survivors of the garrison attempted to escape secretly before the general assault, which had been arranged, took place, but they were captured. The first to be beheaded was Pienzenau; but when seventeen (some authorities say eleven) of his companions had shared the same fate, Eric, Duke of Brunswick, interceded with Maximilian so earnestly that the lives of the rest were spared. This same Eric had formerly saved the Emperor's life in battle, and possibly this fact influenced the latter towards clemency. Over the grave in which the victims of Maximilian were buried by the people of Kufstein was erected a little chapel at Ainliff on the opposite bank of the river. The booty and valuables taken from the Castle were placed together and divided (including, for those times, the very large sum of 30,000 florins in hard cash) according to the rank of the victors. The Emperor showed himself on this occasion more just to his troops than he had been clement to the defenders, as he paid his share of the spoil into the common fund. The small booty he took consisted chiefly, if not entirely, of skins of the lynx and marten, and other hunting trophies. Kufstein, after its reduction by the Emperor Maximilian, was garrisoned, and in succeeding ages underwent numerous sieges, including the memorable one during the campaign of 1809, when Speckbacher performed deeds of bravery which were almost apocryphal in character. [Sidenote: A KUFSTEIN ROMANCE] As is perhaps only natural, there are many legends and romantic stories connected with the fortress, some of them arising out of the life-histories and achievements of the many distinguished prisoners who were from time to time during the Middle and succeeding ages confined within its walls. Amongst the more romantic captives was the famous Hungarian brigand, Andrew Roshlar, who was tried and condemned to death at Szegedin nearly forty years ago, to whose account upwards of a hundred murders were ascribed. Kufstein must have been a difficult place from which to break out, but there is, at least, the tradition of a prisoner in the fifteenth century making good his escape. He was a Tyrolese knight captured by the Bavarians, and confined, apparently with some degree of comfort and laxity of surveillance, in one of the upper chambers of the great round tower, from which, through the devotion of the girl (a maiden much beneath him in rank) to whom he was secretly betrothed, he succeeded in escaping. The story goes that this girl, who came from some place west of Innsbruck, having discovered the whereabouts of her lover after some difficulty, succeeded in obtaining a post as maid in the household of the then owner. After some weary weeks of waiting, she obtained access to her lover's cell, having been given the work of carrying up to him daily his supply of food and water. It was then arranged between them that she should each day convey to him a small quantity of hemp, out of which he was to fashion a rope. This she did, concealing the hemp in the bosom of her dress. In course of time the imprisoned knight had made a sufficiently long rope to reach from his window to the ground, the bars across which he had gradually almost filed through from the outside inwards, so that any one casually examining them would not be likely to discover the fact. Everything was ready for the escape, and it was arranged that the same night the girl was to make her way out of the Castle and join him ere the great gate was shut. On the day fixed she had brought the captive's allowance of food about noon, as usual, when on leaving the cell and making her way downstairs she was accosted by one of the steward's sons who had sought her favour. She was horrified to find that he suspected the plot, and that the price of his silence was her honour. She hesitated, and pitifully entreated him to spare her, but to no avail. Then, when he told her that not only would discovery mean her own death in all probability, but certainly the death of her lover, she yielded. About sundown she left the castle, and mad with grief at the shame and insult she had been compelled to suffer, she wandered about until it was dark. She had determined to assure herself of her lover's escape, and then to cast herself from the steepest point of the rock upon which the Castle stands down into the valley below. In the dusk she at length saw faintly a black figure descending against the wall, and then she heard cautious footsteps approaching the thicket in which she stood concealed. With a half-stifled cry which she could not altogether suppress, she hurried through the undergrowth, and was within a few yards of the edge of the rock, when she was seized by her lover and saved from destruction. The story goes on to say that they both escaped, and that the knight eventually married (and, let us hope, lived happily with) the brave girl who had compassed his deliverance. [Illustration: A PEEP OF KITZBÜHEL] The town of Kufstein itself does not call for extended description. But one feature that immediately prepossesses the visitor in its favour, if one arrive, as we did when last there, on a hot summer day, is the number of shady promenades to be found, more especially on the east side of the town, in the neighbourhood of the delightfully picturesque Kiengraben. None should fail to visit the Calvarienberg, from which there are delightful and extensive views of the Castle, town, and valley. [Sidenote: KUFSTEIN TO KITZBÜHEL] To reach Kitzbühel from Kufstein it is necessary to change trains at Wörgl, eight and a half miles down the Unter-Innthal, and proceed up the Brixen Thal by the Staatsbahn past Hopfgarten to Kitzbühel. The town is a charming one, surrounded by gardens where once there ran a moat, and containing some interesting houses along the banks of the Kitzbühler Ache. Many of them still have Gothic roofs and gables, which give them a mediæval appearance, and one of great charm. The town has of late years become a favourite summer resort, and its fine situation in a wide valley nearly 2500 feet above sea-level has much to recommend it. But its fame is by no means merely that of a summer holiday spot. It is almost equally resorted to for winter sports of tobogganing, ski-ing, and skating, and may be, in fact, called the Tyrolese Grindelwald or Adelboden. Then the snow-clad valley is indeed beautiful, more like fairyland than aught else, with only the church spires of Kitzbühel and the pines on the hillsides to break the wide white expanse. The Kitzbühelhorn is a favourite ascent, from which very fine views are to be obtained, especially of the giants of the Tauern range, the Chiemsee, and the rocky and impressive Kaiser Gebirge. The pasturage and the Alpine flora in the neighbourhood of Kitzbühel are especially rich, and there are many beautiful excursions to be made in the district round about. In the Brixen Thal, indeed, the artist and the student of costumes and ancient customs, which are, alas! so rapidly dying out, will find much of interest. In many of the villages the annual contests, consisting of wrestling and other sports--which anciently were often so strenuous as to lead to serious injury to the combatants and competitors, and even bloodshed--still take place. At Kitzbühel there is an athletic gathering in June, which is held on a plateau near the inn on the Kitzbühelhorn, and partakes of the character of the Grasmere Sports of our own land, and the Braemar gathering in Scotland. The peasants as a general rule in the Brixen Thal, as in the more famous Ziller Thal, are musical, and often indeed are quite skilled musicians; and frequently as one wends one's way through the flower-spangled pastures or climbs the mountain-side, from some isolated hut or shady nook beneath a boulder will come the musical tinkling of a cowherd's zithern or the flutey notes of his pipe. But, as a rule, we have found the players shy of performing before strangers, who will therefore be well advised if they listen to the music unseen and without seeking to discover its source. The Brixen Thal, too, is a great dairy district, the chief industries of which are butter- and cheese-making. As regards the scenery of the valley one may say that in few others in Tyrol does one come across a greater variety of light and shade, or more delightful cloud effects. Indeed, the clouds, which at one time seem as though they will sweep down the mountain-sides and obscure everything, and at others sail majestically, like huge cotton-wool argosies, across the blue vault of heaven, thousands of feet above the highest peak of the Tauern Giants and the bare and grey limestone peaks of the Kaisergebirge, in themselves form pictures and phenomena of the greatest beauty and of ever changing interest. [Sidenote: MONKISH MIRACLES] Kundl is a small village some four miles south-west from Wörgl, and it would attract little attention from travellers were it not for the curious church of St. Leonard auf der Wiese (St. Leonard in the Meadow) and the quaint legend attached to it. The story goes that early in the eleventh century a stone statue of St. Leonard came floating down the Inn to this spot; and the people, recognizing that for a stone statue to float was nothing less than miraculous, after securing it, set it up by the roadside, so that all who passed by should see and reverence it. Probably modern scepticism will lead us to suppose that the figure was in reality of wood and not stone; and then the miracle explains itself! The region is subject to floods, and doubtless the figure of St. Leonard came from some church higher up the valley which had been destroyed by avalanche or inundation. However, the story goes on to tell us that the statue had not long been placed in position alongside the high-road ere Henry II., Duke of Bavaria, himself passed that way, and seeing it paused to ask an explanation of its being there. When the story had been told him, he seized the opportunity (as did many other rulers in those days) to strike a bargain with Heaven which, whilst benefiting Mother Church, would also be not without profit to himself. He therefore vowed that if the expedition into Italy, which had brought him along that road, should prosper and his forces be victorious, he would on his return build a handsome votive church over the spot where the figure of the saint stood. Alas! for human vows, even those of one destined to become an Emperor. Although his arms prospered, and he was crowned at Pavia, and made King of Germany, he forgot all about St. Leonard. Some years later (in 1012) fortunes and the cares of his kingdom once more brought him into Tyrol on his way northward and to the spot where the figure of the saint still stood by the roadside. Then another miracle happened, for his horse, "although urged forward with whip and spur and words," refused to pass the spot where his master had formerly made so solemn a vow, and stood foaming and champing his bit much to his rider's embarrassment. As was but natural, the Emperor at once remembered his vow and set about fulfilling it. The church, which was forthwith commenced, was finished in a couple of years, but a catastrophe marked its completion. Just as a young man was about to place the vane in position he was seized with sudden giddiness, and falling to the ground was dashed to pieces. "His body," so a somewhat quaint local version of the story has it, "was gathered together by the horrified onlookers," and his skull--which can still be seen--was placed at the foot of the crucifix on the high altar as an offering. There is a record in the church of the fact that the Emperor erected the building, and that Pope Benedict VIII., who was a nominee of his, made the very considerable journey from Rome to consecrate it. There would, however, notwithstanding this, appear considerable reason for doubt whether he did. The image now to be seen only dates from 1491, and there is no record regarding the disappearance of the original "miraculous" one which it must have replaced. The interior of this church has suffered both from neglect and whitewashing at various times. But there are some quaint and excellent carvings, including a few pew ends, and also some fine iron work, and the figures adorning the ten columns which surround the high altar are interesting. It is as one comes into the village that the prettiest view of the church is obtained. Rattenberg, which is some five miles distant from Kundl on the main line and road, is not much visited by tourists, and is chiefly of note on account of the copper mines, which are still worked. The town is, however, decidedly picturesque and repays a visit. Scarcely anywhere in Tyrol in a place of similarly small size does one get such contrasts in architecture. And, doubtless, for this reason one seldom fails, during the summer months, to find several artists at work in the narrow streets. One side of the river is occupied by houses and buildings of the most solid, gloomy, and altogether unprepossessing character, whilst on the opposite bank one finds the very antithesis in the pretty, light-looking dwellings, quaintly painted in delicate shades of buff, pink, and sky-blue. Beside them and between them are quaint courtyards and narrow alleys of often an extremely picturesque character. [Sidenote: WILHELM BIENER] Many people seem to confuse the Castle of Rattenberg, which dominates the little town and river, with that of Rottenberg, the crumbling ruins of which lie on an eminence overlooking the roads which lead out of the Inn Thal into the Achen Thal and Ziller Thal, once the seat of one of the most powerful feudal families of Tyrol. Rattenberg Castle is said by some authorities to date back to the days of the Roman occupation, and even to Etruscan times, and its history has been not less stirring and chequered than that of most other similarly placed fortresses of the Inn Thal. The chief event in connection with it was the imprisonment of Wilhelm Biener, the brilliant Chancellor of Claudia Felicitas de Medici, wife of the Archduke Leopold V. Biener, unfortunately, afterwards fell into disfavour with the pro-Italians at the Court of Claudia's son and successor, the Archduke Ferdinand Karl, Regent of Tyrol, and was executed at Rattenberg in 1649 and buried near the wall of the churchyard. Those who wish to know more of the romantic and stirring period of Tyrolese history in which Biener lived and died cannot do better than read that fine historical novel, "Der Kanzler von Tyrol" (The Chancellor of Tyrol), by Herman Schmid. The story of Biener's fall may be briefly told. Claudia de Medici, on the death of her husband, with her Chancellor's advice and assistance, succeeded, not only in governing Tyrol wisely and well during the minority of her two sons, but, by the exercise of great wisdom, contrived to escape embroilment in the terrible and disastrous Thirty Years' War in which the whole of the rest of the German Empire was involved. Her rule, however, was not altogether without some harshness, which was chiefly shown in the collection of taxes, and in this matter the Chancellor Biener was naturally concerned, with a result that his zeal for his beautiful mistress's interests caused him to incur the hatred of a certain section of the Court and community at large. On one occasion he found himself in serious opposition to the then Bishop of Brixen concerning the payment of certain dues, the legality of which the bishop questioned. Biener appears for once to have failed in his usual skilful and diplomatic treatment of affairs. He wrote a very intemperate letter to the bishop, which the latter never forgot nor forgave. Years after the death of Claudia, the resentment against Biener took more definite shape, and he was accused of having misappropriated some of the money belonging to the State which had passed through his hands. Tried by two Italian judges, he was found guilty (though, apparently, upon very flimsy evidence), and condemned to death. The fallen Chancellor made a last appeal to the Archduke Ferdinand Karl, son of his late mistress, and the Archduke, thoroughly believing in Biener's good faith and innocence, and, doubtless, remembering his many distinguished services to his family, reprieved him. Unhappily for the condemned man, his greatest enemy, the President of the Council, named Schmaus, was able to so delay the messenger that he arrived too late to save the Chancellor. Biener was led out for execution, and on stepping on to the scaffold, he cried out, "As truly as I am innocent of this thing, I summon my accuser (Schmaus) before the Judgment Seat above before another year shall pass away." When the executioner had done his work, and stooped to pick up the head to exhibit it to the multitude, he found that he had also unknowingly smitten off three fingers of the victims right hand, strangely (so the story goes) bringing to mind the remark of the Bishop of Brixen on reading Biener's letter years before--"The man who could write a letter like this to me deserves that his fingers which held the pen should be cut off." By an equally remarkable occurrence, we are told, the President of the Council, who had been not only Biener's most relentless enemy but his chief accuser, died within the specified time of a terrible disease. The wife of the Chancellor is supposed to haunt the mountain paths in the neighbourhood, and at night may be sometimes met with proclaiming her husband's innocence in a moaning voice. The story, doubtless, has its basis in the circumstance that the unfortunate woman lost her reason and ran away no one knew whither, but was ultimately found wandering aimlessly, and quite bereft of her senses, on the mountain-side between Brixlegg and Rattenberg. There was for many years (and may be still for aught we know) a tradition that when any one was about to die in the little village near Innsbruck, where Biener's wife, after her marriage, lived happily for many years, she appears to warn them. Near the town, in one of the mining buildings, is a most curious picture done upon a wooden panel, combining a representation of the mining works about 1500 with one of the Crucifixion, in which the miners, with their pickaxes and shovels laid down beside them, are seen kneeling in prayer. [Sidenote: BRIXLEGG] Brixlegg is but a mile or so from Rattenberg. The neighbourhood is pretty, and there is a charming view from the bridge. The little busy town also forms an excellent centre from which to make some of the shorter excursions into the Ziller Thal and Achen Thal. But, although there are considerable smelting works and a wire-drawing industry at Brixlegg, to the tourist it is chiefly its reputation for peasant dramas which forms the chief attraction in the town, which is, however, quaint and in a measure picturesque. The rural plays of Brixlegg are not only interesting by reason of the historical scenes they many of them represent, but also as survivals of a very early (if not the earliest) type of German dramatic expression and art which has come down to us. Most of the plays, types of costume, plots, and all the various items which go to make up these performances have done service for generations; but occasionally new plays are written and staged, mostly dealing with historical incidents and characters. In some parts of Tyrol where these plays survive, till at least very recent times, old masks were extant, which must have been handed down from the early Middle Ages, and possibly (so some competent authorities assert) date from Roman and Etruscan times. The Brixlegg performances should most certainly be seen by all who are interested in the true peasant drama and the evolution of dramatic art. The representations are far more interesting as native and peasant art than those of Meran, where to a certain extent outside criticism and influence have served to bring about modifications, the Meran performances lacking some of the naiveness and spontaneity of these simpler peasant dramatic plays. [Sidenote: SCHLOSS MATZEN] Just after leaving Brixlegg, on the left-hand side of the road stand three castles of note--Matzen, Lichtwer, and Kropfsberg. The first named is one of the most interesting and well-preserved examples of the mediæval schloss in Tyrol. A whole volume might be devoted to a description of its beauty of situation, architecture, romantic history and sieges, and yet leave much unsaid. Its huge round tower dominates the landscape, just as its beautiful lower courtyard, with its four tiers of cloistered corridors round two sides, with the "springs" of the arches supported upon short columns of unworked marble, its fine main hall, with priceless carved and panelled oak and hunting trophies, make it a unique possession. There is a charming view of its rivals, Lichtwer and Kropfsberg, from the drawing-room window, whilst standing at which (according to old chroniclers) one of the Frundbergs was shot dead by a crossbow bolt fired by his brother from the tower of Lichtwer, of which castle the latter was the owner. [Illustration: SCHLOSS MATZEN] Of special interest to most visitors who may be fortunate enough to be permitted to see Matzen and its treasures will undoubtedly be the famous figure of Christ upon the cross in the chapel; the library--one of the oldest rooms--with its fine Renaissance chest; the fine collection of old pewter; the hunting-room, with the many trophies of its famous "sporting" as well as literary owner;[23] and perhaps not without interest to most visitors will also be the stone table, once standing upon the place of execution at the other end of the castle, but now in the shadow of the great circular Roman tower, just outside the postern entrance from the garden. At this table in olden times, it is said, the owner of Matzen sat when dispensing justice to his vassals or retainers. Set in the wide valley, and girt around by trees, Matzen is one of the most picturesque as it is one of the most interesting and historic castles in Tyrol. There is not much to detain one at Jenbach, which is a small town at the entrance to the Achen Thal, on the northern, and the Ziller Thal on the southern, bank of the Inn. Just before one reaches Schwaz, one sees storied Castle Tratzberg high on a wooded spur of the Bavarian Alps, with its three turrets in line, seeming to overhang the rocky eminence upon which it stands. Up above the castle, scarcely visible from the valley, is the famous pilgrimage church of Georgenberg, which all who can should visit. The path, though toilsome, winds through a sweet-scented pine forest. As one nears the goal of one's pilgrimage, the way is marked by stations of the cross. One passes through a silent region, and, as one ascends, the pretty villages scattered below in the valley of the Inn are gradually and for a time lost to view. Scarcely any one is met save a stray pilgrim or some tourist curious enough to make the ascent, and no sound is heard save the soughing of the summer breeze in the pines and the tinkle of little streams or the water-music of the Stallen torrents. At last, through an opening in the environing forest, one catches the first glimpse of the white church, with its Romanesque tower and rust-red roof, standing on a steep and barren rock some three hundred feet in height, to reach which the covered wooden bridge spanning the deep ravine must be crossed. And what a shrine it is! An isolated tabernacle set upon a rock in a solitary place, and amid surroundings of the greatest beauty and impressiveness; shut out of the world and shut in with nature. The cross at the head of the bridge records the miraculous escape of a girl long ago who, whilst attempting to pick the fairest flowers for a chaplet to place upon the Madonna's head or lay upon the altar, fell into the ravine, a distance of over one hundred and fifty feet, and yet escaped serious injury when death seemed certain. The impression one receives when at last the summit of the rock upon which the church stands is reached is one of great solemnity and even of grandeur. For a time the outer world has receded from one's mind and ceased to exist. And when one enters the church itself, the impression which has been created cannot fail to be intensified by the silent, kneeling figures almost always found within, with their faces illumined with rapture and faith or transfigured by religious fervour. [Sidenote: ST. GEORGENBERG] The little chapel of "Our Lady of Sorrows" (Schmerzhaften Mutter) comes first, surrounded with a tiny graveyard, in which are buried the favoured few who have had their wish gratified to rest in death in the solitary but beautiful spot they loved and visited when alive. The larger building, the church of St. George opposite the chapel, contains one of those most curious legendary relics of which not a few have been preserved from time immemorial in Tyrol. The story of the miracle which produced the relic is briefly as follows:--About the year 1310, in the days when Rupert I. was the fourteenth abbot in charge of the Monastery of Georgenberg, the ruins of which surround the present church, a Benedictine monk was saying Mass in this very church. Just as he was about to consecrate the cup, a doubt came into his mind as to whether such a miracle as the changing of the water and wine into blood could be accomplished in his unworthy hands. Torn with doubt, he nevertheless proceeded to use the words of consecration; and he was struck dumb with astonishment and awe to find, in place of the white wine and water he had placed in the cup, blood, which overflowed the chalice and fell upon the wafers. Some portion of this miraculous blood was preserved in a phial, which was set in a reliquary and placed upon the altar. In former times this precious relic, we are told, has worked many miracles, and is venerated almost as much to-day as in mediæval times. [Sidenote: A WOODLAND SHRINE] The pilgrimage of St. Georgenberg is one of the most famous and ancient in Tyrol. So ancient, indeed, that its origin appears to have dated as far back as the end of the tenth century, when a chapel was consecrated here by Albuin, the then Bishop of Brixen. Even before this, however, Scherer asserts that a young Bavarian nobleman named Rathhold, from Aiblingen, "having learned the hollowness of the joys of even his great position, made up his mind to live apart from the haunts of men in some wilderness and solitary spot." And in pursuit of this determination he wandered on through the fertile fields and valleys of his own land and those of the Inn until he at length reached this spot in the Stallen valley, and ultimately came to the rock upon which the church stands. Up on the mountain-side he carved out for himself a cave where he lived as a hermit. But after a while a desire possessed him to go to some of the shrines of the greatest saints. He visited many, even travelling so far afield as to the shrine of St. Jago de Compostella; and at length returned once more to his hermit's cave to finish his days in prayer and contemplation. But he brought back with him a picture of the Madonna, over which with his own hands he reverently erected a protective shrine. Soon from all the district round about, and even from distant parts of Tyrol and Bavaria, people came to worship at the shrine; and ere long "Our Beloved Lady under the Lindens" became a great pilgrimage resort. One day, years afterwards, so the story goes, there came to the place another young Bavarian nobleman who had wandered far in pursuit of game, and on hearing of the shrine had determined to visit it himself to ascertain what were the attractions and virtues of a place which was so venerated by the peasants of the mountains and valley round about. On his arrival at the little chapel he sought the hermit guardian, when what was his joy and astonishment to discover, in the white-bearded recluse, the elder brother whose strange disappearance from his castle home years before had caused much grief. Overjoyed at the meeting, the younger brother vowed that he would build a chapel on the spot more adequate for the protection of the holy and miraculous picture, and also a "shelter house" for pilgrims. The work was soon started, and from far and near peasants and even nobles came or sent offerings so that they might have some part in the work. Then a strange thing happened. All the virtue, which had made the spot one of miracles, and one of such good fortune to the halt, diseased, blind, and dumb, seemed to depart. Hardly had the workmen commenced the foundations of the proposed chapel ere accident after accident occurred, some of them fatal. The stones would not remain in place, and everything connected with the building "went wrong." Another curious happening was the presence day by day of two white doves, which came down, apparently from out of the woods higher up the mountain-side, and picked up every chip of wood upon which any of the workers' blood had fallen when they cut themselves with their tools (as they frequently did), and then at once flew away with the chips in their beaks. [Illustration: A WAYSIDE SHRINE IN A PINE WOOD] Finding that this action of the doves continued and that no progress could be made, the hermit determined to seek an explanation of the mystery, and so one day he followed the birds up the mountain-side, and on reaching the spot where he saw them descend he found to his astonishment a perfect miniature chapel or shrine which had been constructed out of the chips and shavings the doves had carried away. "In this miracle the hermit discovered the directing hand of God, and going down again to his brother he entreated him to have the contemplated chapel built upon the spot which had been so miraculously pointed out." This the latter willingly consented to do, and the work now progressed without accident or other interruption. The chapel so erected, which is further up the hillside than the larger church of St. George, was rebuilt at the time the latter was erected in the eighteenth century. From time to time other pilgrims both noble and simple who visited the shrine set amid the woods and mountains were moved to remain, and thus gradually a community was gathered together living in roughly built huts in the vicinity of the hermit's cell, which in course of time about the twelfth century was put by the then Bishop of Brixen under the rules governing the order of St. Benedict. The monks not only built a monastery but cultivated the surrounding land, and quite a large community at last dwelt in this secluded spot. But the life of the monks was destined to be very chequered, and often troubled with grave misfortunes. Fire, avalanches, famine, and disease all did their best to extirpate the brotherhood. And at last, at the beginning of the eighteenth century--after having been established at St. Georgenberg for more than five hundred years--it was decided to remove the monastic institutions to Fiecht. Vast funds were needed, for the then abbot, named Celestin Böhmen, who was a native of Vienna, and had formerly been an officer of artillery, projected the new monastery and buildings upon a lavish and colossal scale. There was, however, no lack of funds. St. Georgenberg held a place in the hearts of all the people for a wide district round about, and money also flowed into the monastic coffers from foreign lands from which pilgrims had come to the famous shrine. Then a great disaster happened. The abbot, tempted by the vast wealth which had been placed in his hands, and perhaps weary of his life of retirement from the world in which he had once been a prominent figure, fled with the money which was to have been used for the new abbey at Fiecht. The work of building was for a time brought to a standstill, as no trace of the defaulting abbot could be discovered. But after some years a sufficient sum of money was obtained to permit of the work being continued under the direction of Abbot Lambert. The result was the present handsome late Renaissance building; which, however, comprises but a small portion of the first magnificent scheme. The renegade Abbot, Celestin Böhmen, some years after his flight and crime, once more became enamoured of a life of contemplation, and suddenly appeared at the monastery, confessing his wrong-doing and throwing himself upon the mercy of his former companions. He did not appeal to their clemency in vain; for, refusing to deliver him up to justice, they allowed him to end his days in piety and repentance, which one can only trust was genuine. Such, at all events, is substantially the story as told by Burglechner and other writers. A strange fascination seems to enshroud this quiet and secluded shrine of St. Georgenberg, and certainly it is one of the pilgrimage places which most inspire one with the spirit of those remote ages when in the making of such journeys many found comfort, peace of mind, and refreshment. Indeed, one almost wonders that the monks should have deserted it for a new home and a less quiet situation on the hillside near Schwaz, which has now for some years been used as a school. [Sidenote: CASTLE OF TRATZBERG] Just before reaching Schwaz one passes the old and fine castle of Tratzberg, which well deserves a visit, not only on account of its art and other treasures, but also by reason of the delightful views obtained from it. Tratzberg, which was sold by the Duke Frederick to a rich mine-owner named Christian Tanzel in 1470, with the title of Knight of Tratzberg, was often visited by the Emperor Maximilian I. on his various hunting expeditions in the neighbourhood. Knight Tanzel spared no expenditure to make it one of the most beautiful and famous castles in the Inn Thal. Not the least interesting of the many finely decorated rooms which it contains are those which were generally occupied by Maximilian on his visits, and the fine apartment known as the Queen's room, with beautiful presses, interesting portraits, and magnificent panelled ceiling. The armoury, too, full of mediæval cannon, pikes, lances and other ancient weapons, never fails to interest the student and archæologist, who, whilst wandering through these ancient and wonderfully well-preserved rooms, gains a more vivid idea of the conditions of life in the Middle Ages than much "book learning" could give him. In the great hall are some remarkable frescoes in _tempera_, depicting the genealogical tree of the house of Habsburg with quaint groups of portraits. Some of the antlers, which are so attached to the wall as to serve as portions of the design, are said to have been hunting trophies of Maximilian himself. The two Maximilian rooms, which open one into the other, are happily in much the same condition and state as when occupied by the Emperor. The panelling, whilst not comparing for elaborateness with that in some of the other rooms, is good, and the ancient stove, dating from the fifteenth century, is of great interest. On the walls of the room in which this stands is an inscription in chalk, said to have been written by Maximilian himself, which sums up a quaint philosophy, and has been translated thus-- "I live I know not how long, I die I know not when; Must go I know not whither; The wonder that I so joyful am." [Sidenote: A GRUESOME STORY] In 1573 the castle and lands passed into the possession of the famous Fugger family, and ultimately into that of the Enzenbergs, one of whom is the present owner. There is at least one gruesome story and tradition told in connection with Tratzberg, which is not itself at all gruesome-looking, as Tyrol castles go. It appears that the ancient owners of the castle were most of them more noted for love of the chase than for being "instant in prayer," and one was so great a defaulter in this respect that, although he could always hear the notes of the hunting horn blown early in the morning and rise with alacrity to obey its summons, sad to relate, when the chapel bell rang for Mass, it was quite a different matter. One morning the bell woke him as usual, and as usual he yawned, and turned over in his bed for another nap, thinking, no doubt, pityingly of the folk who had got up early to attend the service. He had no sooner done this than he had a dream or vision of the old chaplain performing the service in the chapel, and of the devout worshippers gathered to listen to him. Then the triple tinkling of the Mass bell announced to him the most solemn rite of the service was being performed. Then came a rumbling noise, the very foundations of the castle seemed to shake, and the building to sway as though about to collapse, and the hundreds of windows rattled and shook. The knight, who was superstitious if not religious, terrified beyond control, shrieked aloud, and then tried to hide himself under the bedclothes in his terror. His cry was heard by some of the servants and retainers, who came hurrying to the room; and upon entering they were horror-struck to find their master dead, whilst upon his throat were the imprints of three claws, which had burned as well as torn the skin. The inference drawn was that the knight had been enjoined by some Heavenly spirit to rise and repair to the celebration of the Mass, but had resisted the Divine influence, and had been claimed by his master, the Devil, who had strangled him. Some marks on the walls of the room where he died were for years afterwards shown as those of the wicked knight's blood. There are many other traditions and legends attached to this famous castle, which is one of the several buildings in Europe making a claim to possess exactly as many windows as there are days in the year; but for these stories, interesting though they are as exhibiting the credulity, barbarism, and imaginativeness of mediæval times, we have not space. Not far from Tratzberg is the quaint, interesting, and flourishing town of Schwaz, on the right bank of the Inn, and overlooked by the Castle of Frundsberg. It was, far back in the times of the Roman occupation of Tyrol, a station of considerable importance and size; but after the evacuation of the country it gradually declined until the fourteenth century, when it was little more than a scattered hamlet of poor houses, with an inn for the accommodation of travellers who were too weary to proceed further on their way to Innsbruck, or who had been overtaken near the place by nightfall. [Sidenote: SCHWAZ MINERS] Then at the commencement of the fifteenth century, according to Burglechner, a vein of silver ore was discovered through the rampant behaviour of a bull, who went mad or became uncommonly energetic, and, tearing up the grass on the hillside with his horns, was the means of disclosing what afterwards proved to be a vast deposit of silver ore. The news of the discovery was brought hot haste to the poor hamlet by the herdsman who was in charge of the animal, and the inhabitants flocked out to investigate the story of the shining metal which had been uncovered. In a very short time Schwaz regained its ancient prosperity and importance, and at one time, when the silver mines were at their best, the population, which nowadays is about 6500, was not far short of five times as many. The discovery of the silver caused several of the noble families in the neighbourhood to forsake the calling of arms and knightly service for that of mine owning and mine working; and the vast wealth of the Augsburg merchants and bankers, notably the Hochstetters, Ilsungs, and Fuggers, was largely employed in the working of the mines which had been speedily opened up. Amongst the noble families who turned miners or mine proprietors was that of the Fiegers, one of whom was an intimate companion of Maximilian I. The latter, when Fieger died full of years and leaving an astonishing progeny and an enormous fortune behind him, was present at his old friend's funeral. His son, Hans Fieger, married Margaret von Pienzenau, who, on her coming to her husband's home, was accompanied by a vast cavalcade consisting of four thousand horses, of which those drawing her coach were shod with silver.[24] The mining industry was speedily developed by the immense sums wealthy merchants in Bavaria and elsewhere were willing to embark in speculation, or advance upon the security of the mines themselves; and so skilful and daring did the Schwaz miners become, that later on their services were requisitioned for use in the mines of other districts, and for military mining operations against the Turks in Hungary. In the siege of Vienna in 1529 by the Turks, Soliman the Magnificent, who invested the city with an army of 300,000 men, was forced to raise it, after losing nearly a fourth of his men, owing to the countermining of the Schwaz miners. Two centuries later, the Schwazers undermined and blew up the splendid and almost impregnable fortifications of Belgrade before it was ceded to Turkey; and at various times their services were engaged by the Dukes of Florence and Piedmont. Schwaz, too, has the distinction of having had one of the earliest of printing presses set up in the town; and matters referring to mining and mining methods were often referred to the experienced and skilful miners and engineers of Schwaz. Just as was the case with the miners of the not far distant Principality of Salzburg, those of Schwaz embraced the doctrines of Luther, and made serious attempts to put down Roman Catholic clericalism and oppression. On two occasions at least they marched in considerable numbers upon Innsbruck, but were met at Hall by the Bishop of Brixen, who prevailed upon them to return to their homes by promises of redress of their grievances. But though they consented to do this and did not proceed further down the Inn Thal, in Schwaz itself the new faith and its supporters became so powerful that at one time the latter managed to possess themselves of half of the parish church, in which portion the Lutheran service was performed. Ultimately they were ejected, and had to meet in a wood near the town, where two followers of the Reformer, who had been deprived of their status as Catholic priests, used to preach. The appearance some little time later of a Franciscan, who came to Schwaz with the object of "stiffening" the backs of the Catholics and stamping out the new faith, led to collisions of a violent character between the two parties. One story, that was very generally accepted as a miracle by the Catholic population, concerning these disputes, which sometimes were not confined to words and arguments alone, is as follows. A leader amongst the reformers is stated to have exclaimed during a heated discussion, "If Pastor Söll (one of the priests who had accepted Luther's doctrines) does not preach the true doctrine, may the Devil carry me up into the Steinjoch." Hardly, we are told, were the words out of his mouth when the speaker vanished. It is unnecessary to add that the Lutheran faith received a heavy blow from this incident, and the effect of the miracle, establishing, as the Catholics claimed, the true faith, was further increased when the unfortunate man who had thus been so suddenly spirited away returned some time afterwards, confessing his transportation to the Steinjoch, with a bruised body, and shattered faith in Pastor Söll. Later on the mining industry was brought almost to a standstill owing to religious disputes, and an invasion of Anabaptists. And although the latter were expelled, and many thousands of those who favoured the reformed faith were brought back to the true fold through the instrumentality of the Jesuit fathers from Hall, the mines from this time commenced to decline in richness, and never recovered their former productiveness. For a considerable period copper and an excellent quality of iron was found in large quantities after the silver gave out, but the place as a mining centre declined more and more as the years rolled by. Schwaz, in addition to its religious dissensions, has in the past suffered from a visitation of the plague, "when the inhabitants died off like flies"; and it also suffered terribly in the campaign of 1809. In the latter year the Bavarians under the Duke of Dantzic and their French allies under De Roi determined to strike terror into the hearts of the inhabitants of the Inn Thal by burning the town. They attacked the place, and not content with putting the inhabitants to the sword practised upon them the most horrible cruelties; more especially upon the women and young girls; some so revolting as to be indescribable in print. None were spared; "old and young alike were outraged, then either slain or thrown into the river or the blazing ruins which had once been their homes." [Sidenote: SCHWAZ PARISH CHURCH] Fortunately, although little of the town itself was left standing to show succeeding generations what ancient Schwaz had been like, owing to successive occupations by hostile troops at the latter part of the eighteenth and early part of the nineteenth centuries, the fine parish church which had been commenced in 1470 (about) and was consecrated in 1502 was less injured than might have been expected. The plan of the building is remarkable, containing a double nave, each complete with its aisles, choir, and high altar, the cause of this peculiarity being the fact that the miners were of sufficient wealth and importance at the time of its construction to insist upon having a separate church to themselves apart from the townspeople. Indeed, even nowadays one of the high altars is known as "the Knappen Hoch Altar," or Miners' High Altar. In the roof, composed of copper tiles, of which there are said to be no less than fifteen thousand, provided as a contribution by the mine-owners and miners, and in the device of crossed pickaxes, appearing here and there in the decorations of the building, one can clearly trace its connection with the mining industry, and the interest the miners themselves showed in its erection. The church at various times has been unskilfully restored, but it still contains some very interesting and fine monuments, that to Hans Dreyling, a metal-worker and founder, being especially worthy of note. In it are depicted not only the metal-worker, but his three wives and children, who are habited as knights, all being under the protection of St. John the Baptist. This remarkable work is by the famous founders Alexander Colin of Malines, and the even more famous Hans Löffler. There are, too, nine altar pieces by Tyrolese painters which should be carefully noted. One finds some interesting painted houses in Schwaz, as in many other villages and towns of the district of the Inn Thal, and some of the frescoes, most of which depict religious subjects, are of considerable merit. The town, however, is not one to which many travellers come, or in which tourists linger, although it is on the main line of railway, and has considerable interest for those for whom church architecture, legendary lore, and picturesqueness of a sort possesses attractions. [Sidenote: GEORG VON FRUNDSBERG] The deserted and ruined castle of the famous Frundsberg (whose name, by the way, outrivals that of Shakespeare in the many forms in which it is and can be spelled), a fortress which was there before the dawn of the Christian Era, and no one seems to know quite how long even before that, is quite close to the Schwaz. Its history is obscure for many centuries after the period we have named, and only the barest fragments have come down to us of the doings and life at Castle Frundsberg during the eleventh down to the end of the fourteenth century. It was in the time of "the famous fighter of a fighting race," Georg von Frundsberg, son of Ulrich, knight of Frundsberg, born at Mindelheim in 1473, and the founder of the _Landsknechte_, that the castle and the family appear to have reached their zenith of prosperity, wealth and fame, the former two characteristics being chiefly due to Georg's marriage with a wealthy Suabian heiress. He was "one of many sons, most of whom became distinguished, and three of whom (Georg himself being one) were much esteemed by the Emperor Maximilian." Georg was, at a very early age, made a general, and after the Battle of Regensburg, in 1504, was knighted on the field by Maximilian, who had witnessed his astonishing bravery and feats of arms. When only four and twenty, he was esteemed a skilled and unequalled leader of men, and in his campaigns against the Swiss and Venetians he was wonderfully successful. Some most astonishing feats of personal strength of his are recorded; how he could push an ordinary man over with one of his fingers; could catch a runaway horse and bring him to his haunches with one hand; and many a time clove his opponents in two halves with a blow from his two-handled sword. It is not unlikely that his immense natural strength had a good deal to do with his being exalted into a popular hero, and being made the central figure of many legendary tales and astonishing romances. Of him they sang-- "Georg von Frundsberg, Von grosser Sterk, Ein theurer Held; Behielt das Feld In Streit und Krieg. Den Feind niederslieg In aller Schlacht. Er legt Got zu die Er und Macht." Which maybe roughly translated: "George of Frundsberg, of marvellous strength; a hero of renown; invincible upon the field of combat and war; victorious in every battle. The honour of which success he gave to God." He threw in his lot with the Lutherans, and commanded the troops under Charles V., and was one of the knights who were concerned in the attack upon Rome. Although at one time immensely wealthy, when he was at last taken with an apoplectic seizure during the siege of the latter city, and carried home to die at Mindelheim, he was a ruined man. He had spared none of his wealth in the prosecution of expeditions in which he had been engaged, where, as often as not, the kings and emperors on whose behalf they were undertaken failed to pay the troops. To his credit, Georg von Frundsberg seems to have invariably paid the men himself; and we are told he seldom took the booty which fell to his share, selecting only some comparatively valueless, though generally historically interesting objects, such as flags and banners, a sword (jewelled sometimes, it is true, but still comparatively unimportant monetarily compared with the vast treasure he might have taken as his share), or the helmet of a conquered challenger, preferring that his men should be well paid by the major portion of the loot for their bravery and endurance. In those days money advanced by nobles and others to warring princes to carry on expeditions was generally not recovered from the actual borrowers, but repaid by robbery of the conquered, out of the booty seized, or by means of the ransoms paid by distinguished prisoners. So it happened that Georg von Frundsberg, scorning these means, was gradually ruined, for neither Charles V. nor Maximilian saw to it that the vast sums he from time to time expended on their behalf during their campaigns were repaid to him. His motto, which ran, "The more opponents the greater honour," was characteristic of himself and of his race. But with his death, and the financial embarrassments which afflicted his heirs, owing to the heavy mortgages on the estates which he had left behind him, with no means of discharging the same, the Frundsbergs declined rapidly in power, and the race came to an end in the male line on the death of his son George (one of nine children) in 1586,[25] though there are descendants in the female line of the Frundsbergs living at the present time. The castle afterwards fell into ruins, and its history may be said to have ceased with the close of the sixteenth century. The Bavarians, however, made use of the ruined walls for "cover" during the campaign of 1809, when they were attacked by the forces raised by Hofer and his comrades. FOOTNOTES: [21] W. A. Baillie Grohman, "Tyrol: the Land in the Mountains." [22] The Emperor is stated to have trained and fired the first shot himself. [23] Mr. W. A. Baillie-Grohman. [24] One account states that the coach itself was drawn by the four thousand horses! [25] Some authorities give the year as 1580.--C. H. CHAPTER XII THROUGH THE OBER-INNTHAL: ZIRL, ITS CHURCH, LEGENDS, AND PAINTED HOUSES--THE MARTINSWAND AND MAXIMILIAN--SCHARNITZ--LANDECK--BLUDENZ--BREGENZ AND ITS LEGEND OF THE MAID From Schwaz to Zirl,[26] beyond Innsbruck, is between twenty-nine and thirty miles, either by train or road. The latter is quite good for cycling, and those who are not cyclists or pedestrians will find to make the journey by carriage a delightful way of reaching the picturesque little village from which the ascent of the Gross Solstein may be made, and that also of the more romantic and famous Martinswand. The village is, unlike many of those lying in the Unter-Innthal, east of Innsbruck, an agricultural one, with most of the houses built in straight rows, and having quaint and picturesque, but not very clean or salubrious, courtyards in the rear. Some of the most charming groups of peasants, ox-carts, and "farm scenes" are to be found at Zirl, which is a good deal visited by artists, and invites the attention of amateur photographers. In most cases the houses have their dwelling-rooms and sleeping accommodation on the first floor, which is reached by flights of steps, and the exteriors of the dwellings are made picturesque and quaint by the projecting gables of carved wood, and the galleries which jut out beneath them, where the corn, herbs, and other produce is either laid out or hung up to dry. As in other villages of the Inn Thal, one sees the love of colour in the delicate pink, blue (almost a lavender), and green tints of the stucco-work on the house-fronts and walls. Zirl is a picture-village, too, and on the houses, as one drives or walks through the narrow streets, one catches glimpses of paintings of Virgins, saints engaged in vigorous and deadly combats with evil-looking monsters of the dragon tribe, and here and there, set in a niche in the wall, a tiny figure of a Madonna, saint, or crucifix protected with glass, and often surrounded with a chaplet or bunches of withered flowers. One of the Inns, named "the Regenbogen," has a most vivid and even startling representation of a rainbow (which gives it its name) painted over the arched doorway. The church of Zirl is chiefly interesting from the frescoes it contains, which are the work of Schöpf. The churchyard is a spot in which to linger. It is instinct with the pathos which comes in a measure from partial neglect, and picturesqueness of environment. One of the little town's chief attractions to the antiquarian and the student of ancient and curious things will undoubtedly be the Calvarienberg, which lies a little to the north; green and beautiful, and crowned by a picturesque pilgrimage church. The ascent is comparatively easy, and well repays one for the climb, not only on account of the interest of the "Calvary," to form which the natural rocks have been adapted, but by reason of the delightful views which are obtainable from the plateau. The path is dotted here and there by tiny buff-coloured chapels, painted a sky blue inside, marking the stations of the cross; and from almost all, as one turns round and faces the way one has come, or looks out over the valley below, there is some charming view, or tiny tree-framed vista, to arouse one's interest and delight one's eyes. The church, were it not so isolated, and set amid greenery, and surrounded with flower-bedecked grass, would strike one as garish, so bright in tone are the colours with which it is adorned. But somehow or other there, amid silence scarcely ever disturbed by the noises of the village and only occasionally broken by the musical tinkle of cow bells, and in a sunshine and air which is so bright and breezy and clear, one's artistic sense seems to rest unshocked by the vividness of the distemper and paint, and the crudity of the decorations. [Sidenote: THE MARTINSWAND] The village is, of course, very closely connected with several incidents in the defence of Tyrol against the various Bavarian invasions; and in the immediate neighbourhood is the Martinswand, which rises sheer from the valley below Zirl, and was the scene, according to tradition, of a perilous hunting adventure of the Emperor Maximilian. The story is as follows: It was on Easter Monday, in the year 1493,[27] when "Kaiser Max," as he was familiarly and affectionately called by his Tyrolese subjects, was staying at Weierburg, that he determined to set out on one of his favourite hunting expeditions on the Zirlergebirge. There are many accounts of what happened, but one of the most credited says that the chamois which the Emperor had been stalking suddenly led him down the precipitous face of the Martinswand. [Sidenote: MAXIMILIAN'S EXPLOIT] Intrepid hunter as he was, however, the steepness of the terrible descent, which suddenly opened up beneath his feet, did not quench his ardour for the chase nor deter him. But unfortunately, in his haste in scrambling down the rocks, the iron nails in his hunting boots were torn out one by one, until when he at last reached a rocky ledge scarcely a foot in width there was but a single spike left in either of them. To descend further was impossible, and upon glancing upward along the path he had come, the Emperor at once saw that retreat by the same way was equally hazardous. So there he hung literally between earth and sky, visible as a mere speck from the valley which yawned beneath him. A less fearless sportsman might well have been unnerved by the position in which he found himself, or exhausted by the strain put upon him. But the Emperor was made of tough and enduring stuff, and his nerves were iron. Not only did he manage to retain his foothold at that dizzy height, but he succeeded in nerving himself to look about him, and after doing so for some time discovered near by a small cleft or cavity in the rock which would afford him at least a better foothold, if not actual protection. The members of his hunting party who had followed him to the edge of the precipitous Martinswand now looked down, but were unable to determine what had become of Maximilian. And none from below in the valley could, of course, see him, even if he had not been partly hidden, first, by the ledge of rock and then by the cave, from the fact that he was more than a thousand feet above them. At last, however, when his probable situation became known to his followers and to the inhabitants of Zirl, prayers for his safety and ultimate escape were offered up in the church; and the priests also brought the Holy Sacrament out to the top of the Martinswand, and there again offered prayers for the Emperor's deliverance. His retainers, huntsmen, and companions in the chase gazed up or down, as the case might be, helplessly and hopelessly at him, and to them no human aid seemed to be possible. Just as every one was about to abandon hope (one version of the occurrence tells us), a daring huntsman, named Oswald Zips, appeared, having himself climbed down the precipice in pursuit of his quarry. Surprised to find the Emperor, he called out, "Hullo! What brings you here?" [Illustration: AUTUMN IN S. TYROL] And the former, no doubt, relieved in mind and not disposed to stand upon ceremony or resent so unconventional a greeting, replied, "I am on the look out." To which the newcomer replied, "And so am I. Shall we venture down together?" And upon the Emperor agreeing to make the attempt--after, according to various accounts, having spent from twenty-four to seventy-two hours in his perilous position--they set out to descend the remainder of the cliff face, and ultimately succeeded in doing so in safety. The daring hunter (who various accounts say was a brigand, and others an outlaw), to whom a secret path was known, was naturally well rewarded by the grateful monarch, and ultimately was ennobled with the title of Hollaner von Hohenfelsen; the last word, "High Rock," commemorating the incident. As is perhaps natural, some accounts place a supernatural aspect upon the Emperor's deliverance, and state that it was an angel which guided him to safety, sent by Heaven in answer to the prayers of the priests and people and the Emperor's trust in Providence. Amongst the treasures of Schloss Ambras is the monstrance in which the Host was carried by the priests of Zirl when they celebrated Mass for the comfort of the Emperor on Martinswand and offered up prayers for his deliverance. Maximilian, finding afterwards that many of the people of Zirl and the district were determined to make the perilous descent to the little cave which had afforded him shelter and foothold, employed some of the Schwaz miners to cut a path down to it and to enlarge the cavity, which became known as the Max-Höhle. In the cave was placed a crucifix, with figures of the Virgin and St. John on either side, of sufficiently large size to be visible from the valley below. The cavern can be reached by this path (or one made since) in about an hour and a half; but the climb is distinctly one which should be attempted only by the clear-headed and sure-footed. A very excellent view of the "hole" used to be obtainable from the ruins of the little hunting-box and chapel to St. Martin which Maximilian afterwards erected upon the green knoll opposite to it, known as the Martins-buhel, but now private property. Those who stop at Zirl and visit the Martinswand should not fail to proceed a few miles further northward to the pretty little village of Seefeld. On the way along the six miles of winding and picturesque road one passes Fragenstein, once a strong fortress and afterwards converted by "Kaiser Max" into one of his numerous hunting seats, which lie scattered about the Inn Thal and the district round about. There is quite a romantic story of buried treasure in connection with ruined Fragenstein, in which a huntsman clad in green is mixed up, who appears periodically and invites the peasants by his gestures to come and assist him in digging up the treasure. Several attempts have been made to discover the latter in past times, but all have been frustrated when success appeared to be certain. On one occasion the peasants of the valley say those who were digging, and had worked hard for many days turning up the soil in every direction, actually had the metal chest, in which the treasure is reputed to lie buried, in sight, when a terrific storm burst over the valley, and when it had subsided all traces of their work had been washed away or otherwise obliterated, and the clue was never again discovered. The road to Seefeld, though tempting for pedestrians, is steep, especially up to Leiten and Reit; but those who walk may take some short cuts on the curves, and will be well repaid by the pretty scenery and fresh, invigorating air. Neither at Leiten nor Reit is there much to detain the traveller--a few picturesque houses; nothing more. And so on to Seefeld. In connection with the village and its Heilige Blutskapelle there is one of those many legendary stories, of which there are so great a number known to Tyrolese Folk-lore. Many centuries ago there appears to have lived at Seefeld a man named Oswald Milser, who was rich and powerful and generous both to the Church and to his poorer neighbours. His one besetting sin, however, was pride, and so one day when he went to take the Easter Eucharist he insisted that to distinguish him from the other communicants and mark his importance the priest should give him one of the larger wafers reserved for the use of the priests alone. Afraid to offend Milser, who had been a generous supporter of the Church and a giver of large alms, the priest complied with his request. No sooner, however, was the host placed upon his tongue than the weight of it bore Milser to the earth. And although in his terror and predicament he clung to the altar, and then to the altar steps as he sunk further, the latter gave way, and he continued to sink lower and lower, till in his terror he called upon the priest to take the host back from him. This the priest did, and when Oswald Milser had recovered from his fright he recognized that the circumstance was a lesson to his pride, and ultimately he gave his goods to the poor and the Church, and entered a monastery to lead a life of penance and contemplation. [Sidenote: A MIRACULOUS ROSEBUSH] When his wife was told the miracle, she refused to credit it, saying that sooner than do so she would believe that a dead rose-tree could blossom. The story goes on to tell how immediately "a rose-tree which was near by and had been dead for a long time, put forth the most beautiful blooms, and so confounded the wicked woman that she went out of her mind, rushed from her house, and was never more seen in the flesh." But her spirit was often heard at night, wailing and moaning on the mountain-side. It was to contain this miraculous host which had confounded Oswald Milser's pride that the Archduke Ferdinand, in 1575, built a special little chapel on the left side of the fine fourteenth-century Gothic church of Seefeld. This is even nowadays an object of veneration, to which a considerable number of pilgrims come. The altar-piece is a fine one, and was well restored about five-and-thirty years ago. The statues which adorn it are those of the favourite legendary heroes of Tyrol, St. Oswald and St. Sigismund, whilst the subjects of the bas-reliefs are the incidents of Biblical history, known as "The Mysteries of the Rosary." Amongst the "treasures" of the church are a remarkably fine and interesting crystal reliquary and crown, given by the Archduchess Eleonora. From Seefeld there are many interesting excursions to be made into the picturesque Mittenwald district, which lies to the north, upon the Bavarian frontier. Scharnitz lies at the point where the Hinderan and Karwendel valleys unite. It has memories of many a struggle against the Bavarian invaders, and more particularly of the defence of the fortress Porta Claudia, built during the Thirty Years' War by Claudia de Medici, by an Englishman named Swinburne, an ancestor of the late Algernon Charles Swinburne the poet. He was an officer in the Austrian service, and had a force of only 600 against Marshal Ney, with nearly 20,000, and made so gallant and stubborn a defence that when the garrison at length surrendered to such vastly superior numbers they made their own terms and were allowed to march out as prisoners of war whilst retaining their side-arms. They were sent as prisoners to Aix-la-Chapelle, but the "colours" were saved by one of the garrison, a Tyrolese, who made his escape with them wound round his body. He was sought for amid the mountains for many weeks, but was not recaptured, and lived to, later on, reach Vienna and hand the precious colours to his gallant chief, who had so well defended the fortress. We reached Telfs from Seefeld by road. The village, which boasts a large cotton factory, is prettily situated and pleasant, but there is nothing in the place itself to detain the traveller. The same remark applies to Imst, once given over to the breeding of canaries, which were so celebrated for their singing qualities that they were exported to all parts of Europe. The old Inn, however, is worth inspection should a stop be made at the little town, and there are many excursions of a charming character to be made in the district round about. [Sidenote: LANDECK] Landeck is a prettily situated and important little town in a wide bend of the Inn Thal, having a fine prospect of environing mountain summits occupying both sides of the river and dominated by Castle Landeck, whose grim, square, and battlemented tower forms a striking feature of the landscape. Another prominent building, which at once strikes one on approaching the place either by road or rail, is the fine fifteenth-century parish church standing on the slope of the hill, which is crowned by the castle. The church was founded by two natives of the place, only the Christian names of whom appear to have survived, who, having lost their two children in the forest near by, vowed that if the latter were found they would show their gratitude by erecting a church to the Holy Virgin. Hardly had the vow been uttered, the legend states, when the distracted parents saw a bear and a wolf advancing towards them, each bearing a child unharmed in its mouth! The spire of the church, which has a curious double bulb surmounting it, is of considerably later date than the building itself, which, although thoroughly restored some forty years ago, was done very carefully and sympathetically, and preserves many of its most interesting architectural features, including some very early sculpture. In the churchyard, from which such a delightful prospect of the valley of the Inn is obtained, there are two monuments, which should not be missed by any one interested in antiquities and history. One is to Oswald von Schrofenstein, dating from early in the fifteenth century; the other takes the form of a little Gothic chapel, dating from 1870, which was erected to the memory of the Landeckers who fell whilst assisting to defend the Italian frontier of Tyrol during the Austro-Italian campaign of 1866. [Sidenote: A TYROLESE VICTORY] Landeck bore a brave part in the War of the Spanish Succession in 1703, when Maximilian, Elector of Bavaria, joined forces with the French and Italians against Austria, and invaded Tyrol. The Tyrolese, always ready to speedily assemble in defence of their beloved country, soon made the main road over the Brenner impossible of passage by the enemy, and Maximilian thought to elude the sharpshooters who swarmed upon the hillsides commanding that way, by sending his forces round by the Finstermunz and Ober-Innthal. They reached the neighbourhood of Landeck without much opposition; but the Tyrolese had gathered to dispute their further advance on the first favourable opportunity. The Judge of the district, one Martin Sterzinger, had speedily summoned all the available Landsturm forces of the neighbourhood, and worked out a plan of campaign. The latter were to permit the enemy to advance until they were well into the gorge, and then attack them so fiercely and from so commanding a position as to have some hope--in spite of their greater numbers--of severely and finally defeating them. They were in consequence allowed to advance into the narrow gorge, the road through which was spanned by the Pontlatzerbrucke. But before they entered the defile the bridge had been destroyed by the Tyrolese. The Bavarians, who were compelled to traverse a steep and narrow mountain path, when they came in sight of the destroyed bridge at once realized that they were entrapped. The precipitous sides of the hills above them were practically unscalable, and there was no way now the bridge was destroyed by which they could cross the roaring, rushing Inn to safety on the other side. In the panic which ensued numbers fell or were pushed from the road into the river, to be swept swiftly away. [Illustration: LANDECK AND ITS ANCIENT FORTRESS] Then suddenly the heights above literally swarmed with Tyrolese, who had remained hidden until the right moment to attack, who poured into the huddled and panic-stricken mass of the enemy a hail of bullets, supplemented by stones and pieces of rock hurled down by those who were not possessed of guns. Only a mere handful of the force was able to turn back and escape along the path by which they had come, and these were speedily overtaken by the active mountaineers and made prisoners. Not one, we are told, made good his escape to bear news of the disaster to headquarters, and thus the French and Bavarian commanders were for some considerable time in doubt as to what had occurred. In the end they learned how their immensely superior force had been literally cut to pieces and wiped out, and perhaps also to hold the "rough jackets" of Landeck and the Inn Thal in greater respect than they had done before. The victory of July 1st, as it is known amongst the many other successes of the peasants' campaign against the invaders of their land, is celebrated every year by a procession and _fête_. Besides being a most interesting little town, Landeck is yearly growing more popular with holiday makers and rest seekers as a fine centre from which to make some of the most delightful excursions and short tours in the whole of the Inn Thal. The chief of these are either in the immediate neighbourhood into the Lotzer Thal, and Medriol Thal, or along and by way of the splendid Finstermunz high road to Sulden, Trafoi, and other smaller places. There is also, of course, the famous Stilfserjoch, the highest carriage-road in Europe, and the pretty villages and valleys of the Kaunser Thal to invite a long stay amid surroundings which are scarcely excelled in any other district of North Tyrol. But not merely days and weeks, but even months could be pleasantly spent with Landeck as a base from which to explore the numberless beautiful and almost unknown smaller valleys and gorges which run out of the Inn Valley north and south, and in the former case lead one to that wonderland of the Bavarian highlands, with its many ancient and Royal castles, lovely little lakes, and fertile, flower-decked pastures. Soon after leaving Landeck, either by rail or road, one crosses the boundary which separates the Ober-Innthal from the Vorarlberg. If by the latter, as one approaches the summit of the Arlberg, which is 5910 feet above sea-level, one catches sight of an immense crucifix overshadowing the road, near which are the two posts marking the boundary line. The old road was opened for traffic nearly a century and a quarter ago, but a considerable portion of that now generally used, which is more sheltered and protected, was not made until 1825. By the magnificent Arlberg Pass route one can reach Bregenz, and to make the journey in this way by carriage or afoot is most delightful, though the railway, after the long tunnel is passed, is very interesting and picturesque. However, comparatively few tourists and travellers nowadays devote the time necessary to traverse the Arlberg to Bregenz by road, and so Bludenz must be included in the itinerary we are describing. The little town, which has a bustling and prosperous air, though it is decidedly hot in summer, still possesses a considerable number of its older buildings and houses. The ancient château or castle of Gayenhofen is now used for Government purposes; it forms a picturesque landmark in the town. Bludenz will always have a place in the romantic history of Tyrol from the fact that it was here that the well-beloved "Frederick with the Empty Purse" came while an outlaw and in fear for his life. He made himself known to the innkeeper where he sought refuge, who, though embarrassed, was delighted to shelter the popular hero. His view was shared by the rest of the inhabitants of the town, who when summoned by the Emperor Sigismund to deliver up their prince declined to do so, saying, "they had sworn fealty to Duke Frederick and the house of Austria, and they would not betray him." Frederick, though doubtless touched by the loyalty of the Bludenz folk, knew that if he remained amongst them the result would probably be the dispatch of a force by the Emperor to capture him, and the possible destruction of the town by way of reprisal. So he stole quietly away, and Bludenz was saved. The old town is well worth a few hours' stay, and there are many picturesque "bits" to be discovered for sketch book and camera in the older houses and side alleys, even if time will not permit of a sufficiently long sojourn to allow one to visit the pretty Montfacon Thal, with its legend of a beautiful maiden who lived up in the mountain guarding a hidden treasure, which she is condemned to watch over until some one is bold enough to kiss three times a huge toad which lives hard by, and also guards the wealth that is to reward the bold rescuer of the maiden. [Sidenote: FELDKIRCH] Feldkirch is the last important town on the route to Bregenz. Pleasantly situated near the grim gorges through which the river Ill rushes with ever-increasing rapidity and force to join the Rhine, there is much of interest in the quaint streets, and the arcades which run in front of many of the houses. The town itself is shut in by the mountains and dominated by the old fortress of Shattenburg, now used as a retreat or home for the poor; and for this reason perhaps is less resorted to than it otherwise might be. There are, however, a large number of most interesting excursions to be made in the neighbourhood, and the fifteenth-century church is a fine one, with a good "Descent from the Cross" by a native artist, Wolfgang Huber, and a remarkable and handsome pulpit, both dating from the early years of the sixteenth century. Costume, too, is occasionally seen in Feldkirch, and on one Sunday, the occasion of a festival, there were quite a number of women wearing the old-time steeple-crowned, brimless beaver hats--in shape somewhat like that of a Russian _Moujick_ or the busby of a Grenadier--wide white collars, embroidered bodices, and handsome brocaded aprons. The last place in Tyrol when leaving it by the Arlberg route is the most delightful and ancient town of Bregenz, standing upon the north-eastern shore of Lake Constance. It is the capital of the Vorarlberg, and in this delightful corner of Tyrol there is no town of greater charm or historic interest. Above it rises the picturesque Gebhardsberg, from the summit of which there is one of the most celebrated panoramic views in Tyrol, embracing as it does the beautiful lake, the Appenzell Mountains, and the rapidly flowing Rhine. There are really two towns in Bregenz. The old town, shaped like a quadrilateral, standing on the hill which ages ago was the site of the Roman settlement and castle, with two ancient gates, one of which has been pulled down; and the newer town, with its shady promenades, quay, modern buildings, and air of bustle during the tourist season. [Sidenote: A LEGEND OF BREGENZ] Irrespective of its unusually beautiful situation, one finds in Bregenz much to interest and detain. It is a truly ancient place, with much history--some of it of a romantic kind--attached to it. In the Middle Ages, indeed, the overlords of the town and district were so powerful that their house supplied the Emperor Charlemagne with a bride, concerning whom there is a legendary and highly romantic tale. [Illustration: CHURCH INTERIOR, TYROL] It would appear from this story that Charlemagne was of a more than usually suspicious nature, and by no means one of those complaisant husbands with which the Mediæval tales have familiarized us. An old lover of Hildegarde, having seen her married to the Emperor with great distress of mind, in his wrath against her for preferring even an Emperor to himself, got ear of Charlemagne, and so succeeded in poisoning the latter's mind against his bride, that he either divorced or repudiated her, and married a Lombardian princess called Desiderata. Accepting her fate resignedly, Hildegarde eventually found her way to Rome, where she devoted herself to the care of the sick, and especially of the sick pilgrims who came to the "Eternal City." In course of time, so the story goes, her revengeful lover, whose name, Taland, is almost as common a one in Tyrol as Smith in England, having lost his sight, came on a pilgrimage, and whilst in Rome was cared for by Hildegarde, "whose tender and saintly hands," we are told, "not only restored his physical sight, but also his moral perception of right and wrong." He was so overcome with remorse when he learned to whom, under Providence, he owed his restoration to sight, that he confessed his fault to Hildegarde, and insisted upon accompanying her to Charlemagne, to whom he also confessed, and proved Hildegarde to have been blameless. The Emperor at once restored her to favour and honour. In another story connected with Bregenz, which was made the subject of a poem by the late Adelaide Ann Proctor, one has preserved an incident connected with the heroic conduct of a Bregenz woman in saving the town from surprise and destruction by the Swiss. There are several versions of the story, which dates from 1408, but probably, as it is of a legendary character, the one given in the ballad is as correct as any other. Unhappily, the Bregenz folk of to-day appear to know little of this heroine; and on one occasion on which we visited the town, and made a search for the effigy of the Maid and her steed on the gate of the old castle, or walls of the upper town, we were unable to find it. No one seemed to know the story of the "Maid of Bregenz," and an old lady, who had a temporary stall outside the gate for the sale of cakes and other refreshments, became quite irascible upon our persisting in the belief that there must have been a "Maid," and that she (the old lady) ought to know the legend. "There is no 'Maid of Bregenz,'" she said angrily at last. Adding, after a pause, during which she looked us up and down as though to decide upon our nationality, "But mad English people have asked me hundreds of times about her. I know nothing. There is no more to be said." And with this she returned to her perusal of the paper she had been reading when we accosted her, and we had to be content. We made our way down the somewhat rugged and steep road to the lower town a little crestfallen, although the view of the lake in the late afternoon sunshine of a July day was exquisite beyond description, the water deep blue and green in patches, with the incoming and outgoing boats and steamers leaving frothy-white or rippling wakes behind them almost as long as they themselves remained in sight. One determination we came to. It was in future not to inquire too closely into such pretty and poetical stories as that of the "Maid of Bregenz," and not to allow our desire for legendary or antiquarian knowledge to permit us to run the risk of further disillusionment.[28] We did not find the effigy of "the maid and her milk-white steed," on which she had ridden over the Swiss frontier and swum across the Rhine to warn the inhabitants of her old home of a projected attack by the Swiss amongst whom she had gone to dwell in service. The genial proprietor of the Oesterreichischer Hof, we found, had heard of "the Maid." Alas! not from his fellow-townsfolk (who should have cherished her memory), but, like the old lady in the upper town, from English tourists, who had, doubtless, climbed the steep ascent on a similar errand of inquiry and research to our own. "Maid" or no maid, however, Bregenz is delightful, and well deserves the title of "pearl of the Vorarlberg" which has been bestowed upon it. In its quaint old streets, its Capuchin Convent, which is so prominent a feature, standing as it does upon a wooded knoll of the Gebhardsberg, and its fine church, to the south on another eminence, with an ancient and weather-worn tower, there is plenty of interest. Picturesque the place most certainly is, and the effect is greatly heightened by the near presence of the lake, which stretches away in front of the town to fair Constance in the far distance. [Sidenote: FAREWELL, TYROL] In leaving Tyrol by way of beautiful Bregenz, washed as it is by the waters of one of the most delightful of Swiss lakes, one carries with one a last impression which is fragrant with the memories of a hospitable race, charming scenery, and innumerable things of historic, artistic, and antiquarian interest. There is, indeed, no other gate through which one would rather leave this "Land within the Mountains," which, as yet unspoiled by crowds of tourists and general sophistication and the deterioration which arises therefrom, lures one to return to it again and again. FOOTNOTES: [26] By a strange coincidence, whilst the following description of this interesting and charming village was actually being written, the news of its almost total destruction by fire reached the author, necessitating the omission of some details. Many of the houses, however, have been rebuilt, in much the same style as formerly.--C. H. [27] Some authorities give the date as being several years earlier.--C. H. [28] It is possible that Miss Proctor's poem ("A Legend of Bregenz") is founded upon the legendary story of Ehre Guta, who is reputed to have delivered the country-folk of the Bregenz district from an attack of the Appenzellers some time during the early part of the fifteenth century.--C. H. INDEX A Abbey of Wilten, 17 Abel of Cologne, work of, 99 Absam, 139-142 and Jakob Stainer, maker of violins, 139 dragon legend of, 140 painted houses at, 140 story of "Miraculous Window" at, 141 A buried city, 249 Adventures of Oswald von Wolkenstein, 217-220 Aeni, Pons, 7 A fifteenth-century "blue stocking," 194 Aguntum (Innichen) Station, 9 Albianum (Kufstein), 7 "A Legend of Bregenz," 326 Alemanni, the, 11 Alpine flowers at Cortina, 267 Alt, Salome, and Archbishop von Raitenau, 174 Altissimo di Nago, 253 Ambras, Castle, 113 Court at, 121 early history of, 114 the Hoch Schloss, 123 the tourney ground, 125 traditions, 124 treasures at, 123 Ancient palaces of Trent, 243-247 Andechs, family of, 16 Anif, castle of, 179 Anna Katharina Gonzaga of Mantua, 31 Anton Gump, Landhaus of, 84 Aquila Nera Inn, Cortina, 266 Araba, 273 Archduke Ferdinand, 29 Leopold, 31 Arco, 251 church at, 251 Arlberg tunnel, 72 Arms, summons to, 41 Arno, Bishop of Salzburg, 156 Art, collection at Innsbruck, 89 Art, world-famous collection, 30 Arthur, King of England, 93 Arzl, pilgrimage chapel of, 133 Augusta Vindelicorum, 6 Austerlitz, battle of, 38 Austria, emperors of, 32 Austrian, defeat of forces at Wagram, 43 B Bad Ratzes, 278 Baiovarii, 12 Battle of Austerlitz, 38 Custozza, 50 Giants, 106 Leipsic, 49 Marengo and Hohenlinden, 37 Naïssus, 11 near the Brenner, 4 Sadowa, 50 Spinges, 228, 229 Vercelli, 3 Bavaria, Duke Louis of, 25 Bavarian occupation, 39 troops enter Tyrol, 43 Bavarians, 12 Belluno, cathedral at, 270 Bible incidents, oral versions of, 57 Biener, William, and Rattenberg, 291 story of, 291-293 Bishop of Freisingen, 20 Passau, 15 Bisson, General, surrender of, 41 Black Death, 21 Bludenz, 322 and "Frederick of the Empty Purse," 322, 323 Bohemia, Prince John of, 19 Bozen, 206-210 Calvarienberg, near, 211 description of, 206, 207 fine houses, 208 Franciscan monastery at, 210 history of, 207 Laubengasse at, 209 Parish Church, 209 (Pons Drusi), 8 Sarnthal costumes at, 210 Bozen, statue of von Vogelweide at, 209 Bregenz, 324-327 Capuchin convent, 327 Brenner route, the, 3 road, the, 8 history of, 10 Brixen, 226-228 cathedral of, 227, 228 bishop's palace at, 228 Brixlegg, 293 peasant plays at, 293, 294 Buchenstein, 270 Büchsenhausen, castle of, 97 Burg, the, 80 C Campo Formio, treaty of, 37 Canazei, 274 Caprile, 271 Castle Ambras, 113 Court at, 121 early history of, 114 the Hoch Schloss, 123 the tourney ground, 125 traditions of, 124 treasures at, 123 Castle Tyrol, 16 siege of, 22 Castle of Büchsenhausen, 97 Frundsberg, 303 Lizzana, 248 Runkelstein, 211 Castle of Runkelstein, frescoes of, 211, 212 Schonna, near Meran, 203 Starkenberg, 68 Tratzberg, 295 Trautson, 231 Trostburg, 216, 217 Cathedral, Belluno, 270 Brixen, 227, 228 Salzburg, 171, 172 Cathedral, Salzburg, burning of, 171 Trent, 241 Catherine of Saxony, 27 Catholic persecutions, 161 Cavalese, 276 bishop's palace at, 276 Cell, Maximilian's, 85 Cenotaph, Maximilian's, description of panels surrounding, 99 description of, 98 Ceremonials, pathetic, 60 Chapel, pilgrimage, of Maria Larch, 145 Silver, Innsbruck, 97 Silver, Innsbruck, statues in, 103 Charlemagne, empire of, 13, 14 reforms by, 15 Chasteler, General, 42 Church of the Servites, Innsbruck, 84 Jesuit, Innsbruck, 85 of Maria Waldrast, near Matrei, 231 Madonna alle Laste, near Trent, 247 Cimbri, the invasion of, 2 Civil war, 21, 25 Conquest of the country, Roman, 6 Constance, Council of, 25 Cortina, 265, 266 church at, 266 famous inn at, 266 festivals at, 265 frescoes at, 266 Costumes of Innsbruck, 75 at Feldkirch, 323 at St. Ulrich, 226 national, of Tyrol, 82 the Sarnthal, 210 Tyrol, 63 Council of Constance, 25 Trent, 236-240 Counts of Tyrol, 16, 17 Court at Castle Ambras, 121 Innsbruck, 80 Customs, curious wedding, 64 quaint Tyrolean, 59 Custozza, battle of, 50 D Dante and the Castle Lizzana, 248 Trentino, 242 Val Sacra, 243 "Das Land im Gebirge," 13 Death, Black, 21 Defregger, Franz, historical masterpieces of, 90 Dialect, concerning, 225 Diaries of early travel, 14 of the Bishop of Passau, 15 Dolomite district, 255 groups, 261, 262 scenery, 258 Dolomites, 254-280 characteristics of the, 260 formation of, 256, 257 inns and hotels in the, 259 theories concerning, 256 theories of origin of, 257 touring in, 259 Dreiheiligen Kirche (Holy Trinity), 86 Drusi, Pons (Bozen), 8 Drusus, 4, 6 Duke Ernest, 25 Frederick, 24, 25 Louis of Bavaria, 25 Sigismund, 26 E Eggenthal, famous waterfall in the, 213 Eleanora, daughter of James I. of Scotland, 194 Vincenzo of Mantua, 31 Emperor Theodoric the Goth, 93 Empire, Charlemagne's, 14 "Empty Purse, Frederick of the," 24 Enneberger, 271 Epiphany performances, 60 Eppans, the, 16 Ernest, Duke--reconciliation of Duke Frederick, 25 Etruria, ancient language of, 53 Evangelic Union, 170 F Falzarego Pass, 270 Fassa Thal, 275, 279 Feldkirch, 323 costumes at, 323 engagement near, 37 Ferdinand, Archduke, 29 Tomb of, 102 Festival of St. Vigilius, 234 Festivals at Cortina, 265 First Counts of Tyrol, 17 Fleimse Thal, 276 Florus, the historian, 5 Franz Defregger, historical masterpieces of, 90 Franzenfeste, 229 Frauenberg, Conrad of, 23 Frederick, Duke, 24 reconciliation of Duke Ernest, 25 of the "Empty Pocket," story of, 73 Freisingen, Bishop of, 20 French, Bavarian and Saxon troops enter Tyrol, 43 French Revolution, 36 Frundsberg, Georg von, 308-310 Fugger, George, story of, 243-246 Fulpmes, 131 G Gaisberg, 179, 180 view from, 180 Gebhardsberg, 327 General Bisson, 41 Chasteler, 42 Georgenberg, St., 295 ancient shrine at, 296 dishonest abbot of, 300 miracle of, 296 origin of the Church of, 298 Germanization of Tyrol, 53 Ghostly Legend, A, 69 Giants, battle of, 106 Gilg Sesselschreiber, 95 flight to Augsburg, 96 Golden Roof, the, 79 "Goldener Adler," 81 Goths and Huns, 12 Goths, Emperor Theodoric of the, 93 Goths, inroads of the, 11 Grafschaften, 15 "Grape Cure" at Meran, 198, 200 Grape Harvest at Meran, 200 Grasleiten Pass, 277 "Great Week" in Tyrolese history, 45 Grödenerthal, ascents in, 273 H Habsburgs, schemes of the, 22 Haimon and the Dragon, 107 Hall, 134-138 interesting church of, 137 Münsterturm at, 135 St. Saviour's church, 138 salt mines, 135 Haspinger, the Capuchin Monk, 38 Haydn, Michael, at Salzburg, 185 Heilig Wasser, 128 Hellbrunn, Chateau of, 176-178 gardens and fountains, 177 mechanical theatre at, 178 Monatsschlösschen at, 178 stone theatre at, 178 Henry, youngest son of Meinhard II., 17 Herzog-Friedrich-strasse, arcades of the, 82 Highway, Tyrol, 14 Historian Florus, 5 Historic Events, Innsbruck, 101 Historical masterpieces of Franz Defregger, 90 History of the Statues at Hofkirche, 94 History in Marble, Innsbruck, 99 Hofburg, the, Innsbruck, 91 Hofer Andreas, 37, 46 birth of, 38 commander-in-chief, 40 "battle cry" of, 44 triumph of, 45 Hofer's nickname, 45 Hofer named dictator of Tyrol, 46 capture of, 48 led forth to die, 48 death of, 49 tomb of, 102 in the Meran "Hero Plays," 195, 196 Hofkirche, the, Innsbruck, 92, 104 History of the statues, 94 Hohen-Salzburg, 167-170 description of, 167 sieges of, 169 cable railway, 169 Hohen Tauern, range, 150 Hohenlinden, battle of, 37 Hollaner von Hohenfelsen, 315 Horace, 4 Hostelries, 10 Huns and Goths, 12 I Igls, 126 Inhabitants, original, 1 Innichen (Aguntum) Station, 9 church and village, 262 Inns and hostelries, 10 ancient, 81, 275 Innsbruck, approach to, 72 art collection, 89 attractions of, 110 capture of, 42 character of, 74 costumes and uniforms at, 75 famous statues, 97 gaieties, 73 gay court at, 80 historical masterpieces of Franz Defregger, 90 Jesuit church at, 85 market types, 83 Marktgraben, 83 Maximilian's Tomb, 93 Maximilian's, description of, Cenotaph, 98, 99 mediæval buildings in, 81 museum treasures, 89 National Museum, 87 plague, 86 rise of, 76 rulers, 77 Silver chapel at, 97 site of, 5 some historic events at, 101 the environs of, 113-132 the Hofburg, 91 the Hofkirche, 92 the newer town, 87 winter sports at, 111 Invaders, Teutonic, 13 J Jews, the, 21 John, Prince of Bohemia, 19, 21 Julium Carnicum (Zuglio) station, 9 K Kapuzingerberg, view from, 180 Karrersee, 213, 276 Kastelruth, 278 Kerpen, General, 36 King Arthur of England, 93 Kitzbühel, 287, 288 sports at, 288 Kitzbühlerhorn, ascent of, 287 Klausen, 215 story of a nun, 216 Kufstein, 281-287 castle of, 282-284 siege of, 283, 284 plundering of, 284 Maximilian at, 283, 284 legend of, 285, 286 L Ladin, the dialect of the Grödenerthal, 225 Lake Missurina, 262 Landeck, 319, 320 church of, 319 Landhaus of Anton Gump, 84 Landtag, first Tyrolean, 26 Language, the Tyrol, 55 Larch, Maria, pilgrimage chapel of, 145 Latemar, curious customs relating to, 276 Laudon, General, 36 Legend of Castle of Tratzberg, 302 a ghostly, 69 Chapel of Madonna alle Laste, 247, 248 Kufstein Castle, 285, 286 St. Leonard auf der Wiese, 289, 290 San Marco, 249 the Sclavini di San Marco, 248-250 Legends of the Rosengarten, 214 Tyrol, 55 Wilten, 109 Leipsic, battle of, 49 Leopold, Archduke, 31 I., Emperor, 34 II., Emperor, 35 Lienz (Lonicum) station, 9 Lizzana, Castle, 248 Löffler, Gregor, and Castle of Büchsenhausen, 97 Lonicum (Lienz) station, 9 Lotzer Thal, 321 Louis, Duke of Bavaria, 25 Lueg Pass, 151 Luneville, treaty of, 37 M Madonna alle Laste, chapel of, 247 "Maid of Spinges," 229 "Maid of Bregenz," 325, 326 Mantua, Anna Katharina Gonzaga of, 31 Eleanor Vincenzo of, 31 Marco, San, 249 Marengo, battle of, 37 Maria Larch, church of, 145 Maria Theresa, empress, 34 Maria Waldrast, chapel of, 231 Marriage in Tyrol, 61 Martin, St., home of Speckbacher, 144 Martinswand, 313-315 Maximilian's adventure on the, 313-315 Masciacum (Matzen), 7 Massena, general, 37 Matrei, 231 church of Maria Waldrast, 231 Matrejum (Matrei), 8 Matzen, Schloss, 294, 295 Maurice of Saxony, 30 Max-Höhle at Zirl, 315 Maximilian, 28 Maximilian's cell, 85 tomb, Innsbruck, 93 Cenotaph description, 98 Medriol Thal, 321 Meinhard II., youngest son of, 17 untimely end, 23 Meran, 192-201 architecture of, 193 the Burg, 193 the Landesfürstliche Burg, 193, 194 gardens of, 195 "Hero Plays" at, 195, 196 costumes at, 197 "grape cure" at, 198 the "Saltner" at, 199 sports and pastimes at, 201 castles near, 201-203 Merchants, Venetian, 27 Michael, St., 144 Milser, Oswald, 316, 317 Mines, salt, 9 Mirabell, Schloss, garden of, 174, 175 Missurina Lake, 263 Monasteries, suppression of, 35 Mönchsberg, early church in, 153 walk along the, 182, 183 Mozart's birthplace, 184 relics in, 184 Mozart-Häuschen on the Kapuzingerberg, 181 furniture and relics in, 181 Mozart-Häuschen, beautiful garden of, 182 Muhldorf, battle of, 157 Munatius Plancus, 4 Museum, National, at Innsbruck, 87 treasures, 89 Myths of Tyrol, 55 N Naïssus, battle of, 11 Napoleonic wars and Salzburg, 163 Nave d'Oro, inn, 275 Nonnberg, convent on the, 183 Gothic chapel of the, 183 O Ober-Innthal, through the, 311-327 Original inhabitants of Tyrol, 1 Ostrogothic leader, Theodoric, 12 Oswald Milser, 316, 317 Ottoburg, the, 81 P Paneveggio, 279 Paris von Lodron, archbishop, 171 Passau, bishop of, 15 Passeier Valley, 205 Hofer's hiding-place in, 205 Peace of Westphalia, 160 Peasants' revolt at Salzburg, 159 Persecution by Catholics, 161 Petermann, lover of Margaret of Tyrol, 108 Philippine Welser, tomb of, 102 romantic story of, 115-120 character of, 119 death of, 122 Pienzenau, story of Governor, 283, 284 Plague, ravages of the, 86 at Trent, 238 Plancus, Munatius, 4 Plätz-Wiese, 268 Pliny, quotation from, 9 Plutarch's "Marius," 3 "Pocket-Mouthed Meg," 18, 23, 108 Pons Aeni, 7 Pons Drusi (Bozen), 8 Pontlatzerbrucke, 320 Porta Claudia, Scharnitz, 318 Post Road, Brenner, 7 Power of Rome, 11 Pragser Lake or Wildsee, 269 Predazzo, 274, 275 Nave d'Oro inn, 275 Pressburg, treaty of, 38, 40 Prince counts of Tyrol, 17 Prince John of Bohemia, 19 Princess Catherine of Saxony, 27 Protestants, expulsion of, 161 "Pulpit bride," the, 61 R Rattenberg, 290 castle of, 291 history of, 291 Reforms by Charlemagne, 15 Regent, Archduke Leopold as, 31 Revolution, French, 36 Rhætians, the, 4, 7 their dialect, 53 Rhæto-Roman stations, 8 Riva, 252, 253 parish church of, 252 Roman conquest of the country, 6 occupation of Rhætia, 7 Rhæto-, stations, 8 Rome, power of, 11 Romedius, St., story of, 133, 134 Rosengarten, 213-215 excursions in the, 215 legend of, 214 Route, the Brenner, 3, 7 Roveredo, 250, 251 churches of, 251 Rudolph IV., 24 Rulers, Innsbruck's, 77 Rum, village of, 133 Runkelstein, castle of, 211 frescoes at, 211, 212 Rupert, St., at Salzburg, 155 S Sadowa, battle of, 50 St. Leonard auf der Wiese, 288, 289 St. Martin, village of, 203 Hofer's inn at, 204 Hofer relics at, 205 St. Peter's church, Salzburg, 185 cemetery, Salzburg, 186 monastery, Salzburg, 186 St. Romedius, story of, 133, 134 St. Ulrich, costume at, 226 quaint guide-book to, 226 toy industry of, 222, 223 village of, 221, 222 St. Vigilius, festival of, 234 Salome Alt and Archbishop von Raitenau, 174 and Schloss Mirabell, 174 Salsbund, the, 161 Salt mines, 9 discovery of, 142, 143 "Saltner," the, at Meran, 199 Salzach Valley, 151 Salzburg, 147-191 beauty of, 147 Salzburg, approach to, 148 province of, 149 in Roman times, 152 building of, 153 history of, 154 rise of, 155 early rulers of, 157 the Reformation and peasant revolt at, 159 province of, during French invasions, 162 luxurious archbishops of, 164 rebuilding of, 165, 166 ancient fortress of, 167 cathedral, burning of, 171 cathedral, 171, 172 Residenz-Platz, 172 St. Peter's church, 185 monastery, 186 cemetery, 186 Carolina-Augusteum museum, 186 special features, 187 peasants' ball at, 188, 189 a curious custom, 190 the market, 191, 192 Sandyland, birth of Andreas Hofer, 38 San Martino, 279 Sarnthal, costumes of the, 210 Saxon troops enter Tyrol, 43 Saxony, Princess Catherine of, 27 Maurice of, 30 Scarbio (Scharnitz), 8 Scenery, Tyrol, 1 Schabs (Sebatum) station, 9 Scharnitz, 318 defence of, by Swinburne, 318 Schlern, the, 277 Schloss Mirabell and Salome Alt, 174 gardens of, 174, 175 Zenoburg, Meran, 201 Rubein, Meran, 201 Tyrol, near Meran, 202 " description of, 202, 203 Matzen, description of, 294, 295 Schluderbach, 264 Schmalkald, war of the, 29 Schonberg, 131 Schonna, castle of, 203 Schwaz, 303-308 silver mines at, 304 curious church at, 307 Sclavini di San Marco, 248-250 Sebatum (Schabs) station, 9 Servites, church of the, 84 Sesselschreiber, Gilg, 95 flight to Augsburg, 95 Sigismund, duke, 26 Silver chapel, Innsbruck, 97 statues, 103 Site of Innsbruck, 5 Spanish Succession, War of the, 33 Speckbacher, birth of, 38 Spinges, Battle of, 228, 229 maid of, 229 engagement of, 36 Sports, Tyrolese, 67 at Kitzbühel, 287, 288 at Meran, 201 winter, at Innsbruck, 111 Starkenberg, Castle of, 68 Stations, Rhæto-Roman, 8 Tricesimum, 9 Julium Carnicum (Zuglio), 9 Aguntum (Innichen), 9 Lonicum (Lienz), 9 Sebatum (Schabs), 9 Statues, famous, at Innsbruck, 97 " " Hofkirche, 94 in Silver Chapel, Innsbruck, 103 Sterzing (Vilpetenum), 8 Sterzing, 229-231 Rathaus at, 230 church at, 230 Stilfes, gorge of, 44 Story of Charlemagne and Hildegarde, 324, 325 a nun, 216 Georg von Frundsberg, 308-310 Governor Pienzenau, 283, 284 Heilig Wasser, 128 Oswald Milser, 316, 317 Oswald von Wolkenstein, 217-220 Pastor Söll, 306 Philippine Welser, 115-120 St. Romedius and the Bear, 133, 134 Teufelspalast, Trent, 244-246 the "Maid of Bregenz," 325, 326 Strange natural phenomena, 131 Stubai Valley, 129 Bahn, 130 Summons to arms, 41 Superstitions of Tyrol, 55 Swinburne and Scharnitz, 318 T Telfs, 318 Territory, New, 29 Teutonic Invaders, 13 Thaur, 133 village of, 56 Theodoric, Emperor of the Goths, 93 the Ostrogothic leader, 12 Thirty Years' War, 33 Tiberius, 4, 6 Toblach, 263 Tomb of Archduke Ferdinand and Philippine Welser, 102 Tomb of Hofer, 102 Maximilian, 93 "Toy-land," 223, 224 Tratzberg, castle of, 301, 302 Maximilian rooms, 301, 302 story of, 302, 303 Trautson, castle of, 231 Travel, diaries of early, 14 Treaty of Campo Formio, 37 Luneville, 37 Pressburg, 38, 40 Vienna, 47 Tre Croci Pass, 265 Trent (Tridentum), 8 Trent, 233-247 ancient, 235 " palaces of, 243-247 cathedral of, 241 church of Santa Maria Maggiore, 240 Claudia Porticelli, story of, 243 Council of, 236-240 Dante and, 242 decrees of the Council of, 238 end of the Council of, 240 festival of St. Vigilius at, 234 foundation of, 233 museum, 242 opening of the Council of, 236 plague at, 238 story of the organ-builder of, 241 Teufelspalast, 244-246 Tricesimum, Roman station of, 9 Tridentum (Trent), 8 Trostburg, castle, 216, 217 Tunnel, Arlberg, 72 Types, ancient, along the highway, 14 Types, market, Innsbruck, 83 Tyrol scenery, 1 inhabitants, 1 types along the great highway, 14 Counts of, 16, 17 castle of, 16 possession of, 32 population of, 37 French, Bavarian, and Saxon troops enter, 43 Hofer, dictator of, 46 as Bavarian territory, 47 triple division of, 49 description of, 52 Germanization of, 53 the language of, 55 legends, superstitions, and myths of, 55 Wälsch, 57 Tyrol folk-lore, tales of, 57 quaint customs relating to Christmas in, 59 Epiphany performances, 60 pathetic ceremonials in, 60 marriage in, 61 bride's procession, 62 costumes of, 63 curious wedding customs, 64 sports and wrestling in, 67 national costume of, 82 Margaret of, 108 "Toy-land" in, 223 Tyrolean dances, 66 Landtag, first, 26 wedding, 65 Tyrolese character, 56 history, in--as "the Great Week," 45 masters, works of the, 89 sports, 67 U Ulrich, St., 221, 222 church at, 225 costume at, 226 quaint guide-book to, 226 toy industry of, 222, 223 University, of Innsbruck, 84 Unter-Innthal, vast mineral wealth of, 27 through the, 281-310 V Val Sacra and Dante, 243 Val Sugana, 280 Veldidena, 5, 8 Vendome, General, 33 Venetian merchants, 27 Vercelli, 3 Via Claudia Augusta, 8 Vienna, treaty of, 47 Vigilius, St., festival of, 234 Vilpetenum (Sterzing), 8 Vindelicorum, Augusta, 6 Vineyards at Meran, 199, 200 Von Keutschach, Bishop Leonhard, 158 Von Lodron, Paris, archbishop, 171 Von Raitenau, Bishop Wolf Dietrich, 160, 170 Von Vogelweide, statue of, 209 Von Wolkenstein, story of, 217-220 Vorarlberg, words and expressions used in, 54 W Wagram, defeat of Austrian forces at, 43 Waidbruck, 272 War, Civil, 21 of the Schmalkald, 29 of the Spanish Succession, 33 Thirty Years', 33 Wasser, Heilig, story of, 128 Wealth, vast mineral, 27 Wedding, a Tyrolean, 65 customs, 64 Weisslahn-Bad, 278 Welser, Philippine, character of, 119 death of, 122 romantic story of, 115-120 tomb of, 102 Westphalia, Peace of, 160 Wildsee, Pragser, 269 Wilten (Veldidena), 8 abbey of, 17 a legend of, 109 story and description of abbey of, 105 Woodcarvers of St. Ulrich, 222, 223 Wrestling, Tyrolese, 67 Z Zillerthal maidens, 59 Zirl, 311-316 Calvarienberg of, 312 Maximilian at, 313-315 painted houses of, 312 Zuglio (Julium Carnicum), Roman station of, 9 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. 
49290	----	[Illustration] * * * * * THE YEAR NINE. _A Tale of the Tyrol._ BY THE AUTHOR OF "MARY POWELL." _Pro libertate victi, pro fama victores._ LONDON: Printed for ARTHUR HALL, VIRTUE, & CO. 25, _Paternoster Row_. 1858. * * * * * CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I. THE THUNDER STORM 1 CHAPTER II. THE INN KITCHEN 12 CHAPTER III. THE SHOOTING MATCH 25 CHAPTER IV. WOLFSTHRUN 40 CHAPTER V. "'TIS TIME!" 47 CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST SUCCESS 63 CHAPTER VII. INNSBRUCK 78 CHAPTER VIII. STILL SUCCESSFUL 92 CHAPTER IX. HOME 103 CHAPTER X. GUERILLA WARFARE 118 CHAPTER XI. TYROLESE COURTSHIP 130 CHAPTER XII. BERG ISEL 145 CHAPTER XIII. THE LATTER END OF A FRAY, AND THE BEGINNING OF A FEAST 159 CHAPTER XIV. TROUBLED WATERS 171 CHAPTER XV. THE GORGE OF THE EISACH 182 CHAPTER XVI. THE THIRD VICTORY OF BERG ISEL 195 CHAPTER XVII. REVERSES 210 CHAPTER XVIII. DANGER 224 CHAPTER XIX. WINTER ON THE MOUNTAINS 239 CHAPTER XX. THE CHÂLET 253 CHAPTER XXI. TYRANNY RAMPANT, GRACE TRIUMPHANT 266 [Illustration] THE YEAR NINE. CHAPTER I. THE THUNDER STORM. It was dusk; and the mountains were reverberating with loud thunder-claps, while the rain helped to swell a turbid river that swept through the valley, and past the door of a small _wirth-haus_ or inn, known less by its sign of "The Crown," than as "am Sand," by reason of the strip of sand on which it was built. A cheerful looking, comely woman, clad in a superabundance of woollen petticoats, was busy at the stove, cooking the supper of a foot-traveller who read a crumpled newspaper at the window; while surrounding the kitchen-table, three or four peasants, who had been driven in by the rain, were hungrily supping milk-porridge from a large bowl common to them all. A pretty girl of sixteen, after adding to their meal a basket of coarse rye-cakes, spread a small table for the stranger, who, as soon as his supper was served, fell upon it with avidity. His hostess, meanwhile, retired to the end of the kitchen, where there was a great meal-bin, and began to set the bread for the morrow's baking, closely watched, all the time, by two little girls with long braids of hair hanging down their backs. "The thunder still rumbles," said a man who was quietly smoking near the stove. He was about forty years of age; his person was strong and manly, with slightly rounded shoulders; his full, dark eyes beamed with gentleness; his clustering, deep brown hair fell low on his broad forehead, and continued round his face in a beard that became coal-black towards the chin. He looked kind and enduring rather than impetuous, and not unaptly represented the image of strength in repose. He wore a close-fitting grass-green coat over a scarlet waistcoat, on which hung a rosary and crucifix between his green, embroidered braces; black knee-breeches, scarlet stockings, and laced half-boots. The quiet self-possession of his manner bespoke him the _wirth_, or master of the inn. "The thunder still rumbles," said he. "Aye aye, Sandwirth," answered one of the peasants, grinning; "better to be under cover than half-way between this and St. Martin's." "Father," said a lad, running into the house, "two men are coming hither. And I think," added he eagerly, under his breath, "the tallest of them is Joseph Speckbacher." "Hist!" said his father, laying aside his pipe, while he glanced furtively at the stranger. At the same time, the rustics, having finished their supper, departed, without caring for the skirt of the storm, which they pronounced clearing off, though large drops continued to fall heavily. "Those labourers seem content with homely fare," said the traveller, pushing aside his plate. "They don't taste meat once a fortnight," said the Sandwirth, "and yet you see what strong, active fellows they are. Shall you take a bed here, sir, to-night?" "No, I would sooner go on, if it were not for the storm." "It will soon blow over," said the Wirth. "Perhaps you have a book to lend me, meanwhile?" "Oh, yes," said the girl Theresa, bringing him one with alacrity. "This? Hum! the 'South German Plutarch,'" muttered the traveller--"I doubt if I shall not drop asleep over it." And, laying his legs up on a wooden stool, he began to turn over the leaves. Two men here came in, panting and laughing. "What a storm!" cried one, laying his conical hat with its drenched feather on the table. "How are you, Anderl?" extending his brown muscular hand to him. "Well; praised be Jesus Christ!" said the Sandwirth, reverently; to which the two others replied with seriousness-- "For ever and ever, Amen!" It is the usual Tyrolese ejaculation, when a new comer enters the house. There is something simple and solemn in it, when spoken reverently, which it always is. "How is your good Maria?" said the Sandwirth's wife, coming forward. "And your little boy, Anderl's namesake?" "Well, both of them, thanks to God; though Maria has now three youngsters on her hands. But, Sandwirth, have you heard the news? The Archduke--" "Hist!" again said the Sandwirth softly, laying his hand on the other's breast; and indicating by a wary glance of his eye, the presence of the stranger. The other replied by a look. His companion, a younger man, gave a gesture of impatience, and whispered, "Is he going to stay?" "All in good time," said the Sandwirth cheerily. "We are just going to sup, and you will join us. One thing at a time will last the longer." "Aye, Anderl, that is always your word," said his wife, good-humouredly, as she placed about four pounds of boiled bacon on the table. "You never could bear to season eating with business." "Have you a good horse to sell, just now, Sandwirth?" said the younger and shorter of the newly arrived, by way of general conversation. "How should I have a horse to sell?" returned the Wirth, dragging a heavy wooden bench towards the table. "I know no more of selling horses, Franz, than you do of selling brandy." At which they all laughed, as a capital joke. The family and their two friends then sat down to their homely meal. "So you are going to give us a shooting-match on Sunday," said the young man whom the Wirth had called Franz. "Ye--s," said the Sandwirth reluctantly; "but I don't altogether like it." "You don't? And why not, Sandwirth?" "I doubt it's being quite right." "Why, it brings you plenty of custom!" "Aye, Franz; and, in your eyes, that settles the question; but I doubt if it be a good way of spending the Sabbath. If I were a maker of laws, which I'm never likely to be, I'd put down Sabbath-breaking." "But, Sandwirth," said the taller man, in a peculiarly full, rich, earnest voice, "the Sandwirths, your ancestors, used to give Sabbath shooting-matches on this very spot. Look at the glorious old targets hanging like trophies on your wall. I remember, the first time I ever came in sight of this house was on a Sunday afternoon, and the sharp, quick, rattling reports of the rifles echoed among the hills. You yourself stood umpire among a knot of young fellows in green jackets and red sashes; and your grey-headed father sat at a long table covered with hammers, screw-drivers, powder-flasks, ramrods, and everything that could be wanted." "He did so, Speckbacher. You bring the scene before me." And the Wirth's deep-set, large dark eyes seemed dwelling on some far-off picture. "You yourself hit the bull's eye twice, Anderl!" "I did so, Joseph. 'Twas the day that I told old Gasper, who called me a beardless boy, that if he lived long enough, he should see my beard reach my girdle; and he laughed and said, when that day came, he would give me two oxen." "So that's the reason you wear a beard!" cried Franz. "But, Sandwirth, surely such a match as that we have been speaking of, was fine sport! I call it play, not work; and therefore no breaking of the Sabbath." The Sandwirth, however, would not retract. "Play like that," said he, thoughtfully and impressively, as though he weighed every word before he spoke it, "is often as fatiguing as work; and it sometimes leads to quarrels, and to taking God's holy name in vain. Anyhow, it is not _rest_; and God bade us _rest_, mind you, on the Sabbath-day." "Pleasure _is_ rest," said Franz. "No, pleasure is often the hardest of work," said the Sandwirth. "That's true, too," said Speckbacher, as if a sudden light streamed in upon him. "Well, I know, to lie on my back with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs, would to me be the hardest work of all," said Franz. "I wonder," said Speckbacher, after a short pause, "if such are your views, that you mean to have a Sunday shooting-match at all." "I've a purpose," said the Wirth in a low voice; and then, in a louder key, as he rose and went towards the door, "I am going forth to look at the weather, sir," said he. "The storm has, I think, overblown; but if not, and you like to pass the night here, my wife shall prepare you a bed." "By no means; if the weather is really clearing up," said the traveller, "I shall yet push on; for it is not late." "The clouds have rolled off, and the valley is sparkling in the last sun-gleam," said the Wirth. "Very well. How much to pay?" "Fifty kreutzers," said the hostess. "Can you change me this zwanziger?" While the good woman was mustering change, the traveller rested his chin on his knuckles, and attentively surveyed Speckbacher. He was undeniably one of Nature's chieftains. His height was uncommon, and his lofty carriage of the neck and head, when excited, worthy of one of the old Greeks. But often that gallant head drooped, and a look of deep depression shaded his countenance. There was something intrepid in his mien; he was one from whom you would never expect to hear a lie, or a sentiment that was base. His language was homely, but energetic; his features were good, his hair and eyes coal-black. His age might be thirty-five. Franz was full ten years younger, and had tolerable features, but a kind of rakish, good-for-nothing air that was rather repelling. "Why won't you have anything to say to me?" he was asking Theresa. "You seem to be knitting all your wits into that blue worsted stocking. If Rudolf, now, were here, you'd brighten up directly." "But as he isn't, there's no occasion for it," said Theresa, carelessly, and continuing to knit with all her might. "What a pleasant voice you have, Theresa! I wish you would sing us a song." "That's likely, isn't it?" said the girl. "Come now, do." "Thank you, I am going to take my little sisters to bed." And she moved away from him. He looked after her with a mixture of admiration and pique. Just as the traveller, after some inquiries about the roads, was about to depart, two more men hastily entered. The first was a Capuchin friar, of stalwart make, with the hood of his brown woollen gown pulled so forward that nothing could readily be made out of him but a thick, flowing beard of the hue that partial mothers are apt to call auburn, though others often pronounce it red. "The peace of God rest on this house, through Jesus Christ our Lord!" said he. "For ever and ever!" meekly responded the rest. The Capuchin's companion was a light, active young mountaineer of three-and-twenty, brown as a nut, and well becoming the picturesque national costume. As soon as Theresa, who was just leaving the kitchen, saw him, she reddened very much, and hastily withdrew. "How the Passeyr is swollen already!" said the Capuchin. "Is the water out?" cried the traveller, suddenly. "Then I don't know that I've any mind to go on." "Pooh, pooh!" said the Sandwirth, rather impatiently, "the river cannot have overflowed its banks. You see it has not hindered these foot-travellers. However, sir," changing his tone to one more conciliatory, "if you will oblige us with your company, you shall have as good and clean a bed as any in the Tyrol, though I cannot promise you a flounced pillow and satin damask coverlet, such as you might get at Botzen." "No, no, I'll take my chance," said the man of indecision. "Is there any one here that will see me through the valley?" "You cannot well miss your road, sir; but my boy Johann shall start you on it, if you will." "Thank you; I will give him a few kreutzers." "No need, sir, thank you." And the Sandwirth saw him out, and gave him some encouragement about the weather, and watched him off; and then returned laughing. The others laughed too. "Gone at last!" exclaimed Franz. "I thought he never would make up his mind." "Now for business," said Speckbacher, looking eager. "I have hardly spoken to Father Joachim yet," said the Sandwirth, approaching the Capuchin, and kneeling. "Your blessing, father!" The Capuchin, before blessing him, threw back his hood, thereby revealing a frank, determined, intelligent countenance. He was by no means an old man; probably a few years younger, even, than Speckbacher, and apparently his equal in strength. "Anna, is there still any supper left?" said the Sandwirth, rather apprehensively. "Certainly," replied his wife; "I hope Father Joachim will never find our larder quite empty. Johann caught a trout weighing three pounds, this morning." "Draw in, Rudolf," said the Sandwirth cheerfully to the young mountaineer; "and don't sit at that awful distance, my lad, as if you were not one of us." Rudolf bashfully obeyed. At the same time, Theresa, who had tucked up her little sisters with considerable expedition, re-entered, and began sedulously to assist her mother in preparing Father Joachim's supper. She had not been absent many minutes, yet had contrived to slip on clean white full sleeves under her trim violet velvet bodice--a circumstance which did not escape the vigilant eye of Franz. [Illustration] CHAPTER II. THE INN KITCHEN. "Who was that stranger, Anderl?" said Father Joachim. "A flat-faced Bavarian, I think, father," said the Sandwirth: "cunning as a fox! He took note of every word we said." "You said nothing incautious, then, I hope?" "Nothing whatever, father; we talked of shooting-matches and Sabbath-breaking." "Good. Now then--here is a bag of money." "For what, father?" "For laying in stores of various sorts; which you, as an innkeeper, may do without suspicion. You may, perhaps, even contrive to conceal some ammunition." "Doubtless, father; though this is not a particularly good hiding-place." "You will be at some expense too about your shooting-matches." "You think them quite justifiable, father?" "Quite, my son. I think, in this instance, the end will justify the means. This will be a holy war; and the meetings, ostensibly for sport, will cover our arrangements. None among us are traitors, but some may be indiscreet, and these must not be trusted, but quietly sent away to the mountain châlets. This will be mortifying, but they will still be of service, for some must keep our flocks and herds, or how can the others be spared to fight? There must be one common purpose among us, without heart-burnings or jealousies." "There must. There shall." "It is easy to say there must,--there shall,--but are you yourself, Hofer, willing to co-operate with Martin Teimer, or perhaps even occasionally to be subordinate to him? There has been some coldness, I think, between you?" "On my side, none," said the Sandwirth, after a little hesitation; "I bear him no ill will, nor do I know why he should bear any to me. The man's an able man; more so than I; and has already been raised from a private to a major in the militia, though, just now, he only keeps a tobacco-shop, which is no better, I take it, than keeping a wirth-haus. That's neither here nor there. I'll co-operate with him, or serve under him, whenever it needs." "This is the spirit that must reign among us all," said Father Joachim. "We must exemplify the Scripture rule, 'Let each esteem other better than himself.' 'Him that is greatest among you, let him be your servant;' if by being so, he can be of the most good. Do you go with me, my children? Can you submit to this? Will you be content?" "We will!" was simultaneously responded. The two young men spoke lowest: Rudolf, from the modesty natural to him; Franz, because he thought the requirement rather hard. "Then listen to me. Prepare for action. In a few days we shall rise." "Hurrah! hurrah!" And short, loud, abrupt shouts burst from the men's lips. The next instant, their glowing eyes were fixed on the Capuchin in profound silence. "Yes, my children,--here is the proclamation," continued Father Joachim, drawing a paper from his bosom; "hear it-- "'To arms, Tyroleans! To arms! The hour of deliverance is at hand. Your beloved emperor, Francis, calls on you to arm in a most holy cause, which, after a long and treacherous peace, stands forth like a rock in the deluge, the last remaining defence of the liberties of Europe! "'You must now either rise while Napoleon is busy in another part of Europe, attempting to load the Spaniards with a foreign yoke, or wait till he has accomplished that project, and returns to crush Austria, the only remaining obstacle to his aim at universal power. "'Your choice is made! Then look up to us! Everything is already in motion. You will again see at your head your beloved Archduke John, to whom every inch of the Tyrol is known and endeared, and whose greatest pain is ever to be separated from you. "'It is impossible that a separation between Austria and Tyrol, like that of 1805, can again take place--a separation so bitterly felt! Bavaria declared that the Tyrolese should not only retain their ancient rights and freedom, but that their welfare should be promoted in every possible manner, and "that no iota of their constitution should be changed." "'How your honest hearts rejoiced at this royal promise! But how has it been kept? You have seen your abbeys and monasteries destroyed, your church property confiscated, your churches profaned, your bishops and priests banished. Your knights and nobles have been stripped of their old, hereditary honours; your cities and courts of justice, your industrious citizens and tradespeople, have alike had their interests sacrificed; heavy taxes have been imposed, and no mercy has been shown towards those who could not pay them. "'Tyroleans! when you recollect all this,--when you consider the treacherous conduct of the Bavarians, and remember that you have never taken the oath of allegiance to them,--you will have but one thought, one purpose; and your lips will alone utter the word Deliverance!'" "God save the emperor!" ejaculated the Sandwirth. "And bless our cause!" added Speckbacher, deeply moved. "It will be comparatively easy," said Father Joachim, "for Bavaria to penetrate our country as far as Innsbruck; but, from that point, our enemies will find themselves in a complete network of defiles, ravines, gorges, and valleys--" "From which, if we let them escape, we shall be fools!" cried Speckbacher. "They are many, and we are few, my son." "They fight for kreutzers, and we for freedom, father." "True; and therefore I believe we shall win the day, but it will be a hard-fought one. From Carinthia the foe will approach us through the valley of the Drave; from Italy through the valley of the Adige. We must hem them in, and cut them off, before they effect a junction. No time must be lost in fortifying the mountain passes. On the 9th of April, a division of Austrian troops will advance--" "God be thanked! Under the Archduke John?" "Under General Chastelar and Baron Hormayr. You look disappointed, Hofer; but they are good men and true.--Directly they begin to march, the Tyrol must rise. You must ring your alarm-bells and kindle your beacons; send messages to every dwelling within reach, and billets inscribed '_'Tis time_' to those afar off. Saw-dust scattered on the rivers will be a signal to the men lower down the valleys that you are in arms. The foe will probably endeavour to reach the Brenner by way of Brixen--" "He must be intercepted!" "Undoubtedly. Who will lead the men of the Passeyrthal over the Jauffen? Andreas Hofer, will _you_?" A deep red flush rose to the Sandwirth's temples. He rose; and, in a low, firm voice, replied-- "I will." "Let us make some memoranda, then, of men and places--" Some humble writing implements were placed on the table; and Hofer, after trying the point of a stumpy pen on his thumb, offered it, with a crumpled piece of paper, to Father Joachim, who, however, produced his own pocket-book, while the Sandwirth and Speckbacher reckoned up to him the number of men they thought they might muster. Rudolf presently went round to Theresa, and whispered, "Can you give me some bits of wood? I might be cutting some billets and inscribing them." She mutely nodded, went out, and returned with her apron full. He took out his clasp-knife and quietly set to work; and Franz, after a lazy fashion, helped him. "Five thousand strong," at length said the Capuchin. "There or thereabouts," said Hofer. "Speckbacher must count up the men about Halle." His little boy here stole up to him. "So, Johann," said his father, in a lowered voice, while Speckbacher reckoned up the men of Halle, "you set the stranger on his way. Did he say anything to you?" "Only asked a heap of questions about the shooting match, father." "Humph! Nothing else?" "Only about Speckbacher--" "What of me?" hastily said Speckbacher, overhearing him. "Only who you were. I said you took wood to the salt-works." "Humph! Was that all?" "He asked me about Franz." "What did you tell him?" said Franz. "Oh, nothing--I only said you sold horses; and sometimes brandy." "You might have let that alone, youngster," muttered Franz, looking a little annoyed; while the others laughed. "What said you of me, my little man?" inquired Father Joachim, without pausing from his writing. "What _could_ I say, father, but that you were Father Joachim, of the Capuchin convent at Brixen, and that we all loved your reverence dearly?" said Johann. "You told him my name, then," muttered Father Joachim. "Did you say anything of Rudolf, Johann?" said Theresa softly, with a little pull at her brother's hair. "I said he was a goodish sort of a fellow," said Johann doggedly; "and that I believed he came here to look after _you_." "I'll pay you for it!" whispered she indignantly; and giving him a little push, she hastily went out; Rudolf furtively looking after her. "My little lad," said the Capuchin gently, "you must learn more discretion, or you will be a child all your life. Well, Hofer, I think these will be enough?" "Enough and to spare," said the Sandwirth; "with God's blessing." "Children, let us ask it." Every knee was bent in prayer, while Father Joachim fervently invoked the aid of the God of battles. This concluded the conference. Solemnized, and with burning hearts, they retired to rest; while the Bavarian traveller carried the very little he knew to the best market for it. A lovely April morning succeeded this eventful night. Scarcely had the sun begun to gild the mountain-tops, when Theresa stood beside the river with her milk-pail on her head, inquiring of Rudolf, who was fishing in the shade, how many trout he had caught for Father Joachim's breakfast. Carrying a pail or pitcher on the head gives the neck an erect, noble carriage--reining it up, as it were: and Theresa, in her short, scanty grass-green petticoat, and black bodice laced with scarlet, might have stood for the Princess Nausicaa, as her laughing black eyes looked down on the young fisherman from beneath their long lashes. "There's a wary fellow under that yellow stone," answered Rudolf; "I caught a gleam, just now, of his bright back-fin." "I don't believe you did--I dare say it was only the water that sparkled. I would undertake to milk all the cows in the Passeyrthal, before you caught fish enough for dinner." "Try me," said he, leaning back on his elbow to look up full at her. "Though I have but a four-acre farm, it's in full cultivation, quite productive enough for you and me, with a good wooden cottage on it, too. I'll catch you a fish for dinner every day." "What nonsense, Rudolf, you do talk!" "No nonsense at all. I'm quite in earnest; but you do love to cut up a poor fellow." "No, I don't," said Theresa, looking down, though she could not bend her head. "Shall you come to the shooting-match on Sunday?" "To be sure I shall. The match will be only a feint." "Do you like the prospect of war?" "Certainly--Don't you?" "If my father does not get hurt, nor--nor one or two friends--" "Martin Teimer, I suppose." "What care I for Martin Teimer?" "Franz Raffel, then!" "Rudolf, how _can_ you be so stupid?" "Speckbacher--" "Certainly, for one. We all love dear Speckbacher." "Theresa! What wild tales they tell of him! They say that, being early left his own master, it soon ceased to be sufficient excitement to him to follow the roe or wage war with the lammergeyer from morning to-night, in the most savage, inaccessible places, so that he at length left his home altogether, and joined a set of lawless companions who dwelt among the caverns; supporting himself with his rifle when it was successful, but at other times joining predatory parties into the Bavarian dominions." "Something I have heard of this," said Theresa, in a low voice; "but Maria Schmeider reclaimed him--" "No, he was checked by the sudden and terrible end of one of his companions--" "At any rate, he has been one of the best of husbands, and most honest of men, ever since he married; and their little cottage at Rinn is the scene of perfect happiness--" "There is a touch of romance in him, still, however. Franz told me just now, as we returned from mass, that on their road yesterday, through thunder and lightning, Speckbacher gave him such wonderful descriptions of the salt caverns near Halle, that it seemed like a fairy tale." "Very likely," said Theresa. "I have heard him speak of them to my father, and say how he should delight to take him through them. My father liked the idea, but I confess it would make me shudder. All sunlight is excluded; you begin by plunging down three hundred steps that seem as though conducting you to the very centre of the earth; the red light of your torch falls on murky subterranean lakes, beneath towering walls of sparkling salt. How horrible, should one fall into one of those lakes! Speckbacher says there are no fewer than forty-eight caverns, and that some of the galleries connecting them are three leagues in length. He called it a capital place for hide and seek." "Aye, or for storing brandy, as that scamp Franz said," muttered Rudolf. "Much obliged," said Franz, sauntering up. "Hope I'm no interruption." "None at all," said Rudolf, watching his trout. "Listeners never hear good of themselves," said Theresa tartly. "I didn't know you were talking secrets, or I wouldn't have intruded," said Franz, throwing himself on the grass. "So I'm a scamp, am I?" "Well, I'm sorry I used the word, and that's truth," said the good-natured Rudolf. "I suppose you think it, though," said Franz, jerking a stone into the river. "Oh, don't trouble the water!" cried Theresa, hastily. "How can you be such a spoil-sport?" "Spoil-sport, am I?" said Franz doggedly. "Well, perhaps I am. Now I know my titles and designations. Franz Scamp Spoil-sport." "Better take care not to deserve them, then," said Theresa pettishly. "If you stay out here much longer, we shall breakfast without you." And pitching her voice, which was both sweet and clear, rather high, she went towards the house, singing one of the popular national airs in praise of liberty. Franz followed the songstress into the house; and Rudolf, who, having exchanged his worm for a smaller one, (for trout loathe large baits,) was just going to try his luck again when little Johann, running up to him, and looking on for a minute with very round eyes, exclaimed-- "Why, you mustn't do that!--Why, that's father's pet trout, that feeds out of his hand and weighs fifteen pounds! Why, that trout has lived under that stone twenty-eight years! Father'll be finely angry with you, I can tell you, if you think of eating that trout! Why, he'd as soon eat me!" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER III. THE SHOOTING MATCH. Sunday afternoon presented a busy scene at the _wirth-haus_. Groups of gaily-dressed peasants were standing about, many talking fast and eagerly, others quietly, and a little apart. Here stood a woman in an extinguisher-shaped black worsted cap, with her massive arms akimbo, talking to another apparently strong enough to build a house, who wore a globular cap of fur; while, between them, stood a third in a grass-green gown, very short-waisted, and with three rows of red binding round the skirt, her head covered by a gaudy handkerchief, tied under the chin. They looked worthy compatriots of the women of the Vorarlberg, who, during the Thirty Years' War, drove a Swedish division out of the Lechthal, and killed them to a man. There was more of the lioness that might be roused to defend her cubs, in them, however, than of the _poissarde_; they had hard hands, strong arms, kind hearts, and firm wills. The young girls, who were mostly sunburnt, and pleasant-looking rather than pretty, had bestowed considerable attention on their hair, which was braided in long shining tails, tied with gay ribands, and surmounted in some cases by jaunty little straw hats, rather bigger than daisies, and wreathed with primroses, blue hyacinths, and anemones. Among the young men and lads, red sashes, green jackets, and blue stockings were rife; each had his tall, conical hat with gold cord and tassels, flower, or feather; his rifle, plated buckles, and flower in his button-hole. They did not seem to have much to say to the young girls, for flirtation is very little countenanced in the Tyrol. The target was set up at a distance of two hundred and fifty paces. There were the benches, the beer-tables, and the long board on tressels, covered with balls, powder-flasks, and everything likely to be wanted for the sport. The rifles that were to do such goodly service were heavy and clumsy, with triggers so delicate as almost to be set off by a gust of wind. Theresa actively assisted her mother in waiting on the company. Johann sidled up to little Anderl Speckbacher and got him off to a bank, where they could watch the shooting, their arms round each other's necks. The two little girls held their mother's apron as long as they could, and finally found themselves some juvenile companions. Franz was very smart; but, somehow, his clothes always looked as if they had been made for somebody else; and were worn with a slouching air, as if he felt too fine for his company. On the other hand, Rudolf's glossy suit of green velveteen fitted without a crease, and he did not seem to think either of himself or his dress, but to have alert, disengaged attention for whatever was going on. Talking to Hofer and Speckbacher was a man of thirty, with piercing blue eyes, a bold but not prepossessing countenance, indicative of great sharpness, and stooping a little, neither like a mountaineer nor a soldier, though he had been a militia captain and major. This was Martin Teimer, who had come from Clagenfurt to talk over the rising with his compatriots. He had been appointed by General Chastelar, chief of the peasants of the Upper Innthal, and seemed rather inclined, his two companions thought, to plume himself on it. These three men had an eye to everything that was going on around them; and now and then separated and mingled among the groups, speaking to men here and there, till, in time, they had had a short private colloquy with every man on the ground; returning to each other from time to time, and comparing notes. Meanwhile, the rifles were in full action: now circle one, now circle two was hit, now the bull's eye; and even without looking round, it was easy to tell by the cheerful, the triumphant, or the moderated acclamations, what had been the rifleman's success. Speckbacher, returning from one of these progresses, observed to Hofer, "I don't much like that youth, Franz Raffel; he is shallow, vain-glorious, and given to talk. He would be better among the châlets." "Thither he shall go, if we can get him," said Hofer; "but he is somewhat slippery to get hold of; half his time, he is skulking about, smuggling brandy across the frontier; and as we want a good store of it just now, I at present make him useful." "Rudolf is worth a score of him," said Speckbacher; "and I think your pretty Theresa thinks so too. I would not discourage that youngster, Anderl, even if Martin Teimer were to come forward--" "Of a surety, no," said Hofer, quietly. "The lad is a good lad. We shall see what stuff he is made of this summer; and, if he quits himself well, he shall have Theresa at the end of it. You and I were little more than two-and-twenty when we took our brides to church; and Theresa is already nearly as old as her mother was. But we have other matters in hand just now. I see one or two together whom I want to speak to, only Franz is within earshot of them. Do you draw him off." Speckbacher immediately went up to him, and asked whether he could let him have some brandy; and Hofer joined a couple of elderly men, who were just sitting down side by side on a bench under a tree. "There hasn't been such a match as this a good while," one was saying; "but, dear me, what matches we used to have when I was a lad! I'm not more than fifteen or twenty years older than that marksman who is taking aim now, but I don't believe he'll hit the white. Crack! Well, they're making a piece of work about it--I suppose he's hit the bull's eye." "Here comes one that can do more than that," said the other. "Anderl! you have not shot, to-day." "Boys' play," said Hofer with indifference. "But you could show them what a man can do." "Brag, neighbours? No good of brag. Besides, these lads shoot well, many of them. There was some good shooting before you came." "People always say that of everything," said the other. "I've no spirit for these things now." "Ah, things will befall shortly, that will put you in spirits." "What mean you, Sandwirth? Is anything going to happen?" Hofer nodded. The two men put their heads close to his, and looked eager. "We shall rise, soon." "_Rise?_ What, the Tyrol?" Another nod. "Under whom?" "Nobody in particular. All of us under God." They lifted up their hands and eyes. "But is it certain? How do you know?" "Of some one that knows. Quite certain." "_Himmel!_--Did you get us together to-day to tell us this?" "Yes." "'Tis time!" cried one of the men in an impassioned under-tone. "Why should we be turned over from one master to another like a flock of sheep? How did the King of Bavaria guarantee our ancient rights and usages? With a piece of sheepskin. None of his promises have been kept: our representative States have been suppressed, our public funds seized, our Church property confiscated; and, as though this were not enough, taxes have been imposed upon us. The Emperor is afraid of France; but are _we_?" "Not one of us, as we shall presently show them," said Hofer. "Buonaparte is already in the field against our Emperor, but we shall be quickly down upon him. Communications have been opened with the Archduke John, who is immediately going to effect a powerful diversion. Troops are about to march to our assistance." "Why, neighbour, if you were to speak this out, every Tyrolese would rise directly!" "True; but the moment, though close at hand, is not quite come. In a day or two, perhaps, you will receive a little billet inscribed '_'Tis time_'--the whole country will be up directly!" "Come, I'll try _my_ hand at the rifle this moment!" cried the old man, throwing aside his stick, and hastening towards the crowd. He was known and respected--they made way for him. "Old Spickbart is going to try a shot!" cried Franz to Rudolf--"What sport! I'll bet you a quart of brandy he don't hit the target at all!" The good man's hand shook so that his ball only hit the outer circle. "I'll try again," said he. "Yes, do," said the Sandwirth kindly; and looking round him as he spoke. There was not a smile, except on the face of Franz. "You and I used often to shoot together," said Hofer. "Now then. Don't be in a hurry." This time Spickbart hit the bull's eye. He was much applauded, and looked greatly elated. "Ah, I thought I could!" said he, wagging his head. "The fault was only in my hand; not in my eye.--Now, you, Hofer." "No, no," said Hofer. "Oh yes, Sandwirth! Please, Sandwirth!" cried many voices. "You silly boys," said he, looking about for his own rifle; "what do you want me to play with you for?" A feather from some hat lay at his feet. He picked it up and gave it to Rudolf. "There, go and hold it up fifty paces beyond the target." "Rather you than me," said Franz with a shrug, as Rudolf walked off. "I'm not a bit afraid," said Rudolf. He had no need to be. Crack went the rifle; puff went the feather. There it lay, in two little fragments; Rudolf's finger and thumb unhurt. "Well--that was the coolest thing!" ejaculated Franz, as the hills rang with acclamations. "Yes, he's cool enough, that lad; without any brag," said Hofer, quietly putting down his piece. "Franz was not thinking of _him_," said Speckbacher, grasping his friend's hand. "I _was_," said Hofer softly. "I've tested the boy." Speckbacher gave him a quick look. "He stood fire well." "Yes, and expects no notice taken of it. Did it never occur to you that William Tell's little son was as brave as William Tell?" "Never till this minute! Do you hear that, Anderl?" Speckbacher's little son pressed his hand, and then stroked it, looking up in his father's face. "I should not have minded having the apple set on my head for _you_ to shoot at, father." "Would not you, my little boy?" And Speckbacher's brown hand fondly stroked the boy's brown curls. The sun was now nearly set. Hofer, as the best shot, was carried round the ground, with flags, songs, and garlands; and another target added as a trophy to those on his already honoured walls. He and Speckbacher had pretty well ascertained whom they could depend on; a few more earnest words spoken, and they were all on their way to their homes. Hofer re-entered the house, with his hand on Rudolf's shoulder. "Here's a young fellow, now," said he cheerfully to his wife, "who had faith that I would not blow his right hand to pieces, and disable him for life, just out of brag." "Of course you would not, Sandwirth," said Rudolf. "What good would it have done you?" "Ah, my boy, I might have attempted something I could not achieve!" "You? No! you'll never do that." "Well, I hope not. How well everything has gone off to-day! I am so glad Spickbart hit the bull's eye." "I am so glad you hit the feather," said his wife. "Oh, there was nothing in that. Poor Spickbart is getting in years, and a little shaky; but there's a man's true spirit in him yet." "What a bustle and noise there has been; I'm glad it's over." "So am I, Anna. But it has been a very important meeting." "A few of the girls wanted to get up a dance; but I knew that would never do." "You were quite right. Let us dance when the day is won, not before." "Art weary, man?" "A little, dear. Open a fresh bottle of beer." She did, and sat down close opposite to him, looking at him affectionately with her large brown eyes. Rudolf and Theresa were talking in low, lover-like tones, at the door, under covert of the balustraded gallery. The young ones were at play. Franz presently lounged in. "I'm going now, Sandwirth," said he, approaching Hofer, whose hand was locked in his wife's. "Any commands?" "Only about the brandy." "Oh, yes, we talked that over before. You shall have it." "What impression has this day made on you, Franz?" "Well--it's been very hot, for the time of year." "I was not thinking of the weather. Have you had a pleasant afternoon's sport?" "Well, no--there was too much business mixed up with it. Sport is one thing, and business another. Besides, I only hit the bull's eye twice, and Rudolf hit it five times; whereas, the last time, you know--" "Yes, I remember." "So that, altogether, you see--No, it was a poor match, I call it. Sport's sport, and business is business; isn't it, Sandwirth?" "I can't gainsay that. Well, Franz, I'm afraid you don't look forward with much pleasure to a busy campaign this summer." "I hope to do my duty as well as other people," said Franz, looking down. "What must be done, must. Of course, we shall none of us like it." "Do you call that speaking like a bold, hearty young man? Why, you ought to rouse up at the sound of the war trump!" "Oh, yes, of course; so I do."--yawning. "Thou'rt sleepy, lad," said Anna, rather contemptuously. "No, I'm quite awake," said Franz. "Now," said the Sandwirth, "there will be plenty of different kinds of work to do this summer; so that all people's tastes may be suited. There will be plenty of fighting; those who are active and stirring, and fond of their country, will like that. There will be plenty of message-carrying from one post to another; this will be attended with occasional risk, and will require much activity and dexterity, and will be equally honourable and useful with the other. There will be plenty of hard labour, felling trees, rolling stones, making barricades, carrying ammunition up precipitous heights; this will be as useful as the others: plenty of night-watching; this will be fatiguing rather than dangerous, and as useful as the others. Then, while so many are away from their herds and their flocks, some will be absolutely needed to look after the stock; and these will be as useful as the others. Which of all these various posts will best suit your fancy?" "Well, that requires consideration," said Franz, pulling a wooden stool to the table, and sitting down opposite to Hofer. "Let me see. First, there's fighting. You know, Sandwirth, that I've dealt so long in foreign brandy, that I know a little what danger is--" "Of course; and therefore--" "And therefore, if I don't choose fighting, people can't say I'm afraid. Can they, now?" "Whether they can or no, is little to the purpose." "Just so. Well, then; as to the message-carrying; that, as you say, is useful, but dangerous; to which I may add vexatious." "I don't know why it need be." "Don't you? Why, I look upon it as one of the most plaguy, uninteresting, abasing employments a fellow can undertake; and without getting any credit by it." "Let it pass, then. There are plenty whom it will suit very well." "Oh yes! Well, then, let me see. What comes next? Oh, manual labour. Felling trees, and so forth. Do you know, Sandwirth, my mother asked me, last Christmas, to chop up a billet of wood for the fire, and I hit myself such a blow on the left hand with the axe,--here, just at the fleshy part of the thumb,--that I carry the mark of it, as you may see, to this day. And my mother said it _might_ have brought on lock-jaw!" "Did she, though?" "Death in three days," said Franz solemnly. "These handicraft jobs, you see, require practice. They amount almost to trades. Now, a trade requires an apprenticeship; and I've never had one to a woodcutter: so that, altogether, I might do myself more hurt than anybody else." "Many people do." "That's considered then. Well, what comes next? Night-watching. Oh, yes, I would not at all mind taking my turn at that, though I'm a dreadful one for falling asleep." "A sleepy sentinel would not be of much use." "No; only everybody must sleep sometimes; and they that work hardest sleep soundest." "Just so." "As for carrying provisions up the hills, little chaps like your Johann are equal to that, I think." "I should hope so." "--Which they are not with regard to looking after stock. That's a man's business. As you said, it's just as useful and honourable as the others--" "I said useful, though not honourable,--" "No, you didn't _say_ it, you know--I knew what you meant. And it isn't every one that understands stock, or would be for taking the trouble of it." "No, indeed! You're quite right there." "So that, as I _do_ understand it, and don't mind the trouble of it,--why, to oblige _you_, I'll undertake it." "Thank you heartily, Franz! You will indeed oblige me very much!" "Come, that's cordial!" said Franz, as Hofer held out his hand to him. "I'm quite glad I've decided as I have." "So am I. I hoped you would get round to it, but did not know how to propose it." "Oh, I'll do it; and do it well. Bless you! you mightn't have had a head of cattle left!" "And then where should we be?" "There's no knowing," said Franz, with a sapient shake of the head. "Well, good night." The voices at the door had been perfectly silent during this dialogue; and Hofer had once or twice heard a stifled laugh. Franz, however, pre-occupied, and quite self-satisfied with what he considered a masterly piece of tactics, walked off. "What a deal of trouble that young fellow has saved me, to be sure!" muttered Hofer. Then, raising his voice, "Now, then, dear children, come in and sing the vesper hymn." [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. WOLFSTHRUN. Perched on a certain height not far from Sterzing, stands a certain old castle, one of the many that crest the Tyrolese mountains, and which, on investigation, too often disappoint the traveller by proving either desolate ruins, or garrisoned to overflowing by Austrian soldiers. But the castle in question was both habitable and inhabited; a good and even luxurious breakfast was spread in the lofty hall, which combined the adjuncts of modern civilization with the romantic architecture of feudal times; and a fine-looking military man, perhaps turned fifty, sat reading despatches, while his daughter, a young lady of eighteen, poured out coffee for him and a young cavalry officer, who was already attacking the potted game. "This seems an admirable proclamation of the Archduke's," said the Baron, at length throwing aside his papers and beginning his breakfast. "You will soon have plenty to do, Gerhardi." "I hope we may," said Colonel Gerhardi. "Our just and numerous complaints will lie before the tribunal of the world. The Archduke calls it a holy war, and so do I. So great a power as Napoleon Buonaparte's cannot be opposed alone, and therefore all the nations ought to make common cause against him." "Ought and will are two things," said Baron Sternach drily. "I should embark in this war with much more readiness than I do, if I saw our way safely and victoriously out of it; but if, after a fruitless though brilliant struggle, we are reduced to make inglorious conditions of peace, it would have been better to leave the matter alone." "Ah, papa, don't throw cold water on us!" cried Hildegarde. "Why should not we be the liberators of Europe? As soon as the rising once takes place, I know you will take part in it as warmly as any." "Certainly; for the danger of the brave is always less than that of the coward; even if duty and discipline have no influence. My only fear is lest we rush hastily into an unconsidered struggle with a foe whose power, hitherto, nothing has been able to withstand." "The tables will turn on him, some day, sir, you'll see," said Colonel Gerhardi. "I hope I may see it. All we have to do, just now, is to obey our superior in command; and he gives the word to advance. Did you ever chance to see Hofer?" "Yes, Baron; I have seen him twice. He was one of the peasant deputies to the States once, I think? A plain, homely, honest-hearted fellow, seemingly. We didn't think much of him." "Not as much, perhaps, as he deserved. I saw him in the year 1805, when he was chosen from his native valley as deputy to the Archduke John; which showed that the Tyrolese already looked upon him with considerable confidence, though he could not have been much turned of thirty. And he was summoned again by the Archduke, you know, to Vienna, this January, which shows that he saw some ground of reliance in him." "As a matter-of-fact witness, I should suppose, Baron. He would tell the Archduke exactly what was the state of popular feeling, and how many fighting men could be depended on, without the least hesitation or exaggeration. I conclude him to be a man of strict truth; who would neither speak disparagingly of a rival, nor praise him insincerely to curry favour. This struck me with regard to what he said of Martin Teimer. Hormayr put it to him closely: was Teimer a reliable man, or was he not? Hofer spoke very briefly of him; he would not dispraise him, even by an inuendo: neither would he say more in his praise than he felt. Baron Hormayr noticed this to us afterwards, as if Hofer were jealous of him; but I did not think him so. I thought he spoke the simple truth." "And few there be that speak it," said the Baron. "Well, we shall soon see what is in them both. Hormayr is a sensible, gentlemanlike man, and good officer." "A little wanting in ardour, don't you think, Baron?" "Pooh, pooh, you young fellows have too much. You think to carry things by a _coup-de-main_." "That's what Buonaparte did, sir, many times in Italy. We were continually too slow for him." "Well, well, we shall not be, now. We begin to-morrow; and that is near enough at hand even for _you_, I should think." "You are not afraid of leaving my cousin here, Baron?" "Why should I be? Women and children will be respected. I mean her and her aunt to be very useful to us; for I expect that this empty old castle will be filled with wounded men, and Hildegarde must tend them like the heroines of old song." "Ah, that I gladly will," cried Hildegarde. "As soon as you and Adolph ride off, I shall summon the servants, tell them what is to be expected, and superintend their immediate preparations for the reception of the sick." "The strong-rooms and dungeons must be looked to also," said the Baron; "for we may expect many prisoners." "Ah, papa! don't put any of them down into those dark holes full of newts and toads, only fit for the barbarous times!" "Certainly not; but we must provide for their security, nevertheless, or they may seize the castle and put _you_ into one of the dark holes, instead." "Ugh!--I am sure I should not live through the night! My hair would turn quite white. Why, Adolph, you have no idea what terrible stories are told of those dungeons--" "Old wives' tales--" "_True_ tales. Bones have been found. Human hair sticking to the wall. Stains of blood!--" "Well, well, we are not going to repeat those things. You may pet your prisoners as much as you like, so long as you do not let them run away, nor run away with them." "With _one_ of them, papa, I suppose you meant to say. Well, I accept your _carte-blanche_; but you must leave me the cellar-key." "To treat the captive knight like the fair, Saracen?" "Sick men require wine, papa. And I must have beef and mutton, and bread and beer, in unlimited quantities, for those who are well." "Nay, Hildegarde, as my fortune is not unlimited, I see it will be to my interest to effect a very speedy exchange of prisoners--if the enemy have the good luck to make any. But here are we reckoning on the captured and wounded before the battle is fought!" And, hastily despatching his breakfast, the Baron collected his papers together, and went away to give various orders. "I hope the campaign will be a short and a brilliant one," said Hildegarde anxiously. "I shall so long for papa to return." "My mother will soon join you," said Adolph. "But if you are in the least fear--" "Oh no! All my fears are for him; I have none for myself. There is nothing I shall more gladly do than help to nurse the poor men who have been wounded in fighting for our liberties. Terrible gashes and amputations, indeed, I do not feel quite equal to. If we could get a medical man to remain in the castle,--" "Why should not you? Some of the Capuchins are very clever. Father Joachim Haspinger has been an army chaplain, and is preparing for service again. He is as good, I am told, at setting a limb as at breaking a head. His reputation and influence among the peasantry are immense. What a pleasant day that was, Hildegarde, when we visited the Capuchin convent at Brixen!" "Yes; and, do you know, we had another very pleasant excursion in the Passeyrthal after you had rejoined your regiment. A storm came on, and we took refuge in Hofer's Inn, _am Sand_. We did not see him; but his wife and pretty daughter were very attentive to us.--Ah! the horses are coming round," said Hildegarde, interrupting herself; and her eyes filled with tears as her father returned to take leave of her; but she brushed them away, and kissed him with a smile. She accompanied them to the gate. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER V. "'TIS TIME." Ding-dong, ding-dong! Clang!--go the little and great church bells. Bang! go the cannon; crack, crack! the rifles. The Tyrol is up! The night of the eighth of April was dark and gloomy. General Chastelar and Baron Hormayr passed it in riding through the Austrian troops to give the necessary orders for the intended movement, and to see that everything was in a state of preparation. The stillness which reigned around was only broken by the measured tramp of many feet, the hollow rattle of artillery, the lumbering of ammunition-wagons, and now and then a clear-toned voice issuing a brief order. Hofer and Martin Teimer, during this wakeful night, were busy in the Sandwirth's kitchen, drawing up a general order to this effect:-- "On the 11th of April General Chastelar will arrive at Innsbruck, and General Hiler at Brixen. "The Archduke John directs the men of Pusterthal to occupy the pass of Mulbach, and the Rittnern that of the Kuntersweg, that we may be possessed of the strongest position before the Bavarians are alarmed, and attempt to fly from Brixen to Botzen. "Kolbe, by order of the Archduke, is to command at Kuntersweg, take charge of prisoners, and protect the persons and papers of those Bavarian officers who have been distinguished for their inveteracy against the Austrian government and the Tyrol from all injury and ill-treatment; but on no pretence to allow them to proceed from Ritten to Botzen. At Kaltern Joseph Morandel is chosen commander by the Archduke, and has received orders what to do. Count Arzt commands at Nonsburg, and Baron Hormayr is Commissary-General. "Given at Sand, in Passeyr, on the 9th of April, 1809. "MARTIN TEIMER, "ANDREW HOFER, _Publican_." While it was yet dark, Teimer was hastening over the mountains to Oberinthal, to join the Austrians; and Hofer to the muster-ground of the men of Passeyr, appointed on the shooting-match day. With dawning light, the eagerly-watching peasants, lower down the rivers, saw sawdust floating on the surface of the Passeyr and the Inn, and understood the signal; while, among the hills and mountains, billets, inscribed "'Tis time!" flew from hand to hand, from house to house, like the fiery cross: and men hastily caught up their rifles, buckled on their shot-belts, and poured forth. At three o'clock in the morning the Austrian advanced guard was in motion. Chastelar and Hormayr harangued their troops, inciting them to ardour; and before the march had lasted a couple of hours, the thunder of distant guns and the tumultuous din of alarm-bells resounded through the valleys. Innumerable fires were discovered on the heights; and as Chastelar's division advanced up the Drauthal, thousands of men, women, and children came forth to meet it, waving green boughs, and pressing forwards to kiss the hands and even the feet of their deliverers. The force consisted, in all, of sixteen battalions of foot, and three squadrons of horse. Meanwhile, Hofer, at the head of five thousand strong, was crossing the Jauffen, to intercept the enemy between Brixen and the Brenner. On reaching the muster-ground, a succession of short, abrupt, hearty cheers had greeted him. He said little more than "Are we all ready, brothers? Then no time is to be lost;" but his look was as gay as a bridegroom's, and they started forth like guests hurrying to a wedding. Passing the little village of St. Leonard, they struck up to the old Castle of Jauffen; and then began to climb a steep and stony path resembling the dry bed of a torrent, being strewn with boulders; shaded here and there with walnuts and budding elders. Presently the path ran along a precipitous slope, high above the valley, and occasionally crossing chasms on most insecure-looking bridges of poles, carelessly laid across, that required Tyrolean nerves to tread in confidence. These men thought nothing whatever about it, unless the idea occurred how easily they could pull the loose poles after them if the enemy were behind. The last village on their ascent was Walten. Up to this point they had chatted and occasionally sung a verse or two of some patriotic song; but now they must husband their breath; there would not be another rood of level ground. Now pastures, now fir-woods, here and there a lonely cottage, but still ascending. They get beyond the straggling pines, to bare, thin turf, with the rock frequently forcing itself through it. Here and there are cool, bubbling springs, at which many slake their thirst. Poles, to guide the winter traveller, are next reached; then, a tall cross, in passing which each man reverently crosses himself. And now they are on the topmost ridge. They look around from their seven thousand feet elevation with a feeling of satisfaction. This is not the Jauffen, but above it; the amphitheatre of rocky peaks around and below them, and the wild glaciers of the Oetzthal and Stubagerthal, are familiar to them all; yet not so much so as to have lost their power of impressing the imagination. They stand a few minutes, silent and serious, in the felt presence of the God who made the mountains. The Tyrolese are deeply religious: the scenes around them continually bring them into communion with the God of nature; and the perils by which they are environed, as constantly remind them of their dependence on the God of redemption. Onward again they go, down to a turfy little level where Hofer bids them halt. It is now nearly noon; each man has brought a rye-cake or two; they make their frugal meal, and drink water from the spring. Hofer has a bottle of beer, which he shares as far as it will go. After this temperate repast, the five thousand resume their march. Among the firs once more; then another rude cross; then a little oratory in the rock, with a carved and painted representation of the Saviour on the crucifix in a railed recess, with seats and kneeling benches in front. Still downwards leads their path, towards Sterzinger Moss, between banks covered with wild strawberry blossoms. Hereabouts they fell in with several peasants from the neighbourhood of Mauls and Mittelwald, who seemed in great excitement. Hofer immediately stepped on to meet them. "What is going forward, brothers?" cried he. "Much," replied one of them eagerly. "A French column has taken possession of the bridge of Laditch, and the Bavarians have seized the bridge of St. Lorenzen. Both are being furiously contested for, and it would be well if we could get up with them in time to be of assistance to our men at either place; but here is another detachment of Bavarians close upon us." "Never mind; we'll beat them first, and help the others afterwards." "Are you Hofer's men?" "Yes; that is, I am Hofer. We are all brethren. Where are the Bavarians?" "In the Valley of the Eisach. They are this side Sterzing already." "All the better! Never fear!" "Fear! Certainly not--even our women and girls are not afraid. See, they are driving our hay-wagons, and singing and shouting as they come. We could not wait for them, but they will soon be up with us; and the wagons will afford us excellent cover, with the advantage of height, for firing on the enemy; besides being moveable barricades." "Capital! He was a clever fellow who thought of it." "A woman thought of it--my daughter Margaret!" "Excellent!--Well, we have no time to lose." "No, we shall see them directly. They are under Colonel Dittfurt, who wants to join General Kinkel." "He shall not, if we can help it.--Brothers! there is little to say. These two forces must be prevented from meeting. One of them is close upon us. Prepare for immediate action." "They're coming!" screamed a woman, standing up on the top of a wagon, piled high with hay; and her little boy immediately hitting the horses nearest him with a stick, they pulled forward with a jerk which overset the woman on the hay, and made some hundreds of men laugh. It has a curious effect when a multitude of voices utter a "He-he-he!" Hofer saw at once where to dispose the wagons in the defile; not an unnecessary direction was given, for he was ever a man of few words; often a look, a gesture sufficed; and the Tyrolese obeyed him as the Roman legion obeyed Cæsar in Britain--"_at a word, and at the moment_." Soon, those who were in the rear heard the crack of rifles in front. It would seem as though the Bavarians were taken by surprise; for at first they fell back, returning only a few scattered shot; but presently they recovered themselves and began a continuous fire of musketry. As the defile, however, would only permit a small body of them to enter it, their superiority of numbers was of no advantage to them in a _coup-de-main_, and only availed in filling up the ranks of those who were constantly shot down. Four-fifths of their bullets were wasted on rocks, trees, and brushwood; while their ambuscaded foes, entrenched behind trusses of hay, tree-stumps, and heaps of stones, securely picked them off and hardly threw away a shot. Margaret, quick-witted lass, danced and capered at the top of her father's wagon, crying and almost screaming, "Never mind the Bavarian smoke-pellets!" Towards evening, a strong detachment of French afforded a diversion in favour of the Bavarians, and assailed the Tyrolese from the other end of the defile by an incessant fire, for some time without effect. At length, overpowered by numbers, they were beginning to give way, when at this critical moment Colonel Gerhardi, the "Adolph" who had breakfasted at Wolfsthrun, appeared on the heights with between two and three hundred light horse, and immediately charged the enemy, shouting loudly. In a few minutes the firing of the French and Bavarians ceased; the Tyrolese uttered exclamations of joy and thankfulness, some fell on their knees to bless Heaven, while others cheered on their allies. The Bavarians retreated towards Sterzing, with considerable loss of killed, wounded, and prisoners; while the French division fled in the opposite direction. Hofer and his men spent the night on the heights; and with dawning day were again attacked by the Bavarians, who rallied on Sterzinger Moss; but the Tyrolese sharpshooters, sheltered by the rocks, made dreadful havoc amongst them, and the artillerymen were several times shot away from their guns. At length, the Tyrolese made a desperate charge, armed with spears, pitchforks, scythes, axes, and any implements they could muster; while others on the verge of the heights, hurled down masses of rock on their opponents. After some hours, the Bavarians gave way; and having lost several of their best officers and above two hundred and forty men killed and wounded, threw down their arms and surrendered. The old castle of Wolfsthrun had been prepared, as well as circumstances permitted, for the reception of wounded men and prisoners, by Hildegarde Von Sternach; and she was not a little glad that Adolph's mother had already joined her, when a messenger from him informed her that five hundred and eighty prisoners were being brought up to the castle. Hofer and his companions, like hungry men as they were, were meantime devouring their remnant of rye-cakes with abundance of Spartan sauce, and slaking their thirst at the springs. At this moment, Rudolf came panting up to Hofer, whom he had found with no small difficulty. "Sandwirth!" exclaimed he, "what a night you must have had! So have we, but we kept possession of the bridges; and General Chastelar opportunely came up to us just as the French received reinforcements from Mantua. You bade me let you know how things were going, or I would not have left, for the men of Innthal were about to attack them in front, while the men of Whippthal fell on them from the rear." Another Tyrolese here came up, and said, "I've been looking out along the Sterzing road, Sandwirth, and met a man who told me that a strong force of Bavarians is trying to reach Innsbruck, under General Wrede; but the peasants swarm the rocks and impede their march, having broken the bridges, and blocked up the roads with felled trees. I am sorry to add, that the Bavarians, being much exasperated, are committing every sort of excess." "No doubt of their being exasperated, brother," said Hofer. "May be, we should feel so in their place; but since we see how ugly it is in them, do not let us, who have not the same excuse, be tempted to the smallest pillage, cruelty, or violence; otherwise God will cease to bless us." How fared it, meanwhile, with Speckbacher? He was sharpening a coulter outside the stable of his little cottage at Rinn, which stands amidst a clump of larch and beech-trees; when Maria his wife smilingly came up to him to show him that his youngest infant had just cut its first tooth, and to ask him if it did not remind him of a pearl upon a rose-leaf. Just then, his rustic servant Zoppel put a little slip of wood into his hand, bearing the inscription roughly endorsed, "'Tis time!" Down went the coulter; he kissed wife and infant, and hurried into the house, followed, wherever he went, by his little son Anderl, who wistfully eyed him as he took up his rifle. The last word having been spoken cheerily, Speckbacher sped on his way, watched only for a minute by Maria, who felt a tear glistening in her eye and did not wish him to see it. So she re-entered the house. Meanwhile, the little boy ran after him. "Father! let me go too!" "You? you little rogue! No, no, not this time. You must stay at home and take care of your mother." "But she doesn't want taking care of, father!--Besides, there's Zoppel.--Do let me go!" "When you are a bigger boy, you shall, I promise you." "Perhaps there will be no fighting _then_." "All the better." "Please let me go, father!" "What good could a little chap like you do?" "Take care of you, father!" "Ha, ha! Capital! I hope to take care of myself, dear boy." "But, father, you want me to be brave, like you, when I come to be a man. How can I be, unless I look on, and see what brave men do?" Speckbacher felt his throat swell. He turned about, took the boy in his arms, lifted him up from the ground, and kissed him several times. "There," said he. "Go home now, like a good boy. Another time." There was a tear on the little boy's cheek as he stood watching the retreating figure--a tear that had not fallen from his own eyes. He brushed it off--looked at it--and then trotted away into the brushwood; from whence, as he kept running along, he could get glimpses of his father, himself unseen. Once he saw Speckbacher pause and look back; perhaps to see if his little boy had obeyed him and gone home. After that, he never looked back again; he pressed forward to the things that were before him. The young boy still went on; his short, quick steps keeping pretty well up with his father's strides. Children that walk much with their parents generally step out well. Now and then he had to force his way among the bushes, or go a little way round; for which he made up afterwards by running. He had no settled purpose, except just to keep his father a little longer in sight. At length he grew tired and thought he must give up. Just then a man joined Speckbacher and stopped him to speak to him, pointing towards Halle. Anderl sat down and had a long rest. When Speckbacher went on again, the little boy felt refreshed, and was able to follow him with ease. Presently some men came running down the hills by various paths, and joined Speckbacher. They all walked on very fast. Afterwards they reached a vast body of men, who shouted when they saw Speckbacher till the hills rang again. When he came up to them they had a long parley, frequently pointing towards Volders and Halle; and they finished by all walking off together in that direction, with Speckbacher at their head. The little boy now thought he could not turn back; it was too exciting to be resisted; and, as he had now had a second good rest, he trotted on again, keeping up with them as a little dog does with a spirited horse. By and by the men halted. They sat down on the grass near a spring, and pulled out some rye-cakes and began to eat. This was their supper. The sun was going down, and they did not want to fall on the Bavarians, in Volders, till dark. Anderl did not know this. He was surprised, and a little afraid, to find himself alone, so far from home, when night was drawing on; but he never thought of leaving his father. To look on and see some thousand men eating while he was fasting, was rather tantalizing; however, he did so very patiently; and when, after a long rest, they renewed their march, he saw one, who had been talking in preference to eating, leave a rye-cake behind him. As soon as they were sufficiently in advance, Anderl ran down and seized the cake, pursuing his way while he ate it. The men were now getting among the trees, overhanging a road, and moving stealthily so as not to be easily seen. Anderl was startled by a church-clock striking quite near him; and could imperfectly make out white buildings here and there, a river, and a bridge. Presently a discharge of fire-arms was heard in advance. Some horsemen dashed along the road, and were shot down. Others dashed after them, and shared the same fate. Others again and again filled up the road, maintaining a fire that would have been destructive had it not, as little Anderl observed, been expended on bushes and trees. Presently a bullet nearly hit him; only, _as it did not_, he picked it up and put it in his pocket. At last he had collected quite a little heap, regardless of the shot that whistled round him. By and by he observed that his father, towards whom he had crept with the instinct of affection, ceased firing, though the enemy was not yet silenced. What could be the reason? It struck him that he must have expended all his bullets; which, indeed, was the case. So he ran up to him with his handkerchief, which was now quite full of them, and plucked him by the sleeve, saying, "Father, here are some more to go on with." It would have been worth a world to you to see Speckbacher's start! "_You_ here?" said he, in amaze. "Yes, father; I could not bear to lose sight of you, so I kept running on till the firing began; and then, when I saw how the Bavarians wasted their bullets, I picked up as many as I could. If you'll use these, father, I'll soon bring you some more." Speckbacher could not speak. He caught him to his heart, gave him a hug, held him there a moment, and then set him down. "Off with you into cover, you young rogue," said he; "never mind any more bullets." And, handing a few of them to a comrade who stood close by, he said, with a choke in his voice, "These will hit the mark, surely, considering how they have been brought!" That night Speckbacher and his companions drove the Bavarians out of Volders. At daybreak they were at the gates of Halle. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST SUCCESS. The warm spring sun is shining on a valley watered by more than one winding river, and with green pastures dotted with cows and sheep peacefully feeding. It is closed in by hills green to their summits, with only a few patches of snow in their hollows. Behind these soar craggy and fearful rocks, above which wheel one or two vultures, and high overhead the kingly eagle; who perhaps discerns some human quarry in the depths below. Dead bodies must certainly be lying here and there in the gorges; for now and then carrion crows, sated with their impure repast, rise slowly on their flapping wings, and fly heavily away. In the sunniest and prettiest part of the valley is a little village of some dozen whitewashed huts, that look clean and comfortable at a distance. The village is surely deserted! not a creature seems in it except an old purblind woman, sitting outside her door on a stone; and she is straining her cracked voice in vain efforts to make herself heard. "Hannes!--Lenora!--Franz!" cries she, quite in a rage: and then pausing, as if spent,--"Why doesn't somebody answer? They've all gone away and left me, I do believe! Here's a condition to be in! Suppose now my clothes had caught fire, or the French were to come, or a wolf, or an evil spirit--precious help I should have! This is the way we old folks are treated, as soon as ever we can't slave for other people any longer. Hallo! some of you! Am I to split my throat? You'll come home and find me dead some of these days. Dear me! they won't mind; it's no use spending my breath. The village is asleep or dead, I think; I can hear a crow caw a mile off!" When the peevish old woman became quite quiet, she heard a footstep slowly approaching her; and presently a man lounged up to her. "Why, Franz, that must be you!" cried she; "I know your step, you always drag your feet along the ground so." "So would anybody's feet," said Franz, "if they were as tired as I am." "Why, what has tired you?--lying under a hedge, watching the cows." "Don't you go to believe, mother, I've been wasting my time like _that_. The cows are competent to take care of themselves." "What have you been doing, then?" "What have I been doing? Why, now, there's a question! Why, the world's turned upside down, I think; and you sit here, blinking in the sun, and know nothing about it." "How am I to know anything if you all run away and leave me? What's happened?" "What's happened! Why, Speckbacher has taken Halle!" "No!--" "--Has, though--That's one thing. When you've given over disbelieving that, I'll tell you something else." "Well, say thy say, tiresome boy." "Hofer's in Innsbruck!" "The Sandwirth? What, prisoner?" "Prisoner! No, mother, quite the other way. We've turned out the Bavarians!" "What, out of Innsbruck?" "Aye, out of Innsbruck. Twenty thousand of us got together on the heights about the city--" "Thou must needs have a finger in the pie, I warrant thee!--" "Well, I thought, as there were so many of us, I might as well see what turned up. Well, first we cut off all their retreats, by girdling them in all round, blocking up the roads, and breaking down the bridges. Then, we opened a brisk fire on the Bavarians who were posted on the upper bridge of the Inn, and drove them from their guns." "What then?" "Then we rushed on, waving our hats, and shouting, 'Long live the Emperor!' striking down some of the enemy with the butt-ends of muskets, throwing others over the bridge into the water, and following the rest into the city like a swarm of bees. We soon made them feel we could _sting_, too. You never heard such a cracking of rifles in your life. Five thousand shooting-matches at once?--Pshaw, nothing to come near it. Then such a smoke! Then such a noise! Every one for himself and all the world else--hallooing, shouting, capering, as if they had no end to their strength, and sounding the pig-call in derision." "I'll warrant them!" "General Kinkel and his men were garrisoning the town; but what could they do, you know, mother? They knew the ways of the city, however--the streets, passages, gates, and so forth--better than we, so they were soon inside the houses, peppering down upon the Tyrolese from the windows. Well, now you'd surely think, that as we had the advantage of them in the open ground, the Bavarians would now have the advantage of us from the houses. Not so, mother. How it was, I know not, but they could not keep their own: our sharpshooters picked off every man-jack that showed but the tip of his nose at the windows; so at length they threw down their arms--" "They _did_?" "And cried for mercy!--Didn't we make an uproar then! However, there was still a good bit of fighting; here and there were strong posts they wouldn't give up, and stout hearts that wouldn't give in. At the barracks, I believe every man was shot down. At last, they--the Tyrolese, I should say--got to the house of the Bavarian Commander-in-Chief--Kinkel, that is,--and were calling to him to surrender, when up comes Colonel Dittfurt--" "Who's he?" "Oh, mother, you ought to know by this time. He it was, you know, that was the principal cause of the Tyrol being separated from Austria, and that lately said, 'With two regiments of cavalry added to his infantry, he would cut every one of us ragamuffins down.'" "Ah, no good ever comes of brag." "Well, I don't know about that," said Franz, running his fingers through his rough hair; "but no good came of it to him this time, at any rate. He had already got two bullets in his body, they say; but as soon as his house was attacked, he rushed forth, waving his sword over his head. A third ball then struck him near the heart; blood came out of his mouth, and down he came upon his knees. Some of our men hastened up to take him prisoner; he turns about his head, and faintly calls to his men, 'You dogs, don't be cowards,' or something to that purpose; and evidently did not even then give in. Whizz! comes another bullet, which hits him in the head, and lays him along the ground." "Well, Franz, he died like a soldier--" "Mother, he isn't dead yet--Don't you hurry me--We then captured him and carried him off to the guard-house--" "_You?_" "Not exactly I, but our people. And there, as he lay, ready to die from loss of blood, says he to one of our fellows--Rudolf, in fact,--'Who is your leader, young man?'--'We've none in particular,' says Rudolf,--which was true enough, only he needed not to have exposed us so, just then, for no good, to a man of the Colonel's quality, who, of course, thought it very despicable of us. If I'd been Rudolf, I'd have clapped a dozen names together, mother, and said 'that's our commander.'" "Then thou wouldst have been a fool, Franz,--and thou art little better. Well, is that all?" "No--'We've no chief in particular,' says Rudolf--the ninny!--'We all,' says he, 'fight for God,' says he, 'and for our Emperor, and our fatherland,' says he. 'One for all, and all for one,' says he." "Ah, as long as folks will do that last," said the old woman, sighing, "they're sure to win the day. But their evil tempers, and evil passions, and piques, and private interests, tugging at their hearts like so many evil spirits, part them asunder; and then the Evil One laughs!" "Well," said Franz, "all that's beyond me; and you can't expect a young fellow just come from such a stirring scene, to be much in the humour for preaching: but, however, you haven't heard all yet. Colonel Dittfurt could not make this out--(no wonder!)--it would have made him think very small of us, if he had. 'Well,' says he, 'I can't believe that, young man; for I've _seen_ your Commander-in-Chief,' says he, 'frequently rallying you to-day,' says he, 'and rushing past me on a milk-white horse,' says he. Well; when that got about, somebody wiser than the rest said dying men could often see further than others into the spirit-world; and that, 'twas very likely, one of the saints, of a martial turn, had really headed us, though invisibly; and that therefore it was most agreeable to reason to suppose it was St. James." "St. James? why St. James?" said the old woman slowly. "Was he a fighting man?" "There you pose me," replied Franz; "but, you see, he's the patron saint of the city!" "Ah, that explains!" said his mother. "And did the Colonel die upon that?" "Oh no, he's lingering now, but quite given over; and has a priest with him. Father Donay--you know him, mother?" "No, I don't." "You know _of_ him then, and that's much the same--almost as good." "Or almost as bad, Franz. I don't know any good of him." "Why, now, didn't he get me out of a scrape, when I'd like to have been shot?" "By telling a lie, Franz." "Fiddlestick, mother! 'A charitable fraud,' he called it, mother." "Well, Franz, he'll take his payment out of you, some day or other, 'tis my opinion, if he finds you can be of any use to him." "If I can be of any use to him, certainly I will, out of gratitude, mother. One good turn, you know, deserves another." "And one bad turn--I mean one bad or deceitful or treacherous action to screen a companion is often followed, in due course, by that companion being asked, nay, commanded, to do some dirty trick in return." "Well, mother, you will have your say. But I was going to tell you, that Martin Teimer joined us just as Dittfurt fell, and helped us well; and as soon as it was known that the Commander-in-Chief was captured and mortally wounded, the Bavarians lost all heart, and laid down their arms to a man. So, then we had jolly work!" "Ah, don't tell me all about the slaying and slaughtering!" "Why, there was _none_, mother! A Tyrolese kill a captured foe in cold blood?--Oh, fie!" "All about the sacking and pillaging, then--" "Well, a few of the Jews' houses were attacked; but to no good; for Father Joachim and the Sandwirth made our fellows refund everything they had thought lawful spoil--" "Ha, ha!" "Oh, come, it was no joking matter. I think a Christian might fleece a Jew, without much harm done. However, others thought differently; and 'tis a certain fact, mother, that one of our fellows, who had carried off the heavy iron door of a Jew's strong room before the stir was made by the Sandwirth, and got clear of the city with it, walked fourteen hours, that is to say all last night, with that great heavy iron door on his back, thinking it mighty clever to get it safe to his cottage." "What did he mean to do with it?" "I doubt if he knows, any more than I do. However, he had been at home an hour or so, and was telling his wife, who had just been confined, all about the day's work, with great glee; when--in walks the priest. 'What have we here?' says he, stumbling over the iron door. As soon as ever he heard how it was come by,--'Now you go,' says the priest, 'and carry that door all the way back again. The commandment says, Thou shalt not steal, without saying of Jew or Christian; take it back this minute! It will be a suitable penance; for believe me, my son, thou hast sinned.' So the poor fellow heaved it up again, though his back was half broken already, and trudged away with it, as meek as a lamb; and when I met him, he was half way to Innsbruck." "He'll come back with a lightened heart, as well as lightened shoulders, Franz." "What know I?" said Franz with indifference. "After such a hard day's fight as we'd had, I think we might have had a few pickings. And there were the simple fellows that had never been in Innsbruck before, rambling in great parties about the streets, staring and making their remarks about everything, and crowding into the cathedral to see the emperor Max's great monument with those grim iron giants of dead kings to guard it--and women and girls pouring out of the old part of the city, to give us cakes, and cream-cheeses, and wine, and bread, and beer--whatever came first to hand, and laughing and chattering, and praising us, and saying what a glorious day!" "Well, it _was_ a glorious day," said the old woman reflectively. "So much, done so quickly!" continued Franz. "Why, mother! the town was ours by eleven o'clock! How surprised some of the men looked when they heard the clocks strike!--They had just then discovered and laid hold of the Imperial Eagle on the emperor Max's tomb; and, after tying a lot of red ribands round its neck and legs, they set it up aloft and carried it through the streets, shouting and singing, and saying they'd always be true to it. Meantime, another lot of fellows had come upon the pictures of our Franzel[A] and Hannes,[B] and had hauled them down and were carrying _them_ about, too, triumphing and making merry and crying they would shed their last drop of blood for them!" "What a pity our Franzel was not there to hear it," said his mother; "it would have warmed his dear heart." "They set the pictures against a sort of arch," pursued Franz, "and put lighted candles round them, and bawled 'Long live the Emperor!' There was a good deal of foolery in it." "They were in mad spirits at their success, and no wonder," said the old woman; "especially if they had made free with the contents of the brandy-shops." "No, mother, no.--Not one of them was drunk, nor the least inclined that way--I saw many of them drinking water, as if they could have drunk the sea dry; and others smacking their lips after a bottle of beer, or munching a rye-cake as if it were a feast for the emperor. Towards nightfall, they were completely tired out; numbers lay down to rest, in the streets, and were asleep in a moment; some on straw, some without it; while others prepared to camp out all night in the orchards. I thought I might as well be walking homewards as that, and so I started off: no doubt the Bavarians will be down upon them with reinforcements to-day or to-morrow." "And then they'll lose all they've won," said the old woman. "Well, that will be a pity." She sat musing upon it, while Franz went in-doors, and presently came out again, devouring a great rye-cake, and a lump of cheese. He sat down on an inverted milk-pail, and, while he continued eating, he watched a girl who was coming up from the valley with a long hazel wand in her hand. She was dressed in a short, scanty petticoat of bright grass-green, with a black bodice that was laced in front over a chemise with short full sleeves of snowy whiteness. On her head she wore a small black, sugar-loaf hat, with a gay riband tied round it. Her appearance, at a distance, was excessively picturesque; but when she drew near, she proved to be very plain, with thick ankles, a thick waist, and large, red, coarse hands. "Here comes Lenora," said Franz, at length; speaking with his mouth full. "Soh!" said the old woman, with a kind of snort, "she is vouchsafing to return home at last, is she? She might have come to look after me in the course of this long morning, I should think. But girls now are not what girls used to be." It would appear from this speech, that Lenora ought to have joined the couple who were seated outside the cottage, with the penitent air of one who had neglected her duty; but, on the contrary, she took up quite another tone. "So, Mr. Franz!" shouted she, in a voice that would have filled St. Paul's, "you're come back again at last, are you, sir, after leaving me these twenty-four hours to do your work!--you might, at any rate, have had the civility to tell me you were going; but no, not you!" "What's the matter now?" said Franz, doggedly. "What's the matter?" repeated Lenora, still chafing; "why, have not I, in addition to my own work, had to do every bit of man's work that has been done about the place? Who, but for me, would have watered the horse, turned out the cows, sheep, and goats after milking, and a hundred things besides? As I was driving our sheep to pasture, Gaspard looked over the hedge, and 'Do the same for me, my good girl, will you?' says he, 'for I'm off with my rifle.' So there was I with two flocks of sheep on my hands, besides the cows and the goats; and, not knowing exactly how many sheep Gaspard had, I counted them twice very carefully, and, the second time, I missed one. So I wasn't by any means sure whether I had counted them wrong the first time, or whether one had strayed; but somehow I thought one had strayed, because I fancied I remembered that the number was an odd number, and now it was even; and also that I had remarked a weak-eyed, rather ill-looking ewe, that had something particular in its bleat. Well, I could see nothing of this ewe, so I made sure it had strayed; and, as it belonged to a neighbour, I was even more sorry for it than if it had been my own. So I sought it here, and I sought it there; first in all the likely, and next in all the unlikely places; and, meanwhile, the sun was scorching hot, as if it had been August. At last I got to the pass where one of your cows pitched over last spring--" "That was a good way off," muttered Franz. "Truly it was," said the girl, with self-pity; "however, there I trudged; and just as I had got to the brink of the ravine I heard that queer-sounding bleat. I looked down, and there was the ewe, who had toppled over and fallen into the upper part of a thorn-bush, from which she could not get out. So I had to scramble down, get hold of her, and lay her across my shoulders, climb up the bank again, and carry her all the way back. Such a weight she was! All this trouble you might have saved me." --"Lenora!"-- "Well?" "We've taken Innsbruck!" "No!"-- He had to tell his story all over again. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VII. INNSBRUCK. Picture to yourself an old cathedral-town in the midst of a valley about three miles across, hemmed in by magnificent mountains six to eight thousand feet high, from whose summits the wolves are said to look down into the very streets. The city stands on a deep, impetuous river--the Inn; and hence its name, Innsbruck, or Inn's Bridge. This city is but of moderate extent; but few towns of its size contain, in the modern part, better and handsomer buildings; and its suburbs are remarkable for cleanliness and elegance. The old part of the city is picturesque enough: there you may see tumble-down old houses nodding with age, having rickety outside staircases leading to old, rickety wooden galleries or balconies; crumbling walls kept together with old timbers nailed outside in various quaint fashions; upper floors overhanging lower ones, and supported with rows of carved brackets, or by poles imbedded in the pavement below; antique gables, fantastically decorated, with grotesque heads on the spouts between them. Many of these antiquated streets have low arcades, which afford capital shelter to women who sell fruit, cakes, cheeses, sausages, and get through a great deal of gossip. The shops are homely and primitive, with very few outward allurements to attract customers. They are mostly in the "general" line, and deal indifferently in groceries, medicines, straw-hats, coarse thread, ready-made garments, and old rags and bottles. In these dwellings a great many generations have been born and brought up; have eaten, drunk, slept, talked over the news of the day, thought the world was coming to an end because of some matter which the next generation thought infinitely unimportant and succeeding generations have forgotten altogether;--marketed, made good bargains, bad bargains, grown poor, grown well-to-do in the world, fallen sick, got well again, gone to weddings and funerals, gone to church at six o'clock in the morning, made friends, made enemies, been disappointed in friends, lived down the slanders of enemies, found life a very hard battle, sometimes won it, sometimes not, resolved never to be deceived again, or to do a wrong or foolish thing any more, found that cheerfulness is a salve for many reverses, and contentment a great set-off against straitened means, remembered how much better everything was in their young days, grown old before they were aware of it, ailed a little, dropped aside and out of sight, except of the priest, doctor, and one or two old friends,--in short, been, and done, and felt, and enjoyed, and suffered, just like the rest of the world. If the spiders could talk, doubtless they would be able to tell you many interesting stories of these people; for the human heart is the same all over the world, but its experiences are infinitely various; as various as human faces. At the court-end are the triumphal arch built by Maria Theresa; the Neustadt, a fine wide street, with a fountain in the centre; the town-hall, the theatre, and the spacious palace assigned as the residence of the governor of the Tyrol. These buildings are surrounded by public pleasure-grounds, well planted, and extending to the fine chestnut avenue on the banks of the river, which is a favourite resort of the townspeople in fine weather. The market-place, too, is very gay. There you may see old women in red jackets and witch-like hats, squatted behind a small spread of eggs, butter, salad, onions, lettuces, &c.: young girls, in tight-laced purple bodices, and short, full, snow-white sleeves, arranging baskets of peaches and apricots; children, with brown, ruddy faces, offering for sale large nosegays of rhododendrons, harebells, cowslips, anemones, lilies-of-the-valley, honeysuckles; or little heaps of small bright scarlet strawberries; men, unloading ox-wains of fire-wood, or shouldering little sacks of corn, steering their way amid piles of coarse earthenware, spread on the ground. But the chief glory of Innsbruck is its churches; especially its _Hofkirch_, or Cathedral, the wonders of which are hardly to be sufficiently explored in a single day. Here is the famous tomb of the Emperor Maximilian the First, who died in 1519: and who is represented at the top of the tomb, kneeling, with his face towards the altar. Round the sides of this tomb, which is about six feet high and thirteen feet in length, are a wonderful series of what have been poetically called "pictures in marble"--exquisite carvings, that is, in Carrara marble, of various events in the Emperor's life. Guarding this tomb, as it were, in stern and solemn array, are eight-and-twenty colossal bronze statues of famous princes, warriors, and chieftains; including our own king Arthur. "When the gloom of evening," says Inglis, "begins to fall among these dark-visaged and gigantic kings and knights, the effect is almost terrific." Round and about this wondrous tomb, with looks of simple surprise and admiration, strayed many of Hofer's rustic companions on the famous 11th of April, as well as Hofer himself. When his heart heaved within him as he gazed on the effigies of those mighty men of renown, he little thought that, in times to come, times not far distant, travellers from distant lands would flock to that old church, to see--not the eight-and-twenty champions, nor the kneeling emperor,--but, the presentment of a humble, heroic Tyrolese peasant, with face upturned to Heaven, one hand grasping the national banner, the other holding the barrel of the rifle slung from his shoulder. "We know what we are," said poor Ophelia, "but we know not what we shall be." Even in the gladness of that day, there was a heaviness at his heart. His companions were shouting, singing, and waving their feathered hats round the Imperial eagle as they carried it through the streets--_he_ was standing, lonely, in the church; kneeling; praying. It was not a long prayer, but a hearty one; a prayer such as God loves. "O God! I thank Thee for this day's success, but I know not whither it will lead. Oh, guide us, guide us, for Thy goodness' sake, O Lord, in Christ Jesus!" It _was_ a success. Eight thousand French and Bavarians had laid down their arms, and surrendered at discretion, with their eagles, colours, and munitions of war; while only twenty-six Tyrolese had been killed, and forty-two wounded. Hofer personally knew some of the twenty-six, however, and felt a manly sorrow for them: _only_ twenty-six dead men may leave behind them a good many sad hearts. The enemy's cavalry took to flight, but were stopped and made prisoners by Speckbacher, in the meadows near Halle. Meanwhile, our friends in the green jackets, who were perambulating the streets of Innsbruck, assembled themselves together in front of the Palace, and amused themselves by shooting down the Bavarian lion from over the entrance; after which their patriotic souls were vexed by seeing the hated blue and white stripes of Bavaria decorating sundry buildings; whence a great cry for paint-pots arose, and they ransacked the oilmen's shops for all their stores of black and yellow paint, and with hog's hair brushes and ladders, set themselves diligently to work to efface the enemy's emblems and substitute the Imperial colours. Some others of these merry hearts thought nothing wanting but a little good music; and, as all the instruments they were able to muster among themselves, proved to be two fifes, two fiddles, two rusty iron pot-lids, and a few Jews'-harps, they did not scruple to impress the Bavarian band into their service, and make them patrol the city playing triumphal tunes in honour of their own defeat. There were likewise certain native ballad-singers of the itinerant order, who turned a good many pence, that is to say kreutzers, this day, by vocalizing on their own account, at tavern-doors and in public places, to the great delight of the Tyrolese, who sat on benches and on door-steps, listening to them while they quaffed hot coffee in thick ale-glasses, or tasted for the first, and perhaps last time in their lives, iced rum and water. Others of them were not too tired to get up a game of bowls in the market-place, which excited immense merriment among themselves, and crowds of townspeople at the windows, with whom they talked as comfortably as if they had known them a hundred years. Just as they had had enough of it, Punch very opportunely made his appearance, and kept them amused till it was dark. Then they lay down on the ground, in and about the town, and slept soundly all night. Hofer thought he should like to see a play. So, to the theatre he went, where, on asking what there was to pay, the money-taker with a bow replied, "Nothing." So he walked into the boxes, and picked out the very best place; where his remarkable dress and person drew on him the attention of every one in the house. But if they thought a good deal of him, he was very little aware of it; for there were a great many things to employ his attention. In the first place, there seemed to him a great waste of wax lights; half the number would have been quite sufficient. In the second place, the ladies' dresses appeared to him a great deal too low, too short, and too scanty: he hardly liked to look at them, and was very glad to see no other Tyrolese in the house. In the third place, the orchestral music, when it struck up, quite took him by surprise: he had a sensitive though untutored ear, and a tender heart; its dying falls and gradual swells, its minors, its concords, its plaintive and its impassioned strains, nearly overpowered him. Luckily, the curtain drew up, the music ceased, and the play began. Hofer could not understand much of it. But, on the whole, he thought it funny, and concluded it clever,--and did not know whether he should ever care to go to a play again. "They seem to make very light of swearing," thought he; "I have frequently heard them take God's holy name in vain. Some of their dresses, also, are immodest, and as for their music, it makes a man's heart like cream-cheese. The story, too, by what I can make out of their acting, is of two young persons who deceive their parents very much, tell many lies, and think only of their own selfish wishes; yet they are rewarded and applauded at the last, while the old people are laughed at for having been ill-used. So that, altogether, I am glad to see none of our dear Tyrolese here to-night, for it would soften and demoralize them." With these reflections, the thoughtful father of a family quitted his seat at the end of the performance, and stood about in the lobby, looking rather bewildered and uncertain which was his way out; while many smart townspeople of the upper classes looked at him with curiosity and interest as they passed. Our English readers may wonder that, after such a day of stern realities, people could be found with minds sufficiently disengaged to enter a theatre;--but our continental neighbours are as fond of their play as--what shall we say?--an Englishman of his dinner. Both parties _can_ go without it, if there be some stringent necessity; but never from inclination. Hofer was not quite so new to Innsbruck as the generality of his comrades. He had never passed a night there, indeed, but he had occasionally, though rarely, gone thither on business connected with his trade, which had brought him into some slight acquaintance with a brother innkeeper, by name Michael Stumff, whose sign was the "Goldener Adler." As Hofer stood in the lobby of the theatre, spoken to by none, though gazed on by many, a pretty looking young woman, with a respectably dressed young man for her companion, came up and accosted him. "So you have come to see our theatre, Sandwirth," said she, frankly. "Do you not know who I am? I am Alouise Stumff, Michael Stumff's daughter." "Ah, Alouise! I did not know you at first," said Hofer, looking pleased, and holding out his brown hand to her rather red one. "Are you going to spend the night in Innsbruck, Sandwirth?" said Alouise, who addressed him with perfect ease and a little affability, as if it were kind of her to take notice of him. "My father will be very glad if you will take a bed at his house." "That will suit me well," said Hofer, in his plain, homely manner. "I was considering where to bestow myself. So I will go home with you, if it please you, Alouise." "Come along, then," said Alouise briskly. "This young man is a neighbour's son, Sandwirth, Leopold Mayer; we are very old friends." When they reached the "Goldener Adler," Michael Stumff was surprised and rather pleased to see his old acquaintance. "Why, Sandwirth, this is an unexpected honour," said he. "You are kindly welcome." "Praised be Jesus Christ," said Hofer, reverently using the greeting customary among the Tyrolese; but, perceiving that the other did not respond "for ever and ever, Amen," he after a pause, continued: "Unexpected enough, it may be, Michael Stumff; but an honour I cannot think it. However, I am glad you say I am kindly welcome." "How can you be otherwise," said Stumff, "when you have performed such a glorious work this day, leading the men of Passeyr on to victory?" "Oh no, oh no," said Hofer, "there was no leading in the case. We were all just as equal as so many sheep. God was our shepherd." "The Bavarians were more like sheep, to my thinking," said Stumff, with a jovial laugh. "They _did_ run, to be sure!" "Better for both parties that they should save us the necessity of shooting them," said Hofer. "However, I don't expect we've seen the last of them." "I was just going to ask you, Sandwirth--(let us have supper, Alouise)--Surely you don't think them put down with one day's drubbing?" "Surely, no," said Hofer; "I look to see them again in a day or two, or at furthest, by the end of the week, and then with God's blessing, we'll drub them again." "And shall you all keep together here, in Innsbruck, till then?" "We cannot. This is a busy time with us in the field; we must plough and sow." "But, directly your backs are turned the enemy will come back! Besides, what are you going to do with all your prisoners?" "I'll think of it on my pillow," said Hofer. "Now, supper." For he was true to the saying his wife quoted of him. "One thing at a time will last the longer." And besides, the Wirth of the "Goldener Adler" was not Speckbacher; and he had no mind to tell him all his plans before he had digested them. "Well, and so you've been to the play," said Stumff, slicing away at a ham, and hospitably loading Hofer's plate. "How did you like it?" "Some things I liked; others I liked not." "What did you like?" "The house was beautiful as a dream--but where was the good of it? Directly the play is over all melts away, like a day's frost!" "_All?_ what?" "Why,--the impression." "Oh! well, but we can renew the impression every night; and we do not want it all day." "Truly no," said Hofer. "And I doubt its being good to renew it every night." "Why?" "Too softening and enervating." Stumff laughed a jolly laugh. "Did not you like the music, Sandwirth?" cried Alouise. "Too much," said he, sighing. "It made my heart ready to burst." "The dancing, then?" "Not at all." Alouise smiled. "Oh!" said she, "you are getting too grave and steady, at your time of life; but you would have liked it when you were young." "Perhaps I should--perhaps I should not; but that would not have made it good or bad." "Then, the ladies' dresses, Sandwirth?" "Ah!" with a grimace. Stumff laughed. "What of them?" said he. "Too little dress--too much exposure." "Why, there's no satisfying you, Sandwirth." "Oh, yes," said he, smiling. "One play has satisfied me--I don't want to go again." "Your daughter would like it," said Alouise, decisively. "I should not wish to give her a taste for such things," said Hofer. "She is perfectly content as she is." "And that's more than I can say of _my_ girl sometimes," said Stumff, with a smile and a shrug, as Alouise left them for a few minutes. "I wonder," said Hofer, after a short silence, "that you let _her_ go to the theatre." "I should be considered quite a bear, not only by her, but by all Innsbruck, if I denied her," said Stumff. "No, no, Sandwirth,--we town-folks are not quite the same with you village-folks,--it does our girls no hurt, I believe--or, if it does, we can't help it. And now, as you seem tired, I'll show you your bed. What! you must take your dearly-beloved rifle along with you, hey? Ha, ha!" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII. STILL SUCCESSFUL. When Michael Stumff came down to breakfast the next morning, he looked round for his guest in vain. "Where's the Sandwirth?" said he to Alouise. "Half way to the Brenner, I suppose," said Alouise. "Why, father, you must have slept heavily, if you did not hear the uproar this morning! The alarm-bells began to ring before it was light, and a dozen country fellows came running down the street, bawling 'Sandwirth! Sandwirth!' Open flew the Sandwirth's window; he gives a _jödel_[1] that might be heard a mile off, which makes them stop short. 'Here I am, my boys,' cries he, 'what's the matter?' The next moment they were all under his window. 'Speckbacher took Halle yesterday!' cries one. 'Hurra!' cries Hofer. 'But the French and Bavarians are coming down upon us from the Brenner,' cries another. 'Aha! then we'll go to meet them,' cries Hofer; 'I'll be with you this minute.' And his door flew open. I just popped my head out of mine, and said, 'Sandwirth, I'll be down directly, if you will wait for some breakfast.' 'No time, thank you,' replied he, running along the gallery. 'Just one cup of coffee!' cried I. 'No, dear; we are going to breakfast on gunpowder,' says he, laughing: and so off. Dear me, it quite set my heart a-beating; it was all in such a moment. Who knows? Perhaps the Bavarians may be masters of Innsbruck again, before nightfall, father?" "There's no knowing, child." "I don't know that I could have done less than ask the Sandwirth home, father, when I saw him last night, standing about, in the lobby, looking quite puzzled." "Certainly not, child. The poor, simple fellow"--said Stumff, with an air of complacent superiority--"would have come to mischief of one sort or another, for he knows as little as a child. A brave, honest heart, and a good marksman, Alouise; and when you've said that, you've said all. Give me my breakfast quick, child, that I may go out and look about me a little." Alouise poured out his coffee, and gave him a slice of bread, and then hurried to the house door, calling eagerly to one or two persons who were hurrying along, to ask them what was going forward. They only replied, "Atzwanger is turning out the armed burghers," and ran off; and her father, with his mouth full, soon followed, bidding her take good care of the house. So there was she, alone in the midst of bustle, feeling solitude doubly lonely, till at length she called to a little boy who was cleaning knives, and said,-- "Dolf, run down to the gates, and bring me word what is going on." When he was gone, she thought he would perhaps not return; and felt more solitary than ever, till the young man who had escorted her to the theatre dropped in. "We're in a fine mess," said he. "Here are the Bavarians coming back." "Aye--what shall we do? Perhaps they will get possession of Innsbruck again." "Very likely. For my part, I hope they will." "Oh, Leopold! How can you be so unpatriotic?" "Why, you see, Alouise, Buonaparte is sure to get the better of us in the end, so he may as well beat us at once and have done with it." "Perhaps he won't beat us in the end." "Oh, yes, he will." "That's no argument. Why don't you go and help fight?" "Thank you, I'm not that way inclined. I told Atzwanger I'd sprained my trigger-finger. What's all that hammering about, up stairs? Are you putting up defences?" "Oh, no! A poor lame man lodges in our attic, who is amusing himself by making a barrel-organ, with a curious set of dancing automatons at the top. His whole heart is in it. He thinks the Tyrolese war nothing in comparison. Indeed, I doubt if he knows there is one." "Oh, come!" "Well, I'll take him up his breakfast, and hear what he has to say about it; and you can hear what I say and what he says, if you prick up your ears." Leopold went to the foot of a dark, steep back-stair, up which Alouise tripped, with a coffee-pot and some bread; and after she had tapped at the door he heard the following dialogue:-- "Come in!" "I've brought you some breakfast, Martin." "Thank you; though I am almost too busy to eat it." "How are you getting on?" "Take care! don't tread on that barrel!" "I don't see one." "Not a beer-barrel, but an organ-barrel." "Oh, I see; well, do you know what a bustle we were in, yesterday?" "Chimney-sweeps?" "Chimney-sweeps! no! Why, the Tyrolese took Innsbruck, and drove out the Bavarians!" "You don't say so! Soho! hum! A pretty piece of work. I'll hear all about it presently, or the glue will get cold. I'm afraid, you see, Alouise, that this glue is not strong enough; which is the reason why the woodwork will not stick. Soho!--poor Tyrolese!" "Poor Bavarians, you mean! Why, the Tyrolese won the day!" "Oh, did they so really? Well, now,--humph!--poor fellows!" "And we had one of them to sleep here, last night." "Really, really! By the bye, are you anything of a mechanician?" "Not in the least." "Then it's no use asking you the thing I want to know. Hum!--poor Innsbruckers--poor Tyrolese, I mean." "But, Martin, we Innsbruckers _are_ Tyrolese." "To be sure, to be sure--who doesn't know that? This tiresome glue! That was just what I was saying." "That? What?" "Well--now you puzzle me--I think this will stick, at last." "Well, I see you don't take any interest in the matter, so I won't waste your time. Perhaps the Bavarians will have recovered possession of the town before bedtime." "Perhaps so, perhaps so--nothing more likely." She ran down stairs, laughing. "Just the old story," said she to Leopold; "every man thinking his own affairs of more importance than those of all the world besides. How now, Dolf?" to the boy, who ran in glowing and panting. "There's fine work, mistress. They're barricading the gates with casks and wagons, and closing all the houses. May I go back?" "No, no, you must not leave me." "I'll bring you word every ten minutes how things are going on.--It's so jolly!" "Well, Dolf, if you will promise me very faithfully indeed to do that, you may go; and I'll give you a cake at supper-time besides. But mind you keep an eye, if you can, on my father." Away scampered the boy; and Leopold prepared to go too. "Don't you go," said Alouise. "I shall be afraid." "Oh, very well," said he, stretching himself and yawning. She gave him an old newspaper, which he began to pore over; but on returning to the kitchen after a short absence, she found him gone. "That's just the way," said she to herself, pouting; "much he cares for my safety, in spite of the pretty things he said to me last night. I suppose Nannette will be off next, if I do not go to look after her." Nannette was stretching her head out of one of the upper windows, so intent on catching all she could of the distant uproar, that she was not aware of her mistress's presence till Alouise gave a smart pluck at her dress. However, Alouise had no sooner set her to scour the bedrooms than she herself went up to the very top of the house, which had, like many of the dwellings in the Tyrol, a sort of open story or penthouse raised over the flat roof, from whence she could descry a little, but not much, of the stir near the gates. Dolf returned once or twice to report various successes, including the capture of General Wrede, and, towards nine o'clock (for they are early people), numbers of men running through the streets, waving their hats and shouting, proclaimed the day to be won by the Tyrolese. In consequence of a letter which Martin Teimer had compelled General Kinkel to write to the Bavarian commander, General Wrede himself, accompanied by a French officer, had ridden to the gates, with so strong a guard, that the Tyrolese, considering them aggressors, drove them back with great loss, and took the General and his companion prisoners. The discomfited fugitives carried back to their lines such a formidable account of the strength and fury of the Tyrolese, that the French and Bavarians were thrown into the greatest consternation, especially the latter, who had lost their principal officer. Martin Teimer, accompanied by Baron Taxis and Atzwanger, the leader of the armed burghers, and also by several Tyrolese leaders, repaired to the French lines, where they were courteously received by Colonel Bisson, who protested he intended no injury to the town, and merely wished to carry his troops unmolested to Augsburg. He made no stipulation for the Bavarians. Teimer, inspirited by his capture of Wrede, would hear of nothing short of the surrender of the whole army, to which Bisson a little impatiently replied that he would rather sacrifice every man under his command. Teimer, without deigning a reply, returned to the Tyrolese, who immediately opened a deadly fire on the enemy. Their shouts and impetuosity so petrified the French grenadiers that for a while they stood motionless without returning a shot. The French officers conjured Bisson to surrender on honourable terms to Teimer, whom they recalled for the purpose, and Bisson at length most reluctantly countersigned the following articles, which the reader may decide whether honourable or not. "In the name of Francis the First, Emperor of Austria, the French and Bavarian troops at Steinach and Wiltau, agree to the following terms:-- "First. That they shall immediately lay down their arms. "Second. That the whole body of the eighth division shall surrender to the Austrian troops at Schwatz. "Third. That any Tyrolese who have been made prisoners shall be set free. "Fourth. The officers of the French and Bavarian army shall be set free, with their swords, baggage, horses, &c., untouched. "Given by me for his Royal Highness Archduke John, at Innsbruck, April 13, 1809, at half-past eight in the forenoon. "MARTIN TEIMER, "_Major and Authorized Commissioner_. "Countersigned, "ARMANCE, "VARIN, "BISSON,[C] "_&c. &c._" The prisoners thus made, were marched to Schwatz, and thence to Salzburg, under the escort of _women_; as men could not be spared for the occasion. The success of this day (achieved before nine o'clock in the morning) was undoubtedly mainly owing to Martin Teimer; as General Chastelar, though pushing on from Sterzing, did not arrive in time to be of any use. Buonaparte, however, provoked at the issue of the day, and not stooping to such ignoble prey, at present, as Tyrolean innkeepers and tobacconists, issued an act of outlawry against "the person named Chastelar, styling himself a general in the Austrian service," charging him (without the least ground) with the massacre of prisoners; and sentencing him, if caught, to be tried by martial law, and, if found guilty, to be shot in twenty-four hours. Meanwhile the worthy general was thinking it no scorn to entertain Hofer and Martin Teimer at his table, and talk over the events of the day. The Tyrolese are temperate and abstemious to a proverb; but these mountaineers had fought hard and were hungry; they probably had never heard the Wise King's injunction, "When thou sittest to eat with a ruler, consider diligently what is before thee; and put a knife to thy throat if thou be given to appetite;" and therefore drank the sweet and ate the fat with relish that was too little disguised to escape the satirical notice of certain junior officers, by whom it was afterwards turned against them. After all, they ate and drank but moderately, and were much fuller of their success than their dinner; yet they spoke but moderately too, and in simple phrase; and their censors decided them to be phlegmatic. The good-natured Chastelar pushed the wine towards them and bade them drink to the Emperor. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. HOME. Anna Hofer was kneeling before the crucifix in the corner of her kitchen, praying as fervently as if she had been privileged to own a purer faith; and, with every bead that ran through her fingers, letting fall a tear far more precious than a pearl of great price. What opportunity had she had of living under a better dispensation? Romanism was the only form of Christianity the Tyrolese were acquainted with; and while, among their invaders, infidelity was rampant, the simplicity and fervour of their piety made them, as far as in them lay, champions of the Christian faith. Anna, then, knelt before the crucifix, wrestling in prayer, with groans and sighings that could not be uttered. Judge of her revulsion of feeling, when a beloved voice close to her said, "Anna!" "Oh, my good man, is't thou?" And she cast herself into his arms. "What, then! is the war over, husband?" "Dearest woman, no! But we have a little breathing space; for a little while our enemies are scattered, and the men of Tyrol too. As soon as they make head again, we shall swarm about them like bees. Meanwhile, we must plough, and we must sow." "I _have_ sown our field, Anderl. It was ploughed already." "Dear wife--" and he kissed her. "How hast thou sown it?" "That which was buckwheat, with barley and rye; and that which was barley and rye, with buckwheat." "Right. Where's Theresa?" "Looking after the horse. The children are keeping the cows, goats, and sheep. Here comes Theresa." Theresa flew up to her father, and embraced him; then overwhelmed him with a thousand questions. "One at a time will last the longer," said he; and drawing her to his knee, with his wife close beside him, he rehearsed to them in detail what has here been recounted more briefly; interjecting warm praise of Chastelar, Hormayr, and Martin Teimer. "See here," continued he, pulling forth a paper, "what a beautiful letter our dear Emperor has written us:-- "'My dear and faithful Tyrolese!'--" --"No! does our Franzel really say so?" interrupted Anna, eagerly leaning over his shoulder, to satisfy herself. "How beautifully expressed! A petty commandant, look you, would hardly be so affable!"-- "'My dear and faithful Tyrolese! Since the sacrifices which the unfortunate year 1805 compelled me to make, when I was obliged to separate from you, my heart has been constantly with you, my honest, affectionate children!'"-- "_That_'s warm from the heart, anyhow!" muttered Anna. "'As a last proof of my affection, I stipulated for the preservation of your Constitution; and it gave me the greatest pain to see this--this'"-- "Institution," suggested Theresa. "No, nonsense--'This stipulation disregarded, which I had made for your advantage; but, alas! at that time I was unable to assist you, and could only lament your fate in private.'"-- "Poor dear man! doubtless it cost him many a secret tear," interjected Anna. "'When a new cause again obliged me to draw my sword, my first thought was to become again your father. An army was put in motion to effect your deliverance; but before it could meet our common enemy, you had by your gallantry struck a decisive blow, and proved to the whole world, as well as myself, what you are ready to do to become again a part of that kingdom under which for centuries past you have lived contented and happy--'" "Beautiful, beautiful!" ejaculated Anna. "What golden words!" "There's some more, mother," said Theresa. "'Your efforts have touched my heart--I know your courage; I am ready to meet all your wishes, and to count you amongst the best and most faithful subjects in the Austrian dominions. It will be my earnest endeavour to prevent our being again separated: millions, who were long your brothers, will be eager to draw their swords in the cause! I trust, therefore, in you; and you may rely on me. So, by God's assistance, Austria and the Tyrol will be again united as they were in former years. "'FRANCIS. "'SCHARDING, _April 18, 1809_.'" "Dear, dear, dear, only think of an emperor like him to write in that way to a poor man like thee, Anderl," said Anna. "Not to me in particular," said Hofer; "to all my weapon-brothers as well." "At any rate, he could not speak more fair, nor more handsome--dear Franzel! Do let me look close at his letter with my very own eyes. Why, now, the dear Emperor spells Tyrol with two l's, as you do, Anderl, sometimes; but he writes a deal better," nudging him with her elbow. "As an emperor is likely to do," said Hofer, his good white teeth gleaming right merrily through his black beard. "Why, now, I copied that letter myself, and it's my own handwriting: so a precious one you are to have a cut at me!" "You? Why, you told me it was the Emperor's!" "Aye, his words, but not his penmanship. Why, think you there was a man of us all that would not get a copy of it, if he could?" "Oh well, I thought his hand wondrous like thine, man. Don't you believe you took me in! Why, didn't I find out the two l's?" "Aye, but you thought them the emperor's!" "Never mind! the sense is the thing. This letter deserves to be framed and glazed; aye, framed in gold: and since we can't afford that, I'll paste it against the wall." "Well, that's not a bad notion. Is dinner ready?" "Yes, father," said Theresa, slipping from his knee, and hastening to spread the table. "You've dined with a many strange people, I suppose, since you went away." "That have I, girl,--with General Chastelar and Baron Hormayr; but great folks eat so fast and talk so fast, there's no taking one's comfort. They snatch away your plate before 'tis empty, bob a dish under your nose, and whisk it off if you look at it twice before you help yourself." "A good way of having a dinner for next day," said Anna, laughing. "Aye, aye; and when I and the men of Passeyr got to Botzen, where Baron Hormayr and all his staff came out to receive us with honour, he uncovering his head and letting his hair blow about in the wind,--I warrant you, General Marschall refused to sit down to table with a humble man like me; just as if a guest wasn't good enough for him that was good enough for Hormayr!" "Well! to think of that!" cried Anna indignantly. "I hope the Baron told him a piece of his mind." "No, no; he had too much temper and sense," said Hofer. "He just made a little grimace to me behind his back, and I took no umbrage; only it showed the nature of the man." "What a good thing Baron Hormayr is not of his sort," said Theresa. "Oh, the general has his merits, after all," said Hofer, stroking his beard. "He is a good fighting man, but his pride is so great, that not even his own soldiers like him. See, dear women, how evil a thing pride is." "And what is being done now, Anderl?" "Much. The regular troops are assisting the Tyrolese to hem in the enemy in the Lower Tyrol. The _landsturm_ from Meran and the Vintsghaw are advancing on the right side of the Etsch; and those of Etsch and Fleims are keeping the passes of Rochetta and Bucco di Vela. Baron Hormayr and Martin Teimer want General Chastelar to attack the enemy in the Lower Tyrol at once; but he's too slow, too slow. By not coming up in time, he let us take Innsbruck without him: and Martin Teimer won all the glory of making Bisson and Wrede lay down their arms." "Martin Teimer is no favourite of mine," said Anna, pouring out the porridge. "Ah, he has done good service, nevertheless. General Chastelar finds fault with our training, calls us round-shouldered, and who knows what?--and wants to drill us a little. He won't be able to turn a wild lark into a piping bulfinch, though, it's my opinion. As long as we beat the enemy, what does it signify how we do it? He is doing real good service, however, by giving muskets to those who have no fire-arms, but only spears and such like of their own manufacture. Now, then, where are the children?" Theresa went to the door to give a jödel, which would answer the purpose of a dinner-bell; but, changing her purpose, returned, saying, "Father, here is a young, olive-coloured man, who looks something like a soldier, coming up to the house; in quest, apparently, of you." Almost at the same instant, the young man stepped in, taking off his cap and saluting Hofer in a foreign accent as Signor Andrea. "_Come sta?_" returned Hofer, who rather piqued himself on a smattering of Italian. "_Sedete voi. Andiamo pranzare--Fate lo stesso._" "_Mille grazie_," returned the youth, who, however, preferred his own German to Hofer's Italian. "The Signor Barone has sent me, Giuseppe Eisenstecken, with the desire you will accept me as adjutant." "What want have I of an adjutant?" inquired the Sandwirth. "What are you to do?" "_Che vi piace_," returned Giuseppe, spreading out his hands; "I am quite at your service." "But, my good lad, I don't want your services; so where's the good?" Giuseppe raised his eyebrows; then replied, "A little training, the Signor Barone thought, would be desirable for your men, and some small knowledge of tactics for their chief." "Ah, my dear youth, you mean to flatten our backs, I suppose, and turn out our toes; but when you have lived as long in a mountainous country as I have, you will find it more convenient, clambering about among the crags, to round your shoulders and turn your toes in. Meanwhile, do as we do--_nulla ceremonia!_--dine first, and talk afterwards. One thing at a time will last the longer." The young adjutant looked at first as if he hardly knew how to take this; but at the same instant, three rosy children ran in and flew into their father's arms. While Hofer was embracing and kissing them, Giuseppe looked on with some sympathy; then, drawing a stool towards the table, he prepared to accept the Sandwirth's invitation. "So Baron Hormayr sent you to me?" said Hofer presently. "Well, I wonder he said nothing about you when I saw him." "He has written," said Giuseppe, taking a note out of his cap. "Why didn't you tell me that before?" said Hofer. "Were you keeping it for dessert?" "You said one thing at a time would last the longer." Hofer smiled, as he opened the note. "Well," said he, when he had read it; "it seems I had hardly need to come home. Here am I wanted again at head-quarters, to receive orders for immediate action. We must put off our drilling, my good friend, till another time. Why is this recall?" "Since you left, we have received news of the Archduke John's having won a brilliant victory at Sacile." "Aha! Our beloved _Hannes_! Heaven be praised, I am ready to return immediately to the camp." "Immediately?" said his wife, a little startled. "Not till I have dined and had an hour's sleep." "One thing at a time will last the longer, Signor Andrea." "Just so, Signor Giuseppe. But come, tell me about our Hannes' victory." "He defeated Eugene Beauharnois on the 15th, and compelled him to retire to Caldiero. That is all I know." "Hum! Not even how many men were slain?" "No. The news had but just arrived." "Humph!" "You seem to have a good many targets." "Ah, those are my coats of arms," said the Sandwirth, supping his porridge. "They seem to have been hit in the bull's eye pretty often." "Pretty often." "By you?" "By me." "At how many paces?" "Three hundred." "You must be a pretty good marksman." "Goodish; there are plenty as good or better in the Tyrol. Did you hear that verse one of our men made the other day? General Marschall had observed that we only beat the enemy by chance. On which, our youngster observed-- "''Tis but by chance,' doth Marschall say, 'The Tyrolese have won the day.' What then? I'd rather win by chance Than, with much skill, be beat by France! For where's the good of tactics, you know, master Giuseppe, if they that have them are beat by the unlearned?" Giuseppe seemed engrossed in the merits of his dinner. "I should like to see you fire at a mark, Signor Andrea," said he at length. "Pooh, pooh! we have other things in hand, brother. The way is long and steep. Are we going to be sent into the south, think you?" "To Trent, I conclude, but I only conjecture." Hofer asked a few more questions, but he was not a great talker at meal-times, though he ate with great moderation. As soon as dinner was ended, he took his hour's sleep, woke up fresh and strong, and told his new adjutant he was ready for the journey. At every house or village they passed, he found messengers to despatch to the men in the fields and call them back from their husbandry to resume their rifles. These came running along after him, some swinging their coats on as they ran, others tightening their belts, others with their weapons not slung but in their hands; all cheerfully obeying the summons without murmuring at being disappointed of their rest. On Hofer's arrival at the camp, General Chastelar instantly appointed him to the command of the right wing, consisting of the men of Passeyr and of Etschthal. Almost at the same moment, expresses arrived to announce the disorderly retreat of the French and Bavarians on the news of the Archduke's victory, and of their destroying the bridges of Lavis and Lorenzen. "What are we to do, Hofer, without these bridges?" said the General. "I must think," said Hofer. He thought so long, that Hormayr impatiently whispered to Chastelar, "He is falling asleep--what a dunderhead he is!" But the good man was thinking to the purpose; and, knowing the ground and the men who were on it, he sat down and wrote two or three short notes, and gave them to the General, saying: "If you will send them, these will do." "Had you not better go yourself?" put in Baron Hormayr. "Why?" said the Sandwirth. "I cannot be in two places at once. If I were at Lavis, I could not be at Lorenzen. These will do." "Perhaps they will," muttered the General to the Baron, who shrugged his shoulders. "See the notes sent off." "He knows when he's in good quarters, I believe," said Hormayr aside, as he passed the notes to his inferior officer. But others, of less note than a Roman centurion, may have moral force enough to be able to say to one man go, and he goeth; to another come, and he cometh; to another, do this, and he doeth it. Chastelar showed a vague sense of this when he replied in an equally low tone to Hormayr, "It matters little--his _name_ will be enough." How was it that that name came to be enough? The name of another poor, honest man would not have done as well. On the following day, the 22d of April, the enemy evacuated Trent without firing a shot; and Hormayr took possession of the town the same evening. The ancient city of Trent! Few need to be reminded of the famous Council of purple cardinals, princely bishops, mitred abbots, sandalled monks, and learned doctors, assembled there by Charles the Fifth, and prolonging their sitting for eighteen long years. "What a market," exclaims a writer, warming with his subject, "the city must then have had!--what cooks!--what convoys of sleek mules laden with luxuries!--and how, in their distant and regretted residences, all the old housekeepers of those perplexed and provoked absentees must have busied themselves in the preparation of savouries, and potted meats, dried fruits, and delicate conserves, and in the regular and never-failing despatch of supplies from the well-stored cellars." Trent is now said to be as dissolute a little capital as any in Europe. The simplicity of ancient manners, if it ever did exist there, is no longer to be found. Even the characteristic honesty of the Tyrolese has disappeared, and extortion and cheatery are of common occurrence. This was not the locality Hofer would willingly choose for his _landsturm_. Fortunately, they were not long exposed to its influence. On the 24th, General Chastelar advanced towards Trent, while Hofer took possession of the ground between Trent and Roveredo. On the same day, Chastelar, after his fatiguing march, was drawn into action by Baraguay d'Hilliers, who, with a superior force, was victorious, but reaped no advantage from it. He had already abandoned Trent, and he now, immediately after the battle, forsook Roveredo, and quitted the country entirely. Chastelar had scarcely taken up his quarters in Roveredo, when he heard of the Austrians' reverses in Germany and Italy. The north of the Tyrol was now left deserted, at the mercy of the enemy; and he resolved immediately to return to it; invited thereto by a note written by the Archduke John in pencil on his knee, from the battle-field. "Do not let our misfortunes make you uneasy. We have done our duty, and will defend the Tyrol to the last drop of our blood. "JOHN. "30th April." Thus ended this eventful month. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER X. GUERILLA WARFARE. The rifles were soon in full action again. In the course of a few days not a single town in the Tyrol remained in the occupation of the French but Kufstein. Then came a reverse. The Austrians under Chastelar were defeated at Worgl. This was on the 13th of May; and six days afterwards the Bavarians burned Schwatz; while the flames of seventeen other towns and villages made the heavens appear a vast sea of fire. In a certain mountain-pass several men were vigorously felling down enormous larch-trees, evidently for purposes of warfare, under the direction of Father Joachim, who was zealously instructing them where to place the trees with most effect; how to intermix them with huge masses of rock, filling up the interstices with earth and brushwood; and how to secure the whole mass from toppling over till the right moment, by means of cords and chains. In the midst of this exciting work a little boy came trotting up to the good Capuchin. "Father bade me find you," said he, panting, and looking up at him with his clear, soft, black eyes, "and tell you and the men you are wanted." "What! to fight?" "Father says the enemy are to be found at Berg Isel. He and Hofer and Teimer will all meet there, and they want you all to join them." "We will come!" And away ran little Speckbacher, sitting down and sliding down the mountain-side wherever it was not too rough, and getting on with amazing celerity. Many of the men laughed, and followed his example. The child led the way, and an hour's fast walking brought them within earshot of the rifles, the continual report of which showed that the engagement had begun. It was a severe and fatal one; but the loss was almost entirely on the side of the enemy, who were triumphantly defeated. Little Anderl again hovered about, to see the issue of the fight. He was now a regular and accredited messenger among the Tyrolese, and was allowed by his mother to go forth and bring her tidings of his father, on condition of his keeping as much out of danger as he could reasonably be expected to do. On the present occasion, he had climbed a tree at some distance, and out of the direction of the firing, from whence he got a good general idea of the success of the engagement, without being close enough to see the dreadful features of its details. He now slid down from his perch, but, instead of pursuing his father, paused when he had run a little way; and after watching the retiring foemen till they disappeared, prepared to run home and tell his mother. A squall of wind and rain had come on, and a flock of sheep rushed wildly past him. Just then, he heard a groan close by him; and, looking round, saw a Bavarian soldier who had been shot down among the long coarse grass and underwood. The poor young fellow did not look above twenty; he had a boyish, simple face; his leg was bleeding fast, and he had turned very white. "Even such a little boy as I am could kill that Bavarian," thought Anderl; "but I could not have the heart to do it, even if the Sandwirth had not said we must never hit a man when he is down.--Are you in much pain?" said he, approaching him with pity. "I'm bleeding to death, I think," said the Bavarian; "will you help me, you little chap? or are you going to hurt me?" "Oh, no! Shall I tie up your leg with your handkerchief? Mother would do it better, but I won't hurt you, if I can help it." "Thanks, thanks! Oh, get me some water!" Anderl knew where there was a spring, and he ran and brought some in his hat. "It is raining very hard," said he, "and there is shelter not far off: do you think you can crawl to it?" "Well, I'll try--it's so forlorn to be left to die here. You're not taking me to people that will knock me on the head?" added he quickly. "Oh, no! Not to any people at all, only to a shepherd's deserted hut scooped out of the rock. Edge yourself along this way, on your elbow and the side that isn't bleeding. I know it will hurt you, but you mustn't mind that." Following the advice and guidance of the humane little boy, the young Bavarian, with a good deal of wincing, and some additional effusion of blood, wormed himself along to the rude little cavity which Anderl had dignified by the name of a hut. It contained, however, a rough bed of fir branches, a stool and table of rude construction, and a little hidden store of rye-cakes and cheese. "And now," said Anderl, after having good-naturedly settled him on the rustic couch, and put the food within his reach, "I'll fetch you some water; and then I must leave you, or my mother will fancy I've come to harm." "I hope the owner of the hut will not return, though," said the Bavarian wistfully. "You couldn't get me a musket, could you? I dare say mine is down among the grass." "Why, now, how can you expect it?" said the boy. "Here have I had mercy on you, our enemy; and you want me to give you the means of shooting one of my friends!" "But I'm so defenceless," suggested the Bavarian. "Your safety lies in that," said Anderl. "If any of our men should come and be unexpectedly saluted by you with a shot, of course he would be tempted to return your fire pretty effectually; but if he finds you lying helpless as I did, he will have compassion; because the Sandwirth told us this very morning, that none but a coward would harm a fallen foe." "Come, that's one comfort," said the young soldier. "Must you go?" "Aye, that I must, but I'll come and look after you in a day or two, if I can." "Oh! I may be dead before that." "Why, your leg has left off bleeding already, and you have plenty to eat! What have you to do but to lie still and get well? I don't think you are very brave!" This unexpected rebuke made the colour mount in the young Bavarian's face; and Anderl, after looking at him for a moment, turned away; and taking a beechen bowl from a nail in the wall, sallied forth to the spring and filled it to the brim with water. "There, now," said he, smiling, as he placed it beside the soldier, "do you feel all over red-hot coals?" "No; what do you mean?" "Why, Father Joachim says, 'If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink; for in so doing, thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.'" "Why, _I_ am not your enemy, you little boy! What harm have we ever done one another?" "I've done _you_ none, certainly; but you have been killing my friends; and would gladly have killed my father!" "Who is your father?" "I must not tell you that. However, I may tell you that he is--oh, such a brave man! and so good! Every one loves him." "Hofer, I suppose?" "No, not Hofer; but I must not tell you any more, so now good bye. I don't think any one will come near you--unless it should be the hill-sprite." "Who is the hill-sprite?" "Well, I can't justly say; but he haunts the hill-top; and when the herdsmen have gone down into the valley for winter, he takes possession of one of their deserted châlets,--to be more snug and comfortable, I suppose, while nobody else wants it; and, sometimes, when a herdsman has gone back again for something he has forgotten, he has found the hill-sprite already settling himself in the châlet, and arranging his ghostly pans and pails." "Hum! And are you going to leave me to the mercy of this hill-sprite?" "Oh, he won't hurt you. You got here first; and if he looks in and sees you, he'll go away. Shall you be frightened?" "That depends. If he wears a green jacket and red sash, and carries a rifle over his shoulder, very likely I shall be." "Not if he does not point it at _you_. Besides, it wouldn't go off." "I shan't understand his language." "Why, you understand _mine_. But he doesn't talk at all, only makes a dismal noise, and keeps smiting his hands. I advise you to say your prayers, and then you won't think of him any more." Away went Anderl, with a very unfavourable impression of Bavarian courage. Meanwhile, the wounded soldier felt very lonely without his little companion; and weak from the loss of blood. A good deal of what courage he had, had certainly ebbed away with it; for he was presently sadly scared by a sudden, rushing, unaccountable sound of many small feet, which he thought must be those of a legion of hill-sprites rather than of one. It only proceeded, however, from the flock of sheep, who, having remained under the hill while the spring storm lasted, were now returning to the sweet short grass higher up. A couple of days afterwards, Anderl, who had often thought of the Bavarian, made up a little packet of cakes and cheese, and set off on a walk of several miles to see after him. "The gate was there, but not the lad!" Anderl looked about, but could find nothing of him. The food was eaten, and he was gone. It was best for all parties that he should have made off. After a night's good sleep, he had awoke sufficiently refreshed to make a hearty breakfast of what would have fed a temperate Tyrolese for two or three days; and then, examining his wound, he found himself able to bind it up sufficiently well to admit of his moving slowly, with a good deal of limping. He was very desirous of going down the ravine, to hunt for his musket, but hardly felt equal to it; and the sound of men's voices among the trees decided him on keeping on his present level, and making off as fast as he could. Fear enabled him to do this better than he would otherwise have thought possible; and he made considerable progress along the mountain-side, till he began to be uncertain of his bearings, and to fear that he might be penetrating into the enemy's country instead of getting out of it. Besides, he was by this time very tired and very hungry; and it was therefore with considerable though not unmixed satisfaction that he descried a lone hut. Though lonely, it might not be unoccupied; therefore, he approached it with extreme caution. On close investigation, however, there appeared no signs of life. Made bold by hunger, he raised the latch; went in and found the hut empty--empty of inhabitants, that is, but not of stock; for it appeared to be a kind of little shop or store, containing medicines for man, horse, and cow; cheap crockery and cutlery; sieves, tubs, and pails; household and agricultural implements; and a few rolls of green cloth, canvas, and calico; such goods as the peasantry were likely to want during the long winter months, without finding it convenient to go to a town for them. Every article was ticketed with the price; there was a till for the money, and a book wherein to enter what had been purchased. These good, honest people could rely upon not being defrauded by one another! It struck the Bavarian; though not so much as it would strike us. He opened the till; there was a little heap of kreutzers in it,--and shut it up again. He looked into the ledger, and read such entries as these-- "Walter Landauer; a Dutch hoe (so many kreutzers). Adolf Winkel, three yds. green cloth. Madeline Weiss, 2 yds. scarlet ribbon. Ditto. 1 oz. coarse white thread. Ditto. 1 small hair sieve. Jerome Brinkel, a brush of hog's hair bristles." and so forth. The Bavarian began to look about for something to eat. He found unroasted coffee in the berry, tar, turpentine, oil, black and yellow paint, and cobbler's wax; none of which articles, separately or conjointly, promised a very desirable repast, even if there were a fire lighted by which to cook them. At length he came to a small canister of sugar-plums and poured its contents into his pocket, that his mouth might not be altogether unemployed, if he could find nothing better to fill it. Just then he heard a loud exclamation of surprise; and, with a guilty start, he turned about and met the great, round, wondering eyes of a stout, thickset girl, who looked as if she were not quite sure of his not being the hill-sprite. His start, and the uniform he wore, seemed to undeceive her; for she accosted him with an ejaculation tantamount to "Well, I'm sure!--" "Pretty maiden, does this shop belong to you?" said the Bavarian. "No more than it does to you!" said she, planting herself boldly in the door-way. "How durst you come here?" "I am a wounded man--don't you see?" (pointing to his bandage) "and a stranger. Women always have pity on the unfortunate." "How do I know you're unfortunate? You are a thief! you were eating Hans Steffan's sugar-plums!" "Because I was starving." "Were you?" relenting a little. "I can't think what I shall do." "What do you want to do?" "To get out of the Tyrol as quick as I can." "You may do that in a few hours, if you look sharp." "But I am wounded, and cannot walk fast." "Humph--poor fellow! And you are hungry?" "As a hunter." "Humph!--Well,--here's some bread and cheese I was carrying to my father; you can have it, and I will fetch him some more. And now I advise you to be off as fast as you can--_I_ will pay for the sugar-plums. That is, supposing you have no money." "Not a kreutzer." "Well; here are a couple of kreutzers for you. Now, off." "Which way?" "Right towards that old tower on the distant hill. When you reach it you will get a distant view of Innsbruck, which of course you will keep clear of, as we have re-taken it!" "Have you!" "That have we. Now depart." "Gracious maiden, permit me--" He saluted her on the cheek. She watched him down the hill, and then turned on her heel, with an ejaculatory "Humph!--what manners!" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. TYROLESE COURTSHIP. A young man is busily examining the water-worn rocks along the edge of a Tyrolese stream. Now and then he strikes them with a large sledge-hammer, eagerly snatches up something alive, and pops it into a basket. A wild _jödel_ from a mountain-side, half a mile off, makes him look up, and discovers the face of our old, but not very respectable, acquaintance, Franz. The wild cry was uttered by a girl, who, in course of time, drew near him, knitting as she came along; for a Tyrolese woman never is idle. "What are you about there, Franz?" "Can't you see, Theresa? Look at that nice basket of fish." "How can you be about such nonsense, when every man deserving the name of a man is up in arms? I am quite ashamed of you!" "Well, Theresa, you are not over-polite; but don't you know that some must plough, and some must sow, and some must handle the mattock and hoe?" "Well, all I can say is, I think it very contemptible of you!" "Why, now, Theresa, I call that very unkind! Do you know I was catching these smelts on purpose for you?" "I would not give a pin for them; I am not dainty in my eating, and if I were, we have plenty of good trout in the Passeyr, to be caught at our own door." "These would fetch a good price in Innsbruck market, I can tell you!" "Then you had better carry them to Innsbruck market. Only, take care none of our Passeyrers ask you where you have been these three days." "Why, Theresa, how bitter you are! You've never had a civil word to say to me since I beat Rudolf at bowls." "_You?_ Ha, ha, ha!" "I _did_, though!" "Very likely you might; but I have forgotten all about it. People that attend to nothing but hammering stones for smelts, and playing bowls and ninepins, are likely to excel in such things." "I do attend to a precious lot of things besides--" "What? Oh, looking after the cows, and smuggling brandy, and selling bad horses for good ones--well, you do all that, I allow." Franz did not answer her for a few minutes, but leapt actively from rock to rock along the stream; darting here and there on a smelt, and coming back with his hands full. "There!" said he, throwing them into the basket; "perhaps your mother will accept them of me, if you won't; so I'll carry them to her, and we can walk along together. I've a word or two to say to you." "What is it?" said Theresa, pursuing her knitting, and stepping out at a good pace. "All that you said just now," rejoined he, after a short silence, "about my getting brandy, and selling horses, and looking after cows,--to which you might have added doctoring them when ill,--is true enough, Theresa; and what is more, it has put a goodish bit of money into my pocket." "Very likely," said Theresa; "but what of that? Money is not the thing of most consequence in the world." "Well, _I_ almost think it is." "It is of much consequence, certainly, Franz, in _this_ way, I grant you,--the way it is employed,--whether good or evil. If it enables (and inclines) you to be generous and helpful to your poor old blind mother, and your hard-working sister, it is an instrument of good; but if you only hide it in a hole, it is of no good at all; and if you spend it in betting and drinking, it is worse than no good, for it is downright evil." "All that is very well to say,"--began Franz. "Nothing is very well to say, unless it be true," interrupted Theresa. "But it's quite certain," continued Franz, "that money is a real good, whether or no: and for this plain reason--that it gives you _power_." "Power of some sort," said Theresa. "Almost endless power," returned Franz, warming with his subject. "Why, now, how could Buonaparte carry on this war without money?" "Without wit, rather," said Theresa. "I never heard that he was very rich to start with, but quite the reverse; the thing was, _he had a clever head, and made use of it_. He was very pains-taking, very resolute; and that has made him so powerful; not money." "It has put him in possession of money, without which he could not pay his troops," argued Franz; "and if they were not paid, they would not fight for him." "Not they! I believe you there," said Theresa. "They have not the motives for fighting that we poor Tyrolese have; and that is why we so often beat them." "Well, but, Theresa, when I began to speak about money, I did not mean to get into this long argument. What I was going to tell you,--(in confidence, you know,)--is that I've a goodish bit of money underground, in a pot--" "Then, there it will rot!" "No, it won't! It will increase!" "What! like a grain of corn? Franz, I wonder how you can tell such stories!" "I didn't say like corn. It will increase, because I shall put more to it." "Oh! that's one way--" "Yes, and that one way will suffice. Why should we try a dozen roads, when one leads to the mill? Now, Theresa, listen to me. I've had a dream--" "Humph!" "And I dreamed that I was in a certain spot, which I shall not now disclose; and that I saw a cloud of golden dollars floating in the air before me, just out of my reach--" "I should think so!" "Why, that's the beauty of it!" cried Franz, highly excited. "Is it?" said Theresa, looking mystified. "Yes; because it's a known thing among the wise ones, that when gold pieces glitter before you in that way in the air, the spot they hover over is where hidden treasure is to be found." "Who are the 'wise ones?'" "Oh, there are many old people that can tell about dreams." "A good many," said Theresa, dryly. "Well, Franz, I hope you won't go wasting your time digging for this hid treasure. You had much better hoe potatoes." "I don't think so," said Franz; "and I hope you won't think so, if I tell you my motive." "What motive?" said Theresa. "That I may be rich enough to marry you." Theresa turned very red, and then burst out laughing. "Franz," said she, "don't deceive yourself about that, for _I'll_ not deceive you! I would not marry you if you were made of money. I must have a husband of quite another sort--" "Rudolf, in short," cried Franz, angrily. "We are not talking of Rudolf," returned Theresa, turning yet redder. "There are some people that never can believe you don't like them, without it's being the fault of somebody else, instead of their own. If I had never seen any other young man in the world, Franz, I should not choose to marry you." "Oh, come, now, Theresa!--" "It's the truth! You have not those qualities which I love." "What are those qualities?" said Franz, very crustily. "Spirit; self-denial; temperance; a modest opinion of yourself; generosity; truth; charitable feelings towards others." "I don't believe there's a fellow with all you want under the sun," said Franz, aiming a stone at that luminary. "If you'd mentioned one thing, I might have tried to acquire it for your sake; but such a lot of them,--no, thank you! the reward wouldn't be worth the trouble: and besides, I know I could not accomplish it; so there's no use in trying." "But, Franz, what a bad case you make out for yourself, if you own you are deficient in all these things." "I'm not! I've as many of them as anybody else; but what you want is perfection, and that's what's not to be found. You may _fancy_ you find it, if a fellow pleases you in something else,--white teeth, or black eyes, or a smart jacket, or nobody knows what; but he won't _be_ perfection any the more for all that. And I'm just as honest and fair-dealing as other people, and just as much liked, and not at all intemperate; and as for spirit,--ho! if Rudolf stood here between me and the edge of the cliff this minute, wouldn't I tip him over it, that's all!" "Franz, you think to intimidate me, but you only fill me with disgust. What good could you hope to reap by such a dreadful piece of cruelty? On the contrary, nothing would ever prosper in your hands afterwards. Do you remember those two young men, both in love with the same girl, who went out together one day to take an eagle's nest? One returned, the other did not: the fact was, one had let down his companion from the top of the cliff to the nest, and then drawn up the rope, and left him to starve, or be torn to pieces by the parent-birds. Think what a miserable end he himself came to afterwards!" "Ah, there's no knowing what a fellow may be driven to, when he's jealous," said Franz, after a pause--"It's best not to make him desperate." "He had better not allow himself to become desperate." "Well, Theresa, here we come to two paths,--one leads to the Wirthhaus, the other does not; which shall I take?" "Whichever you like; it is quite indifferent to me. The path is yours as much as mine." "If I take the path to the Wirthhaus, I shall still try and hope to make myself agreeable to you. If I take the path to the left, I shall renounce you for ever!" "You had better, then, take the path to the left." "Fish and all?" holding the basket a little towards her, but as if his elbow were tied to his side. "Fish and all," said Theresa, without intermitting her knitting. "Then farewell, Theresa, for ever!" cried Franz, in a tone intended to be fiercely tragic. "You have had your last chance of me!" And shouldering his smelts, he strode off. He was in a very tempestuous state of mind; and many things Theresa had said had cut him more deeply than she thought; but to no good purpose. When a stone came tumbling upon him from the mountain-top, he shook his fist savagely, and muttered, "Even the little people" (_i. e._ fairies) "are against me!"--and then, considering that if he provoked them, they might lead him a weary dance after the hidden treasure, he muttered a spell supposed to have a propitiating effect. As the pass widened, he beheld from the height on which he stood, Innsbruck, white and nest-like, basking in the valley afar off, and turned in his mind whether it were worth his while to carry thither the fish we have called smelts for want of an English name for them. "But no," thought he, "the Sandwirth is again in the town, and I don't care to see him just now, Theresa thinks his luck uppermost, I fancy, and believes he will be made a great general or governor, and that he will marry her to Rudolf, and make him a great man too. She has her own dreams, though she laughs at mine. No, I'll not go; some of my speaking-acquaintance might put the saucy question she spitefully suggested; and even if I got a zwanziger or more for my smelts, it would be very great trouble for very little money. My time will be much better and more pleasantly employed in digging for the pot of gold; for when I've got that, I may pay zwanzigers for smelts myself, if I like; and meantime, I'll sup on those I've caught myself, and eat them with plenty of brown bread and butter--thin brown bread and thick yellow butter--as yellow as a cowslip! aye, that's it!" Rejoicing that Theresa had not accepted the smelts, since she had not accepted himself, this worthy son of Tyrol wended his way home. How he would have licked his lips if he had been told the story related by Bridel, of that golden age when cows were so large and yielded such abundance of milk, that they were milked into reservoirs or ponds, from which the cream was afterwards skimmed by a man in a boat, (a butter-boat, of course!) which boat, once upsetting, the man could not be found for a long time afterwards, till, at length, his body was discovered sticking in the immense mass of cream, like a smothered fly! Before Franz reached home, he encountered Lenora in the cow-pastures. She was knitting with all her might, which did not hinder her eyes from roving over hill and valley, and noting the smallest movement within their range. Consequently, she soon espied her brother, whom she saluted with a shrill _jödel_ that let him know he was recognised; otherwise he would gladly have gone a little out of his way to escape the interview, as she was one of those who not only do their own duties vigorously, but insist on other people doing theirs. "Come here, Franz," cried she, as soon as he drew near. "You have not done a stroke of work to-day. To-morrow you must look after the stock." "Well, the day after to-morrow, I will." "Why not to-morrow? I want to take my mother to the shrine of St. Kummernitz, to try if it will do her eyes any good, and I can't look after her and the cows too." "But there's going to be a peasant-play, to-morrow,--Joseph and his Brethren, and I'm wanted to play one of the brethren." "Truly, I think there might be a better time of year than this for a peasant-play, when we are short of hands at every kind of work. Who has proposed such nonsense?" "Leopold Strauss is going to marry Bianca Gessner--the play is only going to be got up by her bridesmaids and a few of the bridegroom's friends--" "But you are not one of them, and we are not related to the bride." "No, but all his friends are gone to fight, and they can't make up the party without me--" "Well,--I should think it no great honour to go, under those circumstances; but you will do as you like. The day after to-morrow, then, I may rely upon you--" "You may rely upon me--" "You promise me faithfully--" "I promise you faithfully. And, Lenora, I have bought a new ribbon for my hat: do tie it round for me, there's a good girl--you can tie a bow so much better than I can--and let me have a nice nosegay." "Nonsense; you can gather your own nosegay. I shall soon have all your things to look up for the châlet--the cows' bells must be rubbed up, and their straps embroidered; you might and ought to have cleaned the bells and trappings yourself, if it were not for this wedding, which no way concerns you." "Who knows, Lenora? I may pick up a rich wife at it--Bianca has six sisters, who are going to play the six youngest brethren, and I shall have plenty of opportunities of making myself agreeable!" "You? Why, you have always talked of meaning to marry Theresa Hofer!" "She won't suit me," said Franz contemptuously; "I may do better for myself than that, I fancy." "I doubt it very much. More likely, you don't suit _her_." "That just shows how much you know about it. You girls think you may have anybody you like!--Well, don't let us talk any more of this nonsense; but come and cook these smelts for supper; and then I'll give you my hat to trim." "That's just like one of your givings: here--give me your hat, and do you drive in the cows." Franz would have liked her to do _both_, but he knew that was too much to expect; so he gave her the hat and the basket of fish, and prepared to collect the herd. When Lenora reached the cottage, she found rather a pleasant-looking man talking to her mother. "Here comes Lenora, I can tell, though I can't see," said he. "Lenora, I am telling your mother she is better off than I am, for she is only almost blind, but I am quite; and yet I contrive to find my way by myself from Meran to Innsbruck every summer, to tune the pianos." "Ah, there must be a special providence over you, Karl," said Lenora compassionately, "or you would come to some hurt." "I know there must be," said he devoutly. "However, now and then, some good Christian soul meets me and leads me by the hand along some difficult pass; but they are sent by God." "You should marry, Karl," said the old woman, "and then your wife would lead you." "Who would marry a poor blind fellow like me?" said Karl, rather sadly. "No, no; I must be content with chance kindnesses." "Well, you are sure to be welcome, wherever you go," said Lenora cheerfully. "And you shall have a dainty supper to-night, for Franz has caught some delicate fish." "Your mother tells me she's going to St. Kummernitz's shrine, for the benefit of her eyes," said Karl. "I never heard St. Kummernitz was particularly famous for that." "Oh, she's famous for everything," cried the old woman, in a sort of ecstasy; "dear blessed Saint! she cured me once of the toothache!" "You're a bit of a heretic, I fear," said Lenora gravely. "You have been too long at Geneva." "Well, certainly, this saint of yours seems to have rather an incredible legend. Your mother tells me, she was a famous opera-dancer some thousand years or so ago, and was so persecuted by the admiration her personal charms called forth, that she prayed she might be made less attractive. On which, rather to her dismay, a beard began to sprout from her chin, accompanied by a very bushy moustache over her upper lip, which effectually extinguished the ardour of her lovers; and though she has been dead so many years, the beard continues to grow to this day!" "Well, and what of that?" cried the old woman. Karl smiled; but the entrance of Franz caused a change in the subject of conversation. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XII. BERG ISEL. What a horrible place is Halle! Enveloped in a dense atmosphere of smoke, the sunbeams vainly endeavour to pour more than a sombre light into the sooty streets, in which houses, people, and everything else, have, unavoidably, an air of griminess inseparable from a large manufacturing town; and the amusing spectacle is too often seen of some honest fellow walking along in the mistaken belief of having a clean face, while, all the time, a black has settled on his nose. It was towards the close of the merry month of May. The struggle at Berg Isel had taken place on the 26th, and on the following day a man was to be seen rapidly skirting the mountains that bound Halle to the north, along the edge of a ravine, in the depths of which brawled an impetuous torrent. His green coat and red sash might have been those of any Tyrolese; but his dark beard showed him to be no other than Hofer. He stepped out, mile after mile, along the steep path towards the famous salt-mines. Huge masses of rock, hanging over his head, seemed suspended by little short of a miracle; dark pine-forests clothed the rugged cliffs, cascades dashed from innumerable heights, some close by the path, others heard thundering above; the foaming torrent was here and there spanned by bridges of snow, while huge, unmelted avalanches lay in its bed. As Hofer proceeded, he came up with a tall, dark, athletic man, going towards the mines. When he got close to him, he grasped his shoulder. The man started, turned round, and joyfully embraced him. "Praised be the name of our Lord!" said he. "Amen, and Amen!" said Hofer, raising his hat. "Brother, what a dance you have led me! They told me in Halle you had just delivered a load of wood, and I should find you here. But what? can you spare leisure to carry wood in these times?" "A contract must be fulfilled," said Speckbacher. "I contracted, before the war broke out, to supply the works with a certain quantity of wood in a certain time. This has been my last journey, I am happy to say--my man Zoppel will drive the oxen after to-day, and the contract expires within a week." "That is well, for there is plenty for you to do. We expect to make head against the enemy to-morrow, and you must join us with the men of the lower Innthal." "Surely. Where are we to march?" "On Innsbruck." "Capital! Teimer joins us, of course?" "With the men of the upper Inn. I shall occupy Mount Brenner, ready to drop down on the city. The regulars, under General Buol, will be higher up. Father Joachim will head the peasants on Berg Isel." "Come, we ought to succeed this time. I hope we shall not only take the city, but keep it better than we did before. Father Joachim has sent me an amulet, to keep me from harm. Do you think there's anything in it?" "Well--what know I? This I know--the Lord of hosts has protected you and me, my friend, through many dangers, thus far, without e'er an amulet; so I hope He will continue to do so henceforth." "Well--yes. Maria wished me to wear it, so I thought it would do no harm--it makes her easy, you know." "There's something that would make me easy, my brother, if you will yield to me--let us seek the blessing of God in prayer." "Certainly, if you wish it." They were just in front of a rude cross, sculptured on the face of the rock. The two men knelt, and fervently prayed aloud, each in turn, for some minutes. Hofer rose, looking comforted. "I'm all the better for that," said Speckbacher, heartily. "How can it be otherwise, brother? God has bidden us cast our care upon Him; it is our own fault if we do it not." They proceeded on their way. "I wonder if Chastelar ever kneels down and prays as we have just done," said Speckbacher presently. "There's no saying, brother; I should hope he does. There seems to me to be little praying in camps. Men touch their hats as they pass a picture or a crucifix--that is pretty nearly all; outwardly, at least, which is all we can judge from. But sure I am, that those who prayed often--from the heart, look you,--would not take God's holy name in vain." "How the French curse and swear, Hofer! and yet they say, many of them, there's no God. They laugh at us for praying for success, because they say they have it without." "Pity, brother, they have not something better to laugh about. Ah, God _does_ give his foes success sometimes, and deprive his children of it; but not because He does not hear and answer prayer. He never permits their success, and our defeat, save for our good. Why now, has He not said He will try us seven times in the fire? First, may be, He tests our courage; well, we prove to have it: then our love; well, we have some, though it were to be wished we had more. Then, our faith; very little is found. Into the fire we must go. By and by, our unfaithfulness is somewhat purged away. Well, but then, may be, he tries our submission; finds it very poor. Into the fire with us! After that, our patience. Oh, perhaps a great, thick scum boils up to the top of the pot, and shows how far from perfection we are yet. Instead of setting us aside to cool, he stirs up the fire hotter and hotter, never minding our boiling and bubbling, so long as we don't boil over. Well, supposing fused metal had the feelings of a man, just fancy its state! At last the scum parts! the pure, bright silver appears!--he stoops over it, sees in it _his own face_,--takes us to heaven!" "Oh me! I don't believe I could stand all that!" cried Speckbacher, turning pale. "You might, but I couldn't!" "God only knows our hearts," replied the Sandwirth. "You and I may lie stark and stiff before another night; but what then? we shall be with Him." "May it please Him, we shall," said Speckbacher, devoutly crossing himself. "Sandwirth," cried he, after a pause, "what a life mine has been! Oh, when I think of the sins of my youth, I see what a long, long chain must be let down from heaven, to draw me up to it! What could you expect from me, poor little orphan as I was at seven years old, but that I should go astray like a youngling of the flock, whose mother has fallen over the cliff? My relations were severe: I had no happiness in the house: so I sought it out of it. Evil companions fell in my way, and tried to make me as wicked as themselves. They feared no God; what wonder they feared no man? We robbed, we gamed, we drank; we sang, told jolly tales, and made merry; but I never was happy. "One day we were on a predatory expedition. I had separated a little from the rest, when I heard an inexpressibly mournful cry; it seemed to say, 'Oh, woe, woe, woe!' I stood fixed to the spot; my blood ran cold: at length I hurried on to join my comrades, and begged them to turn back to hearken to a cry of distress in the wood. They treated it with indifference, and said we must push on, there was no time to lose. I, however, lingered; then turned back. Following the sound, which became more and more lamentable, I suddenly almost toppled over the edge of a tremendous cliff, seven hundred feet high! It took me so by surprise that I shrank back, appalled and breathless. Half way down hung a miserable man, one of our company whom we had not missed, whose clothes, as he fell, had been caught by some projection in the rock, and who was nearly doubled in half, his head towards his toes, with horrible death beneath him. I shouted, 'Don't fear! I'll run for aid!' and did so, without knowing whether he heard me or not. But when, after a long run, I came in sight of my comrades, they were in the hands of justice, and I was the only one that escaped. I flew back to the edge of the cliff. The poor wretch's slight support had given way, and he lay, a mangled mass of bones and blood, at the bottom. When I came to myself,--oh, Hofer, can you wonder I was another man?" Speckbacher's feelings here so overcame him that he leant against the rock a moment for support. "Doubtless the hand of the Lord was in the event, brother," said Hofer. "To the one He showed judgment, to the other mercy." "Mercy? Yes, what mercy! He drew me into the way of the Schmeiders, a family of piety and of love. Soon I felt their softening influence; at length I became their inmate. The old man had known my father; he interested himself in getting me employed in supplying wood to the salt-works. After a time, he saw a growing affection between Maria and me: he did not discourage it; he told me I should marry her. I told him how bad I had been; he would not recall his promise, but fixed a time, and said that if I continued steady till then, we should be united. And so we were. Ah! God be praised!" Some men, coming from the mines, here approached and passed them, which changed the subject of conversation. "Has General Chastelar forgiven the men of Halle for drubbing him yet?" said Speckbacher. "Why, he cannot be expected to forget it very readily," said Hofer. "It was a bad business, and did them no credit, I think. The poor general had had his turn of ill luck, and could hardly have been better pleased at his defeat than we were; but did that authorize a set of angry fellows to waylay him with cudgels, and thump him so that he was obliged to keep his bed two days? No, no, I say." "I can't help laughing at it, though," said Speckbacher; "it was taking the law so into their own hands. His ardour for us was already beginning to cool; and, for my part, I think he has done us very little good, from first to last. But here we are. I was on my way to the superintendent; but you have never seen the mines: would not you like to do so?" "Very much." "Come this way, then--I will find you a miner's overcoat and staff. They will give us flambeaux." Hofer presently found himself descending the noted three hundred steps, with considerable excitement, and a little trepidation. He seemed entering a new world, the withdrawal of daylight from which gave it something inexpressibly dismal. The interminable galleries and caverns, the unfathomed lakes, the dim lights, the hollow, unearthly sounds, sensibly affected his imagination; and when they now and then came up to a solitary miner, with his little candle, constantly striking his axe into the wall before him, a profound feeling of pity towards him oppressed his kind heart. "It is wonderful! truly wonderful!" ejaculated he, as they once more emerged into the warm sunlight; "but I am very glad to find myself out of it. I could not help thinking of poor wretches in the bottomless pit." "Hofer! when you were comparing the true believer, just now, to metal molten over the fire, I could not help thinking that their foes are like the crackling sticks in that fire, that help to heat the silver. They are _unintelligent agents_; they make a great blaze, and shine very bright, for a little while. How soon they become extinct!" "Ah! I never like to think of it,--it melts me with sorrow. If the true believer has such a hard fight of it, where shall the ungodly and sinner appear? Brother, let us leave such matters to the God who made those salt caverns. I thought, before I entered them, they would afford me a good opportunity for some more talk with you about to-morrow; but when I was once within them, the God of nature made me hold my peace." "Here is a niche, Anderl, where we can sit and talk our fill. It seems to me we shall very likely fall short of powder and bullets--what can we do?" They sat down and arranged, as well as they could, the plans for the morrow. But they were, after all, unskilled tacticians, as far as science went: men rather of deeds than words, who felt a certain consciousness of what they themselves could do, and what they could expect from one another. However, before they parted, they had decided their own parts in what proved to be the most important struggle that occurred during the Tyrolean war. On the morning of May 29th, both parties were prepared to try their strength--the Bavarians with all the advantages of regular training and skill; the Tyrolese armed with valour and love of their freedom and their country. Seventeen thousand peasants, badly accoutred for war, scantily provided with ammunition, and headed not by one but by several chiefs, were supported by a thousand Austrian regulars, sixty or seventy horse, and five pieces of cannon. General Deroy opposed them with eight thousand Bavarian infantry, one thousand cavalry, and twenty-five cannon. Hofer slept overnight at a little tavern called the Spade, a short distance from Innsbruck. He and his men began the day with a hearty meal, which some who had three or four good meals every day of their lives, afterwards called "carousing:"--and on this splendid carouse of bread, cheese, and beer, the brave men, commending their good cause to Heaven, started forth to the field. Speckbacher, however, had opened the day on the bridge of Halle, which was obstinately contested, but which he carried; and the engagement then became general. The peasantry led by Father Joachim poured down from the Iselberg, and attacked the Bavarians with fury, while Teimer fell on them from the rear. "The Bavarians," says a writer, "had every advantage on their side, except their numbers." We may add, and except their cause. They had passed the night quietly in and about Innsbruck, had an ample supply of provisions, while the Tyrolese had only their little meal-bags; and were well armed, while many of the Tyrolese were provided with nothing better than pitchforks or scythes. Under all these circumstances, it is surprising, says the above-quoted chronicler, that the Bavarians suffered themselves to be brought to action; or that, being engaged, they should sustain a defeat. Yes, very surprising, no doubt; and equally surprising that Baron Hormayr returned no answers to Hofer's repeated and urgent missives, during several previous days, to advance to support the Tyrolese: and that when, somewhat tardily, he moved from his quarters at Landeck, he only proceeded to Imst, where he lay in bed for a sore throat. He had taken a chill. Meantime, Speckbacher, with six hundred men, having carried the bridge, had thrice dislodged the Bavarians from the farm of Rainerhof, twice been driven out, and the third time triumphantly taken it: earning for himself from the other side the questionable title of the Fire-devil. The owners of the farm were in it all the time. A girl named Lisa, seeing Speckbacher's lips dry and parched, exclaimed, "That brave man shall not die of thirst if I can help it"--and carrying out a small cask of wine into the midst, she began to dispense its contents in a mug, first to him and then to his comrades, when a bullet struck the cask and made a small orifice near the spiggot. Thrusting her thumb into the hole, she cried, laughing, "Come, men, drink fast, or it will run out quicker than I can stop it!" Father Joachim, flying about the field, shouting to his men and brandishing aloft his huge ebony crucifix, performed, it is said, prodigies of valour and generalship. He was humane, too, binding up wounds, whispering brief absolution into the ears of the dying; and once, at least, narrowly escaped death himself, for a Bavarian was about to run him through the body with his bayonet, when he himself was brought down by a rifle. Hofer did not come up till some hours later, but then turned the fortune of the day. Somewhat after him arrived Martin Teimer, on the heights of Hotting; on seeing whom, the Bavarians advanced with great resolution on the Iselberg. The Austrians, under Colonel Ertel, who were somewhat dispersed, drew up in haste to receive them, supported by a large body of Tyrolese, and the Bavarians maintained the contest for some time with great gallantry; but the Tyrolese sharpshooters among the rocks thinned their ranks so formidably that their destruction would have been inevitable, had not the peasants fallen short of ammunition. An officer with a trumpet was therefore despatched to the Bavarian commander, advising him to lay down his arms; and, as he had just heard that one of his outposts had been carried by the Austrians, he conceded a suspension of hostilities for twenty-four hours, and, under cover of the night, effected a precipitate retreat, leaving the Tyrolese complete masters of the field. "Aha," said Speckbacher, shaking his fist at some ammunition-wagons which now, rather too tardily, loomed large in the distance,--"had you come up a little sooner.... But, no matter--Innsbruck is a second time ours!" [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII. THE LATTER END OF A FRAY, AND THE BEGINNING OF A FEAST. The loss of the Tyrolese amounted to sixty-two killed and ninety-seven wounded; of their friends the Austrians, twenty-five killed and fifty-nine wounded. Of the Bavarians were reckoned two thousand five hundred killed and wounded, including several officers. The engagement had lasted till seven in the evening. At nine the Bavarians retreated to Kufstein under favour of the darkness. At four o'clock the next morning, the victorious peasantry flocked indiscriminately into Innsbruck, shouting and singing, without any order, but yet without the least offence in their demeanour or proceedings. At nine o'clock Hofer marched in at the head of the men of Passeyr; and with Father Joachim at his right hand. By this time the city was full to overflowing-- "You would have thought the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage;" --for, certainly, the impression prevailed among the good people of Innsbruck that he was the great man of the day, and so it continued to do. Michael Stumff, beaming like the sun, stood on the threshold of his house to catch a glimpse of the Sandwirth as he passed, vaunting much his familiarity with him to those who were willing to listen; and extolling his valour because it enhanced the honour of his acquaintance. "Yes, yes," he repeated, wagging his head, "there's more in him than you'd think, for as homely as he looks. Why now, Chastelar,--we've had General Chastelar among us, though now, I'm sorry to hear, he has quitted the country,--and Hormayr--we've had Baron Hormayr among us too, of whose doings or misdoings at this present occasion, I suppose we shall shortly have his own account,--both of these have been counted noteworthy men,--to say nothing of our own Baron Taxis--but, to my mind, there's not a greater man among 'em all, in spite of his homely bearing, than my honest friend the Sandwirth. Ah, here he comes!--nay, not yet--How the bells are ringing! and yet there's such a din, clang, and confusion, they scarce can be heard. Here he comes, then!--yes, yes, the green jackets walking six or eight abreast--there's _he_, look you, neighbour!--there's my old ally the Sandwirth!--many a pot of beer have he and I shared together! And now, see you, he has a feather in his hat, and a sword at his side, and pistols in his belt. Hurra! hurra! I say, Sandwirth!--(Nod at him, Alouise--I'll catch his eye.) Hurra! hurra!--" The churches received them. As many as could enter them, crowded the aisles; the rest hung about the doors. After victory and thanksgiving, naturally came feasting. Wounded men were more slowly brought into the city, and hospitably received; and numbers of escaped Tyrolese prisoners came panting back to their friends at intervals throughout the day. The Bavarians had pretty well consumed the edibles of Innsbruck, but the damage was being repaired as fast as was possible by supplies from the country. Every house had its table spread with such things as came to hand, for the refreshment of all comers. At the inns and public rooms, dances were got up; and those who had fought overnight might now be seen cutting tremendous capers and taking wondrous leaps, with some fair partner of equal agility. But, flirting? none; the Tyrolese eminently cultivate decorum, and know how to be merry and wise. If you choose your partner, it is for the entire evening; and often proves to be your partner for life. Late in the evening Baron Hormayr arrived at the Taxis Palace. His throat was very sore, and he was very hoarse, and not a little vexed at having had no share in the glory of the day. Flinging himself on a sofa, he desired Hofer might be instantly sought, found, and sent to him. In due course, the Sandwirth presented himself. "So here you are, Hofer!" cried the Baron, feverishly shaking up the cushion under his head. "Here we are, baron--in Innsbruck--" "Aye, aye, I suppose you are all mightily pleased. If I had not had the worst cold I ever had in my life, I should have been up with you--(Just ring for a tisane--) Regularly knocked up at Imst, my good fellow--could only dictate my orders in a whisper; and fretted to death at not being able to lead the attack at Scharnitz. Well, and so--O, you've got on Chastelar's sword and pistols, I see." "The sword and pistols the general gave me, baron." "Aha! Made a good show! hey?" "Helped to do good service, I hope." "No doubt, no doubt. The people adore you, Hofer! And yet you haven't been much of a fighting man--what makes them like you so?--hey?" "I do not justly know, baron, save that they know I love them. Love kindles love, you know." "Aye, aye--well, but how went the day? Eisenstecken and you, I suppose, helped Colonel Ertel in winning the day?" "Well, baron, Eisenstecken is a good lad, but I should have said Father Joachim, Speckbacher, and I won the day, helped by Colonel Ertel. But, since it is won, it's no matter." "Just so, you all did your best, my good friend--" "We were quite at a stand-still at one time, for powder and bullets." "Hofer! what a shocking want of ammunition there has been throughout this campaign! General Buol has been in a wretched state, without either ammunition or money. There he has remained, on the Brenner with twenty-three hundred men, and actually not a cartridge!--" "Our men were making cartridges all day long, for three days before the battle. You know, baron, the Tyrol has few resources in itself; we have few powder-mills, and the frontiers are now so watched that it is exceeding difficult to get any into the country, even when we have any money to pay for it, which generally we have not." "No, and then you waste so much in _feux-de-joie_ and such nonsense, at every rustic wedding and merry-making; every petty success. Why, I can hear your sharpshooters peppering away now!" "Because yesterday's was not a petty success. Forgive them, baron. Every time we fight you a Berg Isel, you may afford us a _feu-de-joie_. However, the lads are wasting their powder now, I acknowledge; and, when I go hence, I will stop it." "Do so; and--just give me that carafe of iced water and the goblet; I'm so thirsty!--Have some wine, Hofer?" "No, baron, I thank you." "Tell them, Hofer, for goodness' sake, to husband what little ammunition they possess, for they don't know how important it is." "Oh yes, they do, baron! They knew, yesterday, when their own was spent; and luckily, the Bavarians' was exhausted too!" "Ha, ha!" "Speckbacher has a little boy, who runs into the thick of the fight, picks up bullets, and brings them to his father to use again." "Ha, ha! Cool!--Where's Speckbacher now?" "At the heels of the Bavarians." "Where's Major Teimer?" "At the heels of Speckbacher." "Ho!--Well, Hofer, you'll just speak to your men--and to-morrow I'll put forth a proclamation--I'd dictate it to-night, only my head aches ready to split--telling every true Tyrolean, whose heart, and so forth,--had better show his love of his country by abstaining from feu-de-joieing, and by hunting up, without delay, all such arms, rifles, muskets, swords, cavalry saddles, and what not, as can be found, and bringing them with all speed to head-quarters. Bless my heart! what a number of precious lives might be taken by the ammunition these silly clodhoppers are now wasting!" "I'll go to them at once, baron. And, if you'll take my unworthy advice, you'll go to bed, and drink something hot." "Thank you, thank you,--I believe I shall, or something cold, for I'm very feverish--you see one eye is quite bunged up already. Good night. I'm sorry you won't take a glass of wine, though. Let me see you in the morning." Hofer assented, with a gesture, and withdrew. "Poor man! poor gentleman, I mean," thought he. "He seems much afflicted at having a stuffing in the head; almost as much as at not having won yesterday's battle. Well, well! we must each do what we can, we are but as God made us." Here he was joined by Giuseppe Eisenstecken, who had been drinking iced champagne, and seemed very cheerful. "_Sanvird_," said he, clapping his hand familiarly on Hofer's shoulder, "what reward do you think I have hit on for my work of yesterday?" "What reward have I thought of for myself or Speckbacher?" said Hofer. "Our success is reward enough for us all, I think." "Ah, basta! I have been a good adjutant to you, _Sanvird_. Without me the day would not have been won--" "Oh, indeed! I have yet to learn it." "_Sanvird_, you have a daughter--" "Three." "Ah! Two are children--your Theresa is ... _bella, bella veramente_!" "I have not now to learn that," said Hofer, laughing and shaking him off; "but you had better think of something else, my lad--you and she have nothing in common." "Oh, I'm aware I am not common," said Giuseppe, "but any little advantage I may have of birth--" "Hold, there, my boy. We Hofers have been Sandwirths of repute for many generations. Good night, now. I am very tired, and am going to bed; and I advise you to do the same." Eisenstecken stared, shrugged his shoulders, and walked off to the theatre. When the news of the victory of Berg Isel spread through the valleys, which it did like wildfire, much rejoicing and festivity ensued. The darling passion of the mountaineers is for music and dancing. Every cottage has its violin or guitar; and the Tyrolese not only sing, but have a gift of improvising verses, rough indeed, and with little pretension to polish or harmony, but not destitute of wit and satire, nor without occasional touches of pathos. These accomplishments were brought into play at a national festival given in honour of the victory of Berg Isel. The chief merit attained or aimed at, is a quickness at repartee; each party in the impromptu dialogue striving to make the other ridiculous. Sometimes when the cut is very unexpected, the person assailed is bereft of presence of mind; and his or her confusion affords abundant amusement to the audience. Theresa, Rudolf, and Franz were all good at this pastime--Rudolf the best, because Theresa's bashfulness often restrained her, and Franz's satire scarcely ever rose to the value of wit. At the rustic merry-making at _am Sand_, all three were present; and Franz, nettled by Theresa's rejection of him, assailed her with several such stinging impromptus, that were no impromptus at all, having been prepared beforehand, that Theresa turned the tables on him, with a true woman's malice, for cowardice on the day of battle, and invented such a number of absurd reasons for his keeping out of harm's way, that hearty laughter resounded on all sides; and Franz, smarting more than he showed, secretly resolved to have his day of revenge. Meanwhile, the ground was clearing for wrestlers. Almost every Tyrolese wears a thick silver or iron ring on the little finger of the right hand, to use in the pugilistic encounters they call _robeln_; and a fist so armed can inflict cruel wounds. Franz, irritated by Theresa's sarcasms, felt a burning desire to inflict some disfiguring hurt on Rudolf; and, though rather afraid of trying his strength with him, the evil desire predominated, and he challenged him to a match. But Rudolf happened to have no mind for it; and as soon as Franz clearly made out this, he never ceased pestering Rudolf, and twitting him with his backwardness, till Rudolf, at length losing patience, told him that if he did not desist, he would pitch him into the Passeyr. Such a wicked expression came into Franz's face, on this, that it made Theresa's blood run cold; and she hastily interrupted the strife by exclaiming, "The miracle-play is just going to begin. Franz, are not you to be the Philistine?" The subject was David and Goliath. Rudolf was David, and Franz (on stilts) Goliath. The subordinate parts were filled by other peasants. Rudolf came in, driving a real donkey, supposed to be laden with the ten cheeses for his brethren's captain; and he questioned about the fight, and answered his brother's rebuke very effectively. Franz mouthed the defiance to Israel extremely well, and straddled and swaggered about like a very Goliath. The Passeyr was very handy to represent the brook that supplied the pebbles; and Rudolf, though he slung the stone near enough to his antagonist to make Franz swerve his head considerably to one side, was at pains not really to hit him. Franz did not know this, however; he thought the pebble was slung unreasonably and maliciously close; therefore, when Rudolf ran up to his prostrate body to make believe to sever his head with the Sandwirth's own sword, Franz hooked his foot round his rival's ankle, and suddenly brought him with violence to the ground. This was so unexpected a catastrophe, that a cry, mingled with laughter, arose from the audience. But Rudolf was not to be so baffled; he clasped his arms strictly round his foe, who already was under him, and writhing, struggling, and rolling, they twisted one another about till Rudolf finally got his antagonist to the water's edge, and soused him in the Passeyr. Whereupon there naturally ensued a clamour of laughter and applause; and the victor was tumultuously greeted; while the drenched giant slunk moodily out of sight. Rudolf now triumphantly mounted the stilts, and strode round the green; but Hofer, who had played King Saul, and who liked a joke as well as any one, aimed a large turnip so well at the right stilt, that Rudolf was suddenly laid prostrate. As his encumbrances effectually prevented his rising, (the ends being seized by several little boys, and big ones too,) he lay quite at the mercy of the public, especially of Theresa, who sang a requiem over him, much in the style of "Who killed cock robin?" Who killed poor David? Can this be he who late was seen The pride of every village-green? Alas, poor David! Who fetched him down? On lordly stilts we saw him stride A season brief, too swollen with pride-- Alas, poor David! Take warning, all with pride elate, Behold this hapless youngster's fate; A turnip vile has cracked his pate. Alas, poor David! It was remarked that as soon as Theresa began to sing, the prostrate victim lay quite still; and as soon as she ceased, he declared in a loud voice that since he was dead, he was determined to be buried. "Four proper youths and tall" immediately stepped forward, and raised him, stiff as a log, on their shoulders, then bore him with decent solemnity to the dust heap. After this deportation, Rudolf seemed to think himself exonerated from further communication with any of his fellow-mortals, except Theresa, with whom he was seen, by those who thought it worth while to look after him, in earnest conversation at the dairy-door. [Illustration] CHAPTER XIV. TROUBLED WATERS. Four men, two of whom wore the brown serge gowns of Capuchins, might have been seen, on the fourth of June, sitting on the bank of a foaming river, and presently rising in stilts from the pebbly bed of the river itself, sounding their way in advance, as they crossed it, by the aid of long poles. These were Hofer, Eisenstecken, Father Joachim, and Father Peter, on their way to Rattenberg, where they were to meet Hormayr, Baron Taxis, the engineer Hauser, and the chiefs of the lower Innthal. At this time, the Inn was so swollen by recent and heavy rains, as to be both difficult and dangerous to cross; but the bridges had all been destroyed during the warfare, and our friends had only this hazardous mode of fording the river. "I'm going!" cried Father Peter, in alarm, as the running water, flashing in the sun, dazzled his eye. "Why, brother, didst never walk on stilts before?" cried Father Joachim, catching him by the arm, and heartily laughing. "Shame on you for a faint heart. Steady, steady. Don't upset _me_, though, good brother." "Or I may chance to get a rap on the head with that staff," muttered Father Peter. "There! I'm out of the perilous waters at last,--the most dangerous voyage I ever undertook." Saying which, he scrambled out on the other bank, giving a lurch, however, as he did so, which entangled his stilt in one of Father Joachim's, and nearly gave him a ducking. The excellent Capuchin turned exceedingly red, but suppressed his wrath, if he felt any, merely observing, "Thou deservest a crack on the pate most assuredly, good brother!" Then, having burst into a jolly laugh, that made the hills ring again, he suddenly stopped short, wiped his eyes, and went on, silent as night; till at length he said to Hofer-- "A laugh is worth a zwanziger now and then. Or else, it makes my heart sore to pass along this valley, only a few weeks ago in the highest possible state of cultivation, and diversified with villages in the neatest order; now presenting on every side a spectacle of ruin and desolation." "_Eheu_," sighed Father Peter, in response, "'_Incenderunt igni sanctuarium tuum; in terra polluerunt nominis tui._'" "Nevertheless, brother," rejoined Father Joachim, "_'Lætabitur justus in Domino, et sperabit in eo, ut laudabuntur omnes recti corde;_' which, if we interpret for the benefit of the unlearned, is as much as to say, the righteous shall, notwithstanding, rejoice in the Lord and put their trust in Him; and all they that are true of heart shall be glad." "The Bavarians may trust in their chariots and horses," said Hofer, "but we will trust in the Lord our God." "Ah, I wish we had some more horses, though," broke in Eisenstecken, "for we are miserably deficient in cavalry." "What on earth should we do with cavalry?" cried Father Joachim. "Why, our very want of it makes us respected the more, because our successes can only be attributed to our natural intrepidity and resolution." "Pardon me, father; our successes can only last among the hills, we cannot compete with the enemy in the plains." "Never mind that," interposed Father Peter, setting aside an objection that could not be answered. "Let them keep their plains to themselves, as long as we have our hills." While talking in this desultory fashion, they came up with one of those rustic processions so common in the mountains, when the cows, having exhausted the pastures in the valleys, are driven up the hills for the summer. The tinkling of bells, and rustic sounds of music which accompanied it, could be heard far off. First came the _senner_, or milker, at the head of the cows, with ribbons of many colours bedecking his hat and shoes, and a long staff in his hand, with which he gesticulated in a theatrical manner. Immediately after him marched the principal cow of a herd amounting to some hundreds, belonging to different farmers; her head and neck were decorated with immense garlands of the gayest flowers, interspersed with knots and streamers, pink, blue, and yellow, and bearing a deep-toned bell suspended by an embroidered strap. The other cows succeeded, each adorned with smaller bells, streamers, and garlands, and quite aware of their subordinate dignity. Then came the _galleter_, driving the heifers and calves, and having in his charge the fetters and halters of the whole herd. Then followed the goat-keeper, with a long train of goats; then the _schäfer_, or shepherd, with his numerous flocks of sheep; and lastly, the _sandirne_, or pig-driver, with his unruly herd. When the _senner_ in advance of this procession came near enough to be recognised, he proved to be Franz, who was a good herdsman enough, and being never very fond of either smuggling or fighting when they threatened much danger, was very glad to get a safe, and, in the eyes of mountaineers, honourable, employment for the rest of the summer. He enjoyed the pomp and circumstance of the procession amazingly, and hardly less so the prospect of occasional long, lonely hours of luxurious idleness which were sure to follow, when lying at full length on thymy banks watching his charge. Lenora had trimmed his hat and shoes with the greatest taste, helped him to furbish up the bells, and provided him with many little comforts. As soon as he saw he was recognised by acquaintance, his self-importance increased ten-fold. He attitudinized, strutted, and flourished his staff, till he made, as Giuseppe contemptuously observed, quite an ape of himself. Hofer, pitying him more than he deserved for the inglorious life he was going to lead, spoke a few kind words to him, and the priests gave him their blessings. There is, or was, a good old inn, in the quaint little old-fashioned town of Rattenberg. In the best room of this inn, the three barons were already awaiting the Tyrolese, and chafing a little at their not having arrived first. "Here they come at last," muttered Baron Hauser; "four of them, and we have only ordered covers for six." "Who is the fourth?" said Baron Hormayr, looking up from his papers; "Teimer, perhaps." "No; two Capuchins, Hofer, and a tall, swarthy youth--" "Oh, Eisenstecken--I forgot the second Capuchin--he may be of use, but he is not equal to Father Joachim. Well, Hofer, here at last, man!" "The Inn was turbid, baron, and the bridges broken." "Ha! how did you ford it?" "On stilts." "Ha, ha! that made you late, I suppose." "And wet, too," said Father Joachim, shaking his gown. "Ha, ha! Capuchins on stilts! The idea is amusing." "I don't know what to say to that," said Father Peter bluntly, "unless you find amusement in the discomfort of your fellow-creatures." "Pardon, good father. Hungry men are apt to be captious, and I feared our fish would be spoilt; here it comes,--let us hope for the best." Father Joachim said grace, and they fed like hungry men as much as heroes. After the dishes were removed, which was not in less than an hour, they began to talk of business. "We want a map," said Baron Taxis; "Hauser, have you one?" Hauser produced a map, but it was too small, and proved to be incorrect. Hofer eyed it with contempt. "I can draw a better map than that," said he, dipping his finger in his glass, and making various small slops on the table. "This is Hobranz, and this is Kempten; here are our men of the Vorarlberg, and here the Bavarians." "You have made Kempten too large in proportion to Hobranz," said Baron Hauser, superciliously. "The position is the question, not the size," said Hofer; which was so undeniably the case, that the baron did not reply to it. "Well then, here is Fuessen," said Hormayr. "The men of Vorarlberg must try to effect a junction with Teimer somewhere hereabouts; and Major Dietrich, advancing by Ettal, will assist the communication; while you, Taxis, will advance towards Clagenfurt; and Leinengen towards Trent. We shall muster little short of thirty thousand men, regulars and Tyrolese; and if this movement succeeds, my judgment is, that it will lead to the entire liberation of the Tyrol." The discussion lasted long; and the council broke up, animated with sanguine hopes of success. In a few days the scheme was attempted. Unfortunately, Martin Teimer, by some mistake, overshot his mark, and being ignorant of the country, strayed away from the men of Vorarlberg, and fell in with a detachment of the enemy, by whom he was nearly made prisoner. Meanwhile, the Vorarlbergers, whose eagerness had made them begin the fight early in the day, were disappointed of Teimer's expected support; and only owing to their great intrepidity and coolness, were able to retire in good order: which was all they had to console them for not winning a brilliant victory. Count Leinengen was threatened with bombardment in Trent, and Hormayr and Hofer were hastening to his relief, when they learnt that the enemy had retired. A few subsequent skirmishes in the mountains had no result of importance. Suddenly the news reached the combatants of the decisive battle of Wagram, one of the most brilliant fields ever won by Buonaparte, and disastrous in its effects on the Austrian cause. All further resistance being abandoned by the vanquished, they were glad to conclude the armistice of Znaim, by which they agreed to evacuate the Tyrol. Words cannot describe the trouble and indignation of the Tyrolese, when this news, which they at first refused to believe, was fully confirmed. Eisenstecken, and a party of his companions in arms, rushed into the little cottage which gave Hofer temporary shelter, and passionately implored him to be their chief, and prevent the Austrian troops from leaving the country. With mild and pacifying words he assured them how wrong and fruitless this would be. They then besought him at least forcibly to detain the Austrian ammunition, and attempt the liberation of their country without the assistance of those who were deserting them. Hofer demurred about the ammunition, but declared himself ready to obey the call of his countrymen, and appointed a time and place for deciding on what should be done. His listeners heard him joyfully, and hastened away to spread the glad tidings; Eisenstecken not hesitating to attempt to draw off from their allegiance as many of the Austrian privates as he could. Meanwhile, Hofer, summoned by Hormayr to resign his command, required twelve hours for deliberation. Part of this interval was spent in grave and sorrowful consultation with his fellow chiefs, and much of it in deep and fervent prayer. At the end of the time, "We have fought for the rights of Austria," said he--"we will now fight for our own." This decision was hailed by the Tyrolese with transport. Attachment and loyalty to the house of Austria had ever been their prominent characteristics; they had been incited to rise by the Emperor himself, and had fought for him faithfully and well. Deserted by him, their independence was now at stake; and while despotism crushed the liberties of nearly all Europe, this handful of heroic mountaineers resolved to free themselves or perish. The Tyrolese flocked to Hofer's standard the instant it was raised; the Austrian troops in the Vorarlberg deserted their leaders and enthusiastically joined the insurgents. Many of the Austrian troops who had begun to march homewards, were persuaded by the Tyrolese to turn back. Nearly the whole of Taxis's corps deserted him, and quietly marched to Hofer, deaf to threats and entreaties. Hofer, who had declared himself willing to fight under Leinengen as a simple soldier if his countrymen preferred it, found himself unanimously elected Commander-in-Chief. Poor Baron Hormayr was in a pitiable state of mind; annoyed beyond measure at the armistice, yet with every feeling of a disciplinarian outraged by the extremely irregular conduct of the Tyrolese and the insubordination of his own troops. Looking upon Hofer and Speckbacher as the magicians by whom alone the storm could be quelled, he sent for the former, and earnestly, importunately besought him to think well of what he was about before he refused to lay down his arms. But Hofer was immoveable. He had deliberated in great trouble on what was right and necessary; and having besought divine direction, his conviction was now unshaken as to the duty of maintaining the cause, whether successfully or not. In his previous summons to Hormayr, he had been taken by surprise, had been very irresolute, had shifted from foot to foot, played with his pistols and sword, spoken absently, and betrayed all the marks of vacillation. He had had time to ponder and to pray; and now Hormayr might as well have tried to move Mount Brenner. As for Father Joachim, he had gone off, in a fit of desperation, to his convent at Brixen, where he shut himself up in his cell, rolled on the ground, smote himself on the breast, and tore handfuls out of his bushy red beard. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XV. THE GORGE OF THE EISACH. The Baron, vexed and provoked, next tried his rhetoric upon Speckbacher. Now, Speckbacher was like the Passeyr in a high wind up-current, "driven to and fro, and tost." He had of late been very unprofitably spending his time in endeavouring to reduce the strong fortress of Kufstein, and was a good deal humbled at finding it too hard a nut for him to crack. Therefore, when Baron Hormayr, with all his force of elocution, painted the hopelessness of the Tyrolese cause, and the certainty of their making things considerably worse for themselves if they were vanquished--Speckbacher lost his spirits and became convinced that the case was desperate. Hormayr, seeing his advantage, then hinted on Speckbacher's being particularly and personally obnoxious to the Bavarians as a formidable insurgent chief, observed on the desirableness of a temporary withdrawal from public notice, and finally offered him a seat in his own carriage if he would accompany him into Austria. Eisenstecken was on his way thither already. Speckbacher's heart hovered over his cottage among the beech-trees; but he was desponding and irresolute; a few coaxing words settled the matter--he would but make a hasty visit to his home and return, if the Baron would be so kind as to wait for him. The Baron would do so by all means, but hoped he would be quick; so off sped Speckbacher at a swinging pace, but with a heavy heart. Arrived at his cottage, what should he see but his little boy at the threshold, intently watching the farm-servant, Zoppel, making him a toy rifle. Directly he looked up and saw his father, he joyfully cried out, ran towards him, and clasped his knees; then seizing him by the hand, dragged him towards the house, capering as he went. Maria, meantime, had come to the door with a child in her arms and another holding her apron. "Home at last," said she with fond reproach. "Home; soon to depart again," said Speckbacher, entering the house. "No doubt," said she, pouting a little, as she gave him the baby to kiss; "that's what we must expect as long as the war goes on; however, you know, we talked that all over and counted up the cost at the beginning, and decided not to mind it." "We did," said Speckbacher in a melancholy tone. "So you must not mind," pursued Maria cheerily, "if I do give you a grumpy word or a pouting look now and then, because it is over in a moment; for I assure you, I remember all you said to me too well to think seriously of minding it at any time." "But, Maria! Don't you know there has been an armistice proclaimed?" "Between whom?" "The French, Bavarians, and Austrians." "To be sure I do," said she with curling lip; "but what have _we_ to do with that?" "Oh, what a question!" groaned Speckbacher. "It hardly amounts to one, I think," said Maria. "Why, have not all the Austrian soldiery deserted to us, and is not the Sandwirth Commander-in-Chief?" "My dearest Maria, Baron Hormayr has been using all his influence with us both to forbear from shedding blood in a hopeless case. And he has promised to take me with him in his own carriage to Vienna to be out of the way a little, till the affair has blown over. "What, and give up the cause?" cried Maria in blank dismay. Her look smote her husband to the heart. "Then you don't approve of it?" said he, inquiringly. "Why, _do you_?" "Well, I don't know--Eisenstecken has given it up for one--" Maria dropped the baby into the little wooden cradle on the dresser, and began to furbish a brass skillet very vigorously. --"But, if you don't," faltered he, "neither shall I; for, if my life is worth nothing to _you_, to me it is not of the value of a kreutzer." "O Speckbacher!" cried she, suddenly flinging her arms about his neck. "Well, what now?" said he; his eyes beginning to grow misty. "How _can_ you say such things?" sobbed Maria. "Not worth a kreutzer, indeed! You, the best Tyrolese that lives!--the father of a family--a married man--a responsible person--known and beloved by all--to talk of not being worth a kreutzer!--" Here Anderl increased the effect by beginning to weep aloud, and with perseverance. "Well," said Speckbacher, in a stifled voice, and drawing her very close to him, "you seemed to think I was deserting the cause--" "Yes, only--no--that is--If Baron Hormayr says right,--and he ought to know,--why, the cause is deserting _you_, not you it--at least--Ah, it is not so! O Speckbacher, I am pulled two ways! why have you made me think the cause so important all along, if you are going to forsake it now?" "Why, so it is--" "Then, why desert it?" "Because, dear, they say it's hopeless. I wish you would not use that uncomfortable word 'desert.'" "I will not--I feel persuaded that a brave man may forsake a hopeless cause--nay, I think he owes it to those who love him. What sleepless nights have you given me, Speckbacher! But now, if I think you are safe, my rest will be sweet." "I declare I know not what to do," cried Speckbacher, tossing his arms upwards, and then starting up and pacing the room in an agitated manner,--then, throwing himself into a seat,--"I'll be guided by you." "Then go with the Baron," said Maria, after a moment's pause--"yours is too precious a life to be thrown away. When I felt it useless to remonstrate, and my mind was convinced besides, I wound myself up to a sort of false composure; but now, that has all dissolved away; the necessity for it is gone, and I can only see you, hear you, think of you as the dearest of husbands, the best and tenderest of men." Speckbacher wept. But his wife was firm. She packed up a little supply of linen for him, bade him remember the Baron was waiting, kissed him cheerfully, and watched him till he was out of sight. Speckbacher trod much more heavily on his way back than when he came. Dejected, solitary, slow, dragging a lengthening chain as he went, he tardily returned to the Baron, who was getting fidgety. "Your adieux took you a long time," said he, rather peevishly. Speckbacher made no reply, but silently followed him into the carriage, and they drove off towards Sterzing. Baron Hormayr felt it would not do to neglect his companion; and, being a man of considerable information and address, he began an agreeable conversation with two aides-de-camp, who were of the party, relating several anecdotes likely to interest Speckbacher, and beguile the way. Nothing could win from the dispirited Tyrolese, however, more than a divided attention. He assented absently to questions that were put to him, sometimes quite at cross purposes; and so clearly betrayed his dejection, that Hormayr at length ceased to waste his time on him, and entered into discussions exclusively interesting to himself and the aides-de-camp. The road was at this time winding up a steep hill, and proceeded very slowly; being choked with stones and brambles that had been cast across it during the recent contest. Every inch of ground had been a scene of struggle; to Speckbacher it was mournfully suggestive. Suddenly there appeared on a rocky path immediately above the road, a man in green with a red waistcoat, who gave a gesture of surprise when he saw them. It was Hofer. Stretching out his arms to Speckbacher, he cried in heart-rending tones, while tears fast coursed his cheeks,-- "Ah! my friend! my comrade! my brother! whither are you going? they are carrying you to ignominy! Return, ere it is yet too late! Return, my friend! my brother!" "Drive on!" cried Baron Hormayr passionately to his coachman, while Speckbacher buried his face in his hands. But, close his eyes as he would, he still saw the gestures, and heard the plaintive tones of the man on the rock. His resolution was taken. On reaching Sterzing, where some trifling delay occurred, he slipped away from his companions, and, procuring a horse, rode at full speed after Hofer, while the Baron and his party waited for him in vain. After a fruitless search, Hormayr perceived himself outwitted, and pursued his journey in no very good temper; though, being on the whole a kindly disposed man, he soon ceased to be annoyed, and even made a joke of it. Meanwhile, Speckbacher, spurring along the mountain road, came up with Hofer on the Brenner, and hastily threw himself off his horse, leading it towards him. Hofer, hearing his approach, turned about, and seeing who it was, paused, stretching out his arms to him. When they met, they mutely embraced. "Escaped! Thank God!" said Hofer. "Thank God," said Speckbacher, "I feel I've done right." "Rely on it. The wonder to me, brother, is, that you could ever have been over-persuaded. What! is our love of our country a mere dream? How many have already laid down their lives for it! For my part, I can die for freedom, but I cannot live a slave. Will Austria, think you, be angry in her heart, that we continue the defence of the cause? On the contrary, she will secretly rejoice in every success. Are you not certified of it?" "Yes." "Every nation in Europe but one will rejoice in it. The English will sympathize with us, so will the Swiss, so will the Italians, so will the Northern nations. They will sympathize with us in our success, because we deserve it--and, should we prove unfortunate, they will sympathize with us all the more!" "Hofer, go on talking--" "First, let us pray, brother. Oh, how much we have to pray for! First, our country,--that our poor, dear Tyrol may be delivered from all her enemies; then for our emperor,--that he may look kindly on us; and surely for our beloved Archduke John, whose heart is ever with us. Then for ourselves. Oh, we have much need to ask for direction,--we are poor, unskilled men, pitted against the cleverest man in the world; and how can we hold our ground without supreme aid? Then for our wives, children, and homes. See how much there is for which to pray." Speckbacher reverently uncovered his head, and knelt. It was not the first time they had thus sought heavenly guidance together. They arose strengthened, calmed, and resolved. On the second of August Father Joachim issued forth from his cell. He heard that Lefevre, Duke of Dantzic, had seized Innsbruck, and had boasted that the Capuchin's red beard should get well pulled; on which he grimly observed, "The Redbeard may be too strong for him yet." From that hour Father Joachim was known as "The Redbeard." He met, by appointment, Hofer, Speckbacher, and their three worthy weapon-brothers, Martin Schenk, Peter Kemmater, and Peter Mayer. These men had all pledged themselves to free the Tyrol, or perish. Peter Mayer was he, who being afterwards shot by order of Beauharnois at Botzen, removed a small crucifix from his heart, and handed it to a bystander, as the soldiers were preparing to fire, "lest," as he quietly observed, "it should turn the shot." Hofer's indecision was gone. "I have received an invitation," said he, gaily, "from the Duke of Dantzic, to deliver myself up to him before the 11th. I have sent him word he may expect me, with ten thousand sharpshooters." It was decided that Father Joachim should open the campaign. The general rising took place on the fourth of August,--a day to be much remembered. The post to be contested was a bridge across the Eisach, which the enemy were resolved to pass, and the Tyrolese were resolved they should not. Father Joachim had prepared a tremendous barrier to their doing so. He had caused enormous larch-trees to be felled, on which were piled huge masses of rock, and heaps of brushwood and stones, the whole being held together by strong cords, and thus suspended over the precipice. At one end of this fearful avalanche he stationed Rudolf, knife in hand, ready to cut the ropes the moment he received instructions from a comrade named Heisel, who commanded a view of the scene of action far below. When the enemy began to enter the pass, they found themselves only opposed by small bodies of Tyrolese, who continued to fall back after desperate but short attacks; and they began to think that though many warnings had been given them of the danger of this pass, they should find its difficulties exaggerated, and clear it without much loss. Suddenly an old man, at least eighty years of age, with hair as white as snow, but with the fire of youth in his dark eyes, levelled his piece from behind an almost inaccessible crag, brought down his man, reloaded his piece, and continued his deadly fire, never wasting a bullet, yet without receiving the least hurt in return. His execution was so fatal, that a couple of Saxons were detached, and privately sent round by a circuitous path to seize him. As soon as they rushed upon him, he shouted "Hurra!" shot the first, seized the second in his arms, and, crying "In God's name!" precipitated himself with him into the abyss below. The combatants looked on for a moment aghast. The next instant, however, the word "Forward" was given in a voice of thunder, and the invaders impetuously advanced, eager to get out of this dreadful place. But there seemed to be fighting, or some other obstacle, in front; the van did not advance, and the body of troops, jammed together between those who came on from behind, and those who did not or could not proceed in front, came to a stand. Everything was so still at this awful moment, that a crow could be heard cawing in the air, high aloft. This dread pause was broken by a clear voice far up above, but immediately over them, crying-- "Heisel! shall I cut yet?" "Not yet," replied another voice, that came wildly through the air. The Saxons, who heard these ill-omened words, were occupying a little basin, about two hundred and fifty paces across, hemmed in by rocks, except where the narrow road crossed a bridge. The day was intensely hot, and they were almost stifling. Suddenly they beheld flames in advance; the covered bridge had been set on fire! "Shall I? Shall I?" cried the eager voice. "Now then!" shouted the other. "In the name of the holy Trinity!" "Forward!" almost shrieked the officer in command; but it was in vain. "_Heisel, cut loose!_" A few quick ringing strokes of an axe were followed by a thundering crash, as though the very hills were giving way, and down rushed rocks, trees, and masses of earth, darkening the air, and the next instant burying the affrighted Saxons in heaps, or sweeping them down into the river. Cries of agony and wild despair echoed the next instant through the defile, mingled with hoarse shouts and the tramp of cavalry. A trooper dashed madly along the bridge; but before he could gallop over it, the burning beams gave way under him, and he was swept with them down the river. Some of the Saxons attempted to force a passage; others to ascend the rocks; but, weakened in numbers, and daunted by the formidable nature of the warfare, they finally gave way and retreated up the valley of the Eisach, while the Tyrolese harassed them with scattered shots, and finally retired to Brixen. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XVI. THE THIRD VICTORY OF BERG ISEL. The numbers of the peasantry accumulated during the night. Hofer and Speckbacher were on the Jauffen, and thousands flocked to their standard. The rage of the Duke of Dantzic, when he heard of the defeat of the Saxons in the gorge of the Eisach, was extreme. He refused to believe the road impassable, and sent Count Arco in a carriage, with only two outriders, to install himself governor of Brixen. The count came back more quickly than he went. The duke, foaming with rage, set out on the foolish journey himself; declaring he would date his despatches "Botzen" before he was a league out of Innsbruck. "Better wait till we are there," suggested one of his officers. He told the innkeeper's wife at Sterzing that "he was going to chew up the cursed peasants;" but he did not get as far as the Saxons had done. The rear of his detachment was attacked by a body of Tyrolese with great fury, and completely routed; they tore the dragoons from their horses, and killed them with the butt-ends of their muskets. The whole division dispersed; and the duke made the best of his way to Innsbruck, which he ignominiously entered, disguised as a common trooper. And thus his hopes of chewing up the peasantry were, for the season, defeated. Seventeen hundred Bavarians, advancing from Landeck towards Prutz, with the design of falling on the rear of Hofer's troops near Sterzing, were intercepted by a body of Tyrolese, who, after an obstinate fight of several hours, compelled them to retreat with great loss. At break of day the peasants recommenced their fire; but, finding the Bavarians would not answer it, a pause of several hours ensued, at the end of which the Tyrolese, impatient of inaction, mustered to the number of about three hundred, armed with pitchforks, pikes, and scythes; and shouting loudly, precipitated themselves towards the enemy. The Bavarians, terrified at such formidable and unusual weapons of war, instantly hoisted a white flag, and unconditionally surrendered. About nine hundred men and two hundred horses thus fell into the hands of these three hundred Tyrolese, the rest having fallen or escaped. Of the peasants, only seven were killed and four wounded. Perhaps it was on this occasion that they drove their prisoners into a large cavern, threatening to shoot those who endeavoured to escape. Thus, without the help of the Austrians, the Tyrolese were successful in almost every encounter with their enemies; and these successes inspired them with the most confident hopes of effecting the liberation of their country. And now the Tyrolese drew together to fight their third victorious battle of Berg Isel. Their numbers amounted, at the utmost, to eighteen thousand, including about three hundred Austrian volunteers; while the Duke of Dantzic found himself at the head of twenty-five thousand disciplined troops, with forty pieces of artillery. But his men were unwilling to fight; the Tyrolese were burning to begin. Hofer commanded in person, and took up his quarters, as he had done in May, at the little inn of "the Spade," at Schönberg; where the bed on which he slept is shown with fond reverence to this day. The right wing was commanded by Speckbacher, under whom the brave Count Mohr led on the peasants of the Vintsghan. Father Joachim came up with the main body during the night; and, learning where Hofer was, immediately repaired to him. The tired Sandwirth was soundly sleeping when a vigorous hand shook him by the arm, and he started up, looking a little bewildered, till he recognised the Capuchin. "Is it break of day, father?" said he, rubbing his eyes. "I'm ready." "Arise, and follow me," said Father Joachim briefly. Hofer, in some surprise, rose, hastily dressed, girt on his sword, and mutely obeyed. The Capuchin went out into the open air, looked up a moment at the stars, and then strode forward without speaking a word. After a time, they found themselves in a little country churchyard, with garlands, crosses, and little vessels of holy water over many a rustic grave. The Capuchin walked on towards a large crucifix; and then pausing and addressing his companion, said in a low voice, "Let us pray; but not too loudly, for we are close to the Austrian lines." The next moment they were murmuring-- Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Then Father Joachim poured out his soul in prayer and supplication--in Latin? Oh no!--There are emergencies when the stanchest Roman Catholic must, if he pray at all, make his petitions in the words that come first. Father Joachim's were strong and simple. The action commenced at six o'clock the next morning, August the 12th. The plan of attack very much resembled that of the 29th of May. "The good old plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can;" --in other words, that the Bavarians should take Berg Isel if they could dislodge the Tyrolese, and that the Tyrolese should not only keep their own, but drive their enemies completely off the field and make themselves masters of the bridges and approaches to Innsbruck. No capital blunder seems to have been committed on either side. For several hours, the struggle raged with fury. The bridge of the Sill was contested with great bravery by both sides; but at length the Bavarians gave way, and were to be seen flying in every direction. The Tyrolese only had fifty killed and a hundred and thirty-two wounded. The Bavarians estimated their own loss at five thousand; and seventeen hundred wounded fell into the hands of their victors. In a few days the enemy had quitted the country, committing every excess as they retreated. On the 15th of August, Hofer, having a third time delivered his country, made his triumphal entry into Innsbruck. His wife and children were in a balcony to watch his entry. The old streets echoed with the continuous tramp of thousands of feet, and the merry peals of church bells were drowned in the shouts. He looked grave, not elated, and directed his steps, as before, to the Imperial Church; where, just before he crossed the threshold, the multitude renewed their acclamations. He lifted up his hand and finger in admonitory action. "Hist! Now, prayer; not shouting.--One above--" These simple words were heard by all. After the service, he proceeded to the Imperial Palace, which thenceforth became his home while he remained in Innsbruck. Here, his family, terrified and elated, clustered round him. He embraced them with emotion, then quitted them and went out on the balcony, to address the crowd below. And thus, in simple phrase, he spoke-- "Now, God salute you all, my beloved Innsbruckers! Because you would have me, whether or no, your Obercommandant, so am I bound to you. But there are some here who are no Innsbruckers. All that will be my weapon-brothers, must be ready to fight for God, for our emperor, and our fatherland, like brave and honest Tyrolese. Those who will not do that, should rather go directly home. My real weapon-brothers will not forsake me; neither will I forsake you, so true as I am called Andreas Hofer. Now I have spoken to you--you have spoken to me: so God preserve you all." For the multitude, according to their wont, were so fond of hearing their own sweet voices, that even these few sentences had been frequently interrupted by-- "Save you, Hofer! Hurrah!--We're all true weapon-brothers. And those that are not shall be ducked in the Inn. Long live the Emperor. Hofer for ever. Hurrah!" The Sandwirth kept his family with him only forty-eight hours. He had a very great dread of the allurements of what, to him, appeared a very luxurious capital. So Anna and Theresa, having strayed about the city with the children, visited the Hoffkirche, the market, and the public walks, and enjoyed the female privilege of a little shopping, contentedly retraced their way home on mules; for there are none but mule-paths to the Passeyrthal. And now, certain barons, counts, and colonels in the Austrian service, who had seen a little of Hofer during the late campaign, amused themselves greatly by what they termed his "ridiculous" assumption in taking up his quarters in the imperial palace; and diverted one another with their imaginations of the banquettings and entertainments he would give. They quoted the proverb about setting a peasant on horseback, and made humorous allusions to Sancho in Barataria. The table-expenses, however, of this gluttonous man and winebibber, during his abode in the imperial palace, were just one florin a day. And if his elevation to a post of authority was as unexpected as Sancho's, his decisions in matters of justice and good order were as remarkable for plain sense. These, he made known to his loving countrymen by sundry homely proclamations, which were most exquisitely relished by the colonels, counts, and barons aforesaid, but taken in sober earnest by the people for whom they were intended. All these began with "Beloved country-folk," and "In the name of God, the Emperor, and the fatherland." One of them enforced a strict restitution of all unlawfully obtained property: another prohibited every species of plunder, and enjoined a better observance of the Sabbath: and directed that taverns and dancing-rooms should be closed on that holy day. Another dissuaded from music, except in moderation; another recommended women not to wear their dresses too low, too scanty, or of too thin materials, (in all which the fashionable classes flagrantly offended in 'the year nine,') lest the valiant mountainers should be led astray by their attractions. All which was delightful to the counts, colonels, and barons. But the first proclamation of all could afford no food for ridicule. It called upon all the inhabitants of the Tyrol to observe a day of general thanksgiving to Almighty God for blessing their cause and delivering their country. It need not be said that it met with universal and devout acceptance. Truly it seemed as if the day had been won. Hofer never affected the least departure from the form of government established in the country by Austria. No step was taken by him but in the name of the Emperor, which the people gladly obeyed. He levied taxes to enable him to carry on the war, issued a coinage of twenty-kreutzer pieces, divided the mountaineers into companies, and, as far as was in his power, carried the ancient system of government into effect. One day, about this time, Hofer was cogitating over a proclamation to the South Tyrolese, who were taking some little advantage of the absence of their commander, when one of his lieutenants suddenly entered, and said abruptly, "Sandwirth, here's Eisenstecken!" "I cannot see him," said Hofer, reddening; "he deserted us in our need." "But he says he _must_ see you--he's very sorry; and he has a special message from the Emperor; and--in fact, here he is!" In came Eisenstecken, looking still redder than Hofer; but he walked straight up to him, held out his hand, and said, "Don't bear malice, Sandwirth; I did wrong, I own it. I was faint-hearted, and threw up a good cause as lost--many's the regret it has cost me! But, come, I have been punished enough!" Hofer, after a few moments' pause, held out his hand to him, saying, "I believe you, my lad. Why, every success of ours must have been gall and wormwood to you! Speckbacher chose the better part." "He did, indeed, Obercommandant." "Pish, lad! call me Sandwirth." "Well, Sandwirth, I am an accredited agent from the Emperor, to express his sympathy with you, which he shows by sending a golden chain and medal to be publicly conferred on you, and which you are to wear for his sake." Hofer's face glowed with pleasure. To be thus remembered by his Emperor, and approved by him in the sight of all! It was not the medal that was so much to him, but what it typified. It was resolved to connect this expression of the Emperor's approbation with the celebration of a solemn fast, which was fixed for the 4th of October. On that day, the Abbot of Wilten performed high mass in the imperial church of the Holy Cross; the aisles resounded with strains of heart-rending music, the air was faint with incense; all the pomp and ceremonial of the Romish Church was invoked to add impression to the service; and at its conclusion, Hofer, kneeling before the tomb of Maximilian, surrounded by those armed bronze giants in dread array, received from the Abbot's hands the testimonial of his sovereign's favour amid the acclamations of his countrymen. Tears coursed his cheeks, as he breathed a secret prayer that he might never disgrace this badge of merit. Eisenstecken, whose heart had often burned within him of late, at sundry ridicules of Hofer among those who had failed to support him, now looked on him as a man who had won a difficult game, and respected and esteemed him accordingly. Of this he shortly gave a very noteworthy proof, by requesting a private interview with the Sandwirth, and asking his concurrence in a purpose he had much at heart. Hofer shook his head upon it when he learnt its nature, but he spoke with perfect kindness; and the event was, that Giuseppe was presently seen, extremely well dressed, riding out of Innsbruck on a little ambling pony. It was yet early, and the young man rode on to breakfast at Schönberg. He and his little pony had then five leagues of constant ascent up the Brenner. After this tough pull, which placed him about six thousand feet above the majority of mankind, he reached the margin of the Eisach, which he followed till he came to a romantic little town, overhung by a picturesque old castle. Here the pony was knocked up; so the young man, having refreshed himself by a good dinner, started for the Passeyrthal alone and on foot, by-paths that he now knew very well. The call to the cows was resounding through the valley, when he came in sight of _am Sand_ in the warm glow of the setting sun. He sprang upon a little knoll, to contemplate it more attentively; and, lo! just beneath him, on the grass, sat a young girl knitting, while beside her fed seven sheep and three goats. "Theresa!" cried he, half doubtfully. She looked up at him in surprise. The next moment he was beside her. "Oh, is it you?" and an innocent blush mantled on her cheek. "You bring news of my dear father?" "He is well; he sends his dear love to you all." "Come to the house--my mother will be so glad to see you! She will have a thousand questions to ask." "First,--are _you_ glad, Theresa, to see me?" "Certainly; very glad, indeed! Come in, by all means. I ought to have driven home the sheep and goats already, but thought I would finish off my knitting first." And, collecting her little flock, she alertly led the way to the house; while Eisenstecken could hardly make up his mind whether to detain her or not. "See," said he, offering her a flower, "here's a pretty little thing I gathered on the mountain." "Ah, don't touch it!" cried Theresa, shrinking from it in dismay. "It's the thunder-rose!" "Thunder-rose!--what's that?" "Whoever gathers it will be unlucky--whoever accepts it will be unlucky. Please, throw it away." "Certainly, I will," said Eisenstecken, looking discomfited, and flinging it as far from him as he could. "I hope it will not be verified in my case." "I hope not. Let us think of something else." He gladly changed the subject, and talked of what was doing in Innsbruck; feeling the moment an unpropitious one for saying what was hovering on his lips. Anna Hofer welcomed him kindly. There was another person present--a young, wounded soldier, sitting at the door, whom Giuseppe would fain have not seen there. It was Rudolf. Nothing that the house afforded was too good for the adjutant who brought glad tidings of the Sandwirth. Trout, roast chicken, pastry, were heaped upon his plate,--the best bed prepared for him, the best pillow-case and coverlet placed upon it,--all very hospitable and satisfactory; only--only there was that handsome young soldier, with his arm in a sling, receiving quieter but quite as flattering attentions as himself, and exchanging many a soft tone and softer glance with the smiling Theresa; all of which combined to make poor Giuseppe fume with jealousy, and kept him awake half the night. A few hours' dreamless sleep, however, restored him; he sprang up, full of ardour and self-confidence, and followed Theresa to the fountain. There he told her--what he had better not have told to any one--for she was sorry, but steadfast, and confessed to him her heart belonged to somebody else, and could not be reclaimed. The young man felt it very bitterly; he would not break bread in the house again, nor cross the threshold. He trudged back over the mountain, and when he saw a thunder-rose, he stamped upon it, saying, "Ah, you wretch! it was owing to you." At the inn where he had put up, he ate a pretty good breakfast, mounted his little ambling pony, and prepared to re-cross the Brenner, in a very bad humour. As luck would have it, he picked up a comrade on the road, whose cheerful talk beguiled the tedium of the ascent. They dined together, supped together, slept at Schönberg, and the next day Eisenstecken had recovered his spirits. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XVII. REVERSES. In the streets of London, about this time, might be seen two sunburnt Tyrolese, rather bewildered at the strange sights and sounds around them, accompanying an Englishman to Lord Sidmouth's office. Their names were Müller and Schonecher: their errand was soon told, in earnest, homely phrase. England was the home of the free. England was rich and sympathetic; the Tyrolese were fighting for liberty, but they were poor; they could not even muster enough money to buy gunpowder for their rifles. The present lull could not be expected to last long, for the enemy were already marching on South Tyrol. Would not generous England help them? Of course such a question as this roused the British soul; and the deputies were received as we are wont to receive the latest comers, with hospitality and distinction. They were feasted, they were praised, they were encouraged; but--nothing more was done for them. People sated their eyes with gazing at them, their ears with hearing them, and then--one man went to his farm, another to his merchandise; saying Government should take it up; and Government said it was dangerous, and thought it had better be done by private subscription. And so, nothing was done at the time; and when the grant of thirty thousand pounds was afterwards announced to them by Lord Sidmouth, it was too late--the war was ended. The war burst out afresh in October. General Peyri, at the head of six thousand men, advanced upon Trent, summoning the Tyrolese to lay down arms. Twelve hundred Tyrolese and Austrians met his advanced guard at Ampezzo, and were repulsed with great loss. A sharp action took place at Lavis, in which the French were victors, and many Tyrolese fell; but they rallied under Eisenstecken, who drove the enemy back to Trent, and re-occupied Lavis for some time. A dismal reverse awaited Speckbacher in the pass of Strub, where he was completely defeated, with the loss of three hundred brave men. His dear little boy, now just eleven, was hanging over him as he lay terribly wounded on the field, and trying to suppress the large tears that blinded him, while he made a kind of _turniquet_ for his father with his twisted handkerchief, when a French soldier came up, and laid his hand on the little fellow's shoulder. "Ah, cruel!" cried Speckbacher, half starting up on his elbow, and sinking back again as the blood welled from his wounds. "Spare my child!" "_Il faut étrangler les petits louveteaux_," replied the captor hoarsely; and unaware of the value of the wolf he was leaving behind him, while he dragged away its young. Speckbacher groaned, and closed his eyes. "Maria!" faintly murmured he--that name, so sacred to a Catholic, made him feel for his crucifix. He pressed it to his lips, but could not utter even "ora"--hollow sounds, like the humming of innumerable bees, rang in his ears; he became insensible. When consciousness was restored, he found himself in his own dear home, with Maria ministering to him. Directly she saw him recognise her, she began to shed tears; but, like a brave woman as she was, dashed them away. "Where's Anderl?" asked Speckbacher faintly. "I don't know, dear--hanging about somewhere, looking after you--he will soon find where you are, rely upon it." Speckbacher _could_ not; he knew more of his fate than she did, but said nothing. What a heavy day it was to him! He mourned for himself, he mourned for the men he had lost, he mourned for his country, and he mourned for his dear little boy, marching to a French prison. He could talk to his wife of all but the last, but she would not let him--he was weak from loss of blood, and she insisted on his silence, and on his hearing her talk to him. She told him that the Tyrolese, as soon as they saw him cut down, without being able to rescue him, retreated in disorder to the heights of Melek, from whence they afterwards fell back to Innsbruck, fighting as they went; that Rudolf had found him lying insensible, and borne him off the field, and that Father Joachim had bound up his wounds, and sent him home in a bändl (or low cart on two fore-wheels), well cushioned with trusses of straw, and in charge of two men. When Speckbacher saw her performing her various little domestic duties thoughtfully, yet cheerfully, and then remembered Anderl, his heart sank within him. Maria could not account for the nervous fever that consumed him. His wounds were well dressed, and she thought he ought to be doing better than he was. The next morning, after a dreamy, light-headed night, Speckbacher, in a half stupor, heard, or seemed to hear, a voice, a little way from the cottage, somewhere about the stables, say cheerily-- "Hallo! here I am!" "So I see," grumbled, or seemed to grumble, Zoppel, in return; "what account hast thou to give of thyself?" "I've been taken prisoner, and run away. Does any one know anything of father?" "Ay, surely; he's ill in bed, as bad as can be." "Oh, how glad I am that he's at home! I left him all in a bath of blood. Zoppel!" (in an eager, under-voice,) "has mother fretted much about me?" "How should she? She never wist harm had come nigh thee." "Heaven be praised! Father, then, did not tell her! then, I'll not, Zoppel. I'm so hungry." "Go in-doors, boy, bless thee, and get something to eat." "I think I must." And Speckbacher, whose hearing was quickened by fever, presently could distinguish the boy's stealthy footsteps in the adjoining room. Meanwhile, his wife, waking, and leaning over him to peer into his face, and see how he fared, perceived a bright smile on his lips, though his eyes were shut. "You're shamming," said she cheerfully; "what art smiling so about, Speckbacher?" "Thoughts of my own," said he, smiling still. "Come! tell me." "Look into the kitchen, Maria; I think Anderl has come back." "Ah, the young rogue, trust him for that!" She did not dress one bit the faster; and, when she entered the kitchen, greeted her boy just as usual. He sprang in to his father, gave him a bright, intelligent look, kissed him, and then laid his head beside him on the pillow. "Mother knows nothing," whispered he. "How capital of you, father! Are you getting better?" "Yes, dear boy: now you are come home, I shall get well very fast." He did get well very fast; and was soon up and doing, fighting with the enemy at Waldrung, where he nearly fell into their hands. The overwhelming force of France and Bavaria was dispersing the Tyrolese in every quarter. In the midst of this struggle, in which the mountaineers were so willingly pouring out their life-blood, Austria concluded a treaty of peace with France, and the Tyrol was made over to Bavaria! Conceive the feelings with which a revolted slave, escaped back to his native chieftain, would find himself consigned by him to the slave-dealer again! Conceive, moreover, that the native chief had, in the first instance, hired the slave to return to him, and had openly or secretly encouraged him all along! Eugène Beauharnois published a manifesto, promising the Tyrolese pardon and peace if they would immediately lay down their arms. In consequence of this, many hundreds of peasants, stunned at their fate, submitted at once, while those who still continued in arms were bereft of spirit and hope. Hofer, for a few days, was paralysed. He left Innsbruck, now nearly deserted by his men, and returned to the Passeyrthal, to consider what was to be done in this strait. As he approached _am Sand_ by the little winding road among meadows that nearly passes the church, he heard a loved voice on the other side of the hedge; and another, neither loved nor lovely, but of unpleasant quality, alternating with it. They were not close to him, but drawing nearer, and every word, through the clear air, was distinguishable. "I don't think so, father." "You will find it so, daughter. And if Hofer has any sense in his head, he will do as I say. It is decreed by Providence that the French shall be victorious; and if he opposes that decree, he will find himself knocking his head against a stone wall. He might even do this and welcome, if his own head only were concerned; but when his refusing to lay down arms, or to call on his countrymen to do so, compromises their safety, it is nothing short of selfish cruelty." "Can it be so?" thought Hofer, pressing his hand to his brow, in painful reflection, as the voices now retired from him. He sat down under the hedge to try to settle his mind; but he could not. While thus sadly engaged, his faithful dog flew up to him, and leaping gladly upon him, prevented him from further reflection; so he rose and walked towards _am Sand_. Just outside the house stood Theresa, and the companion he had heard talking with her, a priest,--of a very different sort from Father Joachim. This man, with whom Hofer had had some previous acquaintance, had a narrow brow, a cunning eye, and something subtle in his gait and voice. As for Theresa, it could be seen by a very slight motion of the back of her neck, that she was displeased with him, and would not assent to what he said. "Ah! here's father!" joyfully exclaimed she, as she turned round and saw Hofer. Running to embrace him, she hastily whispered into his ear, "Here is a tiresome, cunning French priest, who wants to unsettle us all." Hofer's reverence for the church made him give a respectful reception to Father Donay, who, while supper was preparing, drew him into the gallery running round the first floor of the house, and there talked to him long and earnestly. "Is the soup nearly ready, mother?" said Theresa impatiently. "Nearly, child." "Then I shall call them in, for it will be quite ready by the time they are seated, and I don't like that priest to talk to my father. He's a bad one!" "Hush, child!--" "He _is_, mother, I can tell you.--Father! supper's ready!--" Hofer came in, looking gloomy, and began unlacing his boots, saying his feet had swollen. Theresa drew off his boots, and tenderly chafed his ankles. There was a subdued, glittering light in the priest's stealthy eye. "Thou hast lost thy relish, may be, Anderl, for country bread and cheese," said Anna, smiling. "When I do, I hope the first mouthful of it will choke me," returned the Sandwirth, vehemently cutting up the loaf in huge slices. "Cincinnatus, returned to his plough," observed Father Donay ironically. "I don't know aught of Saint Senatus," remarked Anna, after a moment's thought; "is he in our calendar, father?" "No, my good woman,--no, daughter, no--A good Roman--" "That's to say a good Catholic, I suppose," said Anna: but the priest did not answer her--his mouth was full of soup. Hofer could not get on with his bread and cheese. He sank sorrowfully back in his chair, and covered his eyes with his hand. "Take courage, son," said Father Donay; "consider what a noble sacrifice thou art about to make--" "What sacrifice?" cried Anna hastily. "The sacrifice of his will, daughter; the hardest sacrifice man or woman can make." "Something more than that," groaned Hofer. "What's that?" cried Anna sharply. "Your will was always a good one--why should you give it up?" "For the good of all--Hist, dear; these are not women's affairs--" "No, no, better change the subject," said Father Donay.--"Tell me the meaning of those targets on the wall." "Boys' playthings, of old, father," said Hofer sadly. "Dangerous ones, too." During Father Donay's short stay at _am Sand_, he never ceased urging on his host the imperative duty, as a Christian patriot, of sacrificing his own views, interests, and safety to the safety of his countrymen; and even to place himself in the hands of General Drouet. Regulus could not have been more willing than Hofer was to devote himself for the common cause; and, with his judgment obscured by Jesuitical casuistry, he drew up a proclamation to his countrymen, advising them to lay down their arms, and consider their cause as lost. The proclamation was received with despair by Speckbacher; with disgust by a Tyrolese named Kolb. He, meeting the Sandwirth near Sterzing, whither he had accompanied Father Donay, and where the unfortunate proclamation had been penned, hotly remonstrated with him, and declared his conviction that the document which contained the intelligence of the peace was a forgery. Hofer was confounded, and hastened home to re-digest his thoughts; while Kolb proceeded industriously to spread the impression of the forgery among the other chiefs. Speckbacher and Rudolf were at _am Sand_, impatiently awaiting him. "My friend, what is this you have done?" said Speckbacher. "You have given boldness to the vile and base, and discouraged those who were ready to die for their country. It matters little whether we and our weapon-brothers live a few years longer, but it matters a good deal whether their descendants, generation after generation, shall be freemen or slaves. You say, 'We cannot maintain war against the invincible forces of Napoleon.' Who made them so, pray? In the majority of instances we have not found them invincible, as long as we had powder and bullets. 'Entirely abandoned by Austria,'--why, so we have been all the summer, but what success we have had! 'A power of a superior order guides the footsteps of Napoleon.' O Hofer, Hofer! that _you_ should write that! It smacks of Father Donay, certainly. 'It is the immutable decree of Divine Providence which decides victories and the condition of states.' Doubtless it is, in a large way of speaking; but Divine Providence takes into account the actions of men possessed of free will, which it foresees, but does not prevent. And as we have free will, if those wills are bent on freeing the land, under the blessing of God, from its enemies, doubtless it _will_ be freed!" "Speckbacher, you make my heart burn!" "_Let_ it burn, Anderl. Take up your pen and write something better--something that will rejoice us." "I hoped to do this from the first, but feared to bring the blood of my countrymen on my head--" "Your countrymen are ready to shed it,--not on _your_ head. Your cause is the cause of all." "You are sure I am justified." "Certain. Write!" Hofer sat down, flushing deeply; and wrote quickly. The next day the following proclamation was dispersed among the Tyrolese. Many wept over it; many rejoiced. "I felt inclined to lay down my arms, prevailed upon by men whom I considered friends to my country, but who, as I now have reason to suppose, are its enemies: I therefore call on you, brethren, to rejoin me. Were we to surrender to the enemy, we should soon see the youth of the Tyrol dragged away from their homes, our churches and convents destroyed, divine worship abolished, and ourselves overwhelmed with lasting misery. Fight, therefore, in defence of your native country; I shall fight with you and for you, as a father for his children." The Tyrolese rose to arms immediately, and the enemy was defeated with great loss. Generals Rusca and Baraguay d'Hilliers were despatched into the Pustherthal on the third of November, and on the following day were gallantly encountered by the Tyrolese, who were, however, driven back. Rusca eagerly pursued them to Mulbach Clause, where he met with most determined resistance; and, in his endeavour to penetrate into Hofer's own valley,--the Passeyrthal,--he was repulsed with the loss of two thousand men, in killed, wounded, and prisoners. This warfare raged throughout the month of November, with various success; but the conquest of the country became inevitable, though the peasantry might retain possession of particular passes and fastnesses. Early in December, the struggle was over. The peasantry were scattered; Father Joachim had escaped to the Grisons; Peter Mayer was shot; Speckbacher, who was the last to lay down arms, found himself deserted; Hofer had disappeared. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XVIII. DANGER. It has been snowing all night. The Passeyrthal is mantled in a garment of white; at first not thicker than the fleece of a young lamb, but now ankle-deep; and there is more snow above, ready to fall. A young girl, with drooping head and careworn mien, is issuing from _am Sand_ with her milk-pail, and making her way to the cow-house, while it is yet scarcely day-dawn. Suddenly she stumbled over a man, bending down to the ground, and so intently engaged in measuring a foot-print on the snow, as not to have been aware of her vicinity. Instantly her voice is raised in shrill indignation. "You pitiful priest! You mean, sneaking man! You may measure that foot-print as long as you will, for it was not made by father! You base, wicked Frenchman!--" "My pretty girl--" "Call me so again if you dare! Oh, you wretch! it isn't the first time you've tried the power of your sweet words with me! Caitiff priest! Some of these days your frock will be pulled off; aye, and your mask first! Oh, you wicked, wicked man!" Donay was actually petrified by her objurgations. He slunk away; but still, with an eye to his original purpose, in the track of the footsteps he had been measuring. Theresa, white with rage, was standing like a statue, watching his retreating form, when she found a strong arm thrown around her, and drawing her into the cow-house. Rudolf was shaking with suppressed laughter. "Theresa! let the old hound follow the false scent," said he. "What do you think I did? I found this fellow lurking about, overnight; so I got a pair of the Sandwirth's old laced boots, put them over my own, and trudged right away with them to the edge of a steep bank, where the snow has drifted to the depth of seven or eight feet! Then I crawled along to the top of the hedge, without minding scratches, shovelling the snow about, here and there, so as to leave no track by which I could be traced, and returned in my own boots. Into that pitfall he'll go! Ha, ha, ha!--And serve him right!" "Quite right," said Theresa, between laughing and crying; "but, you see, he has got the measure of father's foot." "But that won't hinder his being led astray. And I shall deceive them all, rogues as they are, over and over again, as you'll see, with this precious pair of old boots. Two parties of spies have been buried under avalanches already. And though they go peering and prowling about every dwelling and outhouse in the valley, asking their sly questions, 'Where's _Sandvird_? when was he last seen?' they always get the same stupid, indifferent-like answer, 'I don't know.'" Rudolf drawled this out in such ludicrous caricature, that Theresa could not help laughing heartily. "But it is too shocking to laugh about," said she, checking herself with a deep sigh. "Poor father!" "I am convinced he will escape them, Theresa. He is not a sanguine man; but when we parted, he said with such steadiness, 'I trust in God, in my faithful brothers, and in a certain nook in Passeyr,' that I believed him." "How did mother bear up?" "Oh, bravely. We travelled quite silently, for more reasons than one. Our voices might have been heard--they might have brought an avalanche down upon us from the Oetzberg--and our hearts were heavy. When we got to the châlet, however,--(it lies very high up, quite among the glaciers!) we found it situated in a kind of little kessel,[D] so as to be very unlikely to be discovered. A thicket of pines shelters it; there is a little pool or pond near the door; a stable below, a loft above, in which Johann and I slept--or rather, he whimpered himself to sleep, but I lay awake, thinking matters over." "No wonder!--Ah!--" (sighing.) "Well, I thought it was no good to stay there till it got too light, especially as it was snowing, which would prevent my retracing our track if I delayed, and effaced mine along with it if I were quick. The Sandwirth was serious, but quite calm and hearty. Your good mother offered me some breakfast, but I would not diminish their little store." "That reminds me, Rudolf! They will soon be in want of food!" "Soon, but not just yet. I think we may leave them alone another week." "Oh, only think if their stock should fall short! Cold, peril, and famine _too_!" "Well, then, at the end of this week, which will be in four days, I will start off with a fresh supply if I _can_." "If you _can_?" "Yes, Theresa; remember everything does not depend on me; the weather may be tempestuous, the search more vigorous and less easily baffled; but what man _can_ do, I _will_ do, rely upon it." Theresa rewarded him with a grateful look, and then began to milk the cow. He stood by her the while. "How everything has changed, Theresa!" "Changed _indeed_--" "_I_ am not changed." "Nor I." "The winter, with its snows and its ice-blasts, is not more different from the summer, with its ripe fruits and sunshine, than the prospects of the Tyrolese now are, from what they were a few months, even weeks, ago!" "No. Still I am glad we tried to free ourselves, though it did not please God to give us success. We can feel self-respect. Even our enemies must, I think, reluctantly respect us." "Not they! Mark you, Theresa: I believe that when people lose self-respect, they also lose by degrees even the perception of what is respectable. Sometimes, o' nights, such big, swelling thoughts fill my head,--I think, 'Surely, what we have done, this Anno Domini Nine, will _live_? people will talk of it hereafter, when we have long been dead and buried?' And then I think, 'Ah, no! See how the emperor,--"our Franzel," as we used fondly to call him, who was most of all beholden to us, and who put us up to what we did,--'see how he has fallen off from us, like a snow-drift from the hill-side, that the river in the ravine below sweeps away for ever! See how it's the fashion already--how it was the fashion, even while we were winning glorious victories--for the Austrian counts and barons to look down on us, with a contemptuous pity, as a set of honest-hearted loggerheads!'--I say, you sir!" shouted Rudolf, interrupting himself, as he caught the twinkle of an eye gazing in upon them through a chink between the logs; and rushing out, he collared the spy, and gave him a good shake. "Why, how now?" cried the intruder, who proved to be Franz. "What's this for?--what have I been a doing?" "Spying and prying," said Rudolf, bluntly. "Spying and prying?" quoth he. "Why, what have I come this long way all across the snow for, but to ask after the Sandwirth, and to offer Theresa a root of the gems-wurz, which, if he eats before sunrise, will make him bullet-proof? There now!" And Franz drew himself up like a man aggrieved. "Thanks," said Theresa, carrying her milk-pail towards the dairy; "but how am I to get it to him?" "Oh, _you_ know where he is!" said Franz, insinuatingly. "No, I don't," said Theresa, who therein, as far as her personal acquaintance with the locality was concerned, spoke the truth. "Will you like me to look for him, then?" said Franz, slily. "No, I should not," answered Theresa, very quickly; adding, "I don't want you to meddle at all in our affairs." "Well, certainly, one has not much encouragement to do so, except for good-will," said Franz, following her into the house, and putting his cold hands on the stove to warm them; "they're likely to do what I am doing now--burn their fingers." Rudolf's mother, who had come to be a companion to Theresa in her parents' absence, now poured out the porridge, and summoned the family to breakfast. Theresa said to Franz, "You'll join us, I suppose?" to which reluctant half-invitation, he replied by drawing a stool to the table, and taking his share with the rest. He pricked up his ears to catch any allusion to the Sandwirth, but none was made. A cloud had settled heavily on them all; but they had already learnt the needful lesson of silence. Franz, after lounging about in his usual way, left _am Sand_, announcing his intention of going to Meran. Before he had proceeded far, however, some one said "Hist!" and he looked round and saw Donay. "Well?" said the priest, coming up to him, and walking with him. "Well," said Franz, "I've been there, and breakfasted there, but to no good. Theresa wouldn't drop a word that one could lay hold of." "Ah, there are other things besides words that sharp people can lay hold of," said Father Donay. "For example, I have laid hold of something that certifies to me the Sandwirth has been to his house and from it, within these twelve hours." "Aye? And yet, father, we've watched that house as a cat watches a mouse!" "Pooh, pooh!" "What's your proof?" "His footprints, my son. One day, at Innsbruck, when your famous Hofer was lodging in the imperial palace, he kept me waiting some time. I left without seeing him; but, before I did so, happening to observe a pair of his clumsy boots lying on the parqueté floor, which they graced as well as _he_ graced the palace, I soiled my hands so far as to take their length and breadth." "That was far-sighted of you, father!" said Franz, with a kind of sympathetic admiration. "Well, I did not know at the time all that might come of it--I merely amused myself by showing the clumsy proportions to one or two in the camp; but there must have been something pre-ordained--I was but an instrument," said this pious priest. "On coming to _am Sand_ this morning, to look about a little, what should I see but numerous footprints in the new-fallen snow, different from those of any who are supposed to be sleeping in the house, namely, women and children. I dropped on my knees, and--_measured them_! they were Hofer's! I afterwards tracked them across the pastures, full half a mile, till--plump!--into the snow I sank till it was above my head!" Franz burst out laughing, and suddenly stopped short, as he saw Father Donay turn red with wrath. "You are rude to laugh," said the priest, with displeasure. "I nearly lost my life, I can tell you! When I floundered out, I found so many foot-tracks that I got confused, and could make none of them out to be Hofer's; yet, whoever it was who had walked up to that spot, must have turned back or gone on, unless, indeed, they could have been smothered in the snow." "Which he may have been, in the darkness of night," cried Franz. "Well, I think not; he might have floundered about as I did," said Father Donay. "Life is equally dear to us all, I suppose.--So, now I leave it to you to find where he is, whether there or anywhere else; and, when you do, you know your reward." "Well, I can't say I like this job," cried Franz, after a pause. "Do you know, father, in a miracle-play, I once played Judas--" "Well, you've only got to play Judas again," said the priest, with a sinister smile. "What, and _hang_ myself?" cried Franz, hoarsely. "Why, father, what is it you are asking me?" "You fool!" cried Father Donay, in a rage, "the cases are not parallel: your allusion is blasphemous. Let me hear no more of it, I pray." Franz walked on, silent and astounded, doubting which of them were the wickeder man. "The Sandwirth," resumed he, at length, with a choke in his voice, "has never done me a wrong--on the contrary, nothing but good. It is only Theresa--" "Ah, if you can put up with that girl's scorn, you can put up with anything," said Father Donay contemptuously. "I _can't_ put up with it, and won't!" cried Franz; "but it's making her pay pretty dearly, too, if her father gets shot." "Don't be such a dolt as to suppose it," said Father Donay pacifyingly; "the worst he and she will get is a good fright. He will be tried by court-martial; probably acquitted, or reprimanded, or sentenced to a short imprisonment, from which, at Austria's intercession, he will be released." "If I were sure of that--" said Franz, hesitating. "Why, don't you know I speak with authority? You know my credentials pretty well," said Father Donay. "I have all but told you who empowers me--" "And you have promised me absolution, if any unforeseen evil comes of it--" said Franz, still uneasily. "How should I do otherwise, my son? I will promise it twenty times, if that will make it any stronger." "No, no--of course it will not. Well, then, I'll think about it, father: and--" "And, if somebody else should do it while you are only thinking about it, he'll get the reward instead of you." "That won't suit me at all!" cried Franz. "Why, if I make up my mind to do an ill turn, I may as well do it as not; the sin--that is, the--whatever it is, will be the same--" "The intention, but not the reward," said Father Donay. "Heaven notes our intentions; man only notes works." "I wish I were fairly out of _this_ work," exclaimed Franz. "If Theresa, now, were to come across me at this moment, she might overcome me with a straw!" "Truly, I believe you!" said Father Donay, with ineffable scorn; "and men of straw, or men knocked down by straws, are not the men _we pay_." "Ah!" cried Franz, grinding his teeth, "if you were not a priest, I should think some evil spirit was within you." "And I, without any if," coolly replied Donay, "think an evil spirit _is_ within you--the spirit of irresolution. Come! no more of this child's play. Are you going to throw away a cup of good milk because there's a cow-hair in it?" "Not I," cried Franz recklessly. "Nothing venture, nothing have. Give me a fortnight, and I'll hunt him up. When I was keeping the herds up the mountains this summer, I made myself pretty well acquainted with all the nooks and corners of 'em; and I guess the man we are after to be in a certain châlet in a certain spot that I chanced upon one day, when I was seeking for cream o' the moon." "Cream o' the moon, indeed!" repeated Father Donay, ironically. "Well--if you find him, and enable us to find him, that will be better than moonshine." "But, father! if I find him, and point out to you the place where he is, you may find him yourselves. I wash my hands of taking him." "Wash your hands by all means. We'll take him." "Very well--that's to be all, then?" "All, and enough." "Just so. Good bye then, father--here we are at St. Martin--" "_Benedicite_, my son." The place of Hofer's concealment, a picturesque little cow-house--nothing better--was about twelve miles from his home, among the glaciers of the Oetzthal, near the Timbler Joch, and in a position that, for many months of every year, the snow made quite inaccessible. The winter of the Year Nine, however, was comparatively mild; and the châlet might be reached with considerable fatigue, difficulty, and danger. At the door of this cow-house, then, stood the man who--we will not say had strutted his little hour on life's stage, for Hofer had never endeavoured to ape a grandeur that he had not; he was a plain, simple, upright man from first to last. He had attained a great, though brief power, and had not abused it: he had fallen from it, but not into despair. In the profound loneliness and inaction of his present life, after so stirring a campaign, there might have been a chance of his mind preying on itself, had it not been for the constant sense of danger. His heart did not indeed prey on itself, but feed on itself it did. He mused much on his late career, and on the anxious question, had he been wasteful of human life or not? At this moment, he was reading, for the twentieth time, a letter which had found its way to him even in this secluded spot--it was from the emperor himself--the beloved Franzel! strenuously urging him to leave his desolate retreat and take refuge in Vienna, and pledging his imperial word for his safety. Yes, this plain, homely man had thus been sued by his sovereign, and had refused. He would not forsake his family or his country. His faithful wife had accompanied him, as in love and duty bound, feeling her home to be under whatever roof sheltered the head of her husband. She had her distaff and knitting; and as they sat among the trusses of hay chattering of this and that, many a simple wile did the good woman successfully use to lure her Anderl's thoughts from anxious themes. Now, it was to explain some family genealogy, some intermarriage she professed nearly to have forgotten--then, when he had wondered how she could be so forgetful, she would branch off into correlative domestic histories, harmless jests, recollections of wedding-feasts, baptisms, and burials; then, broach some knotty point, or ask him to recall some old legend or fairy-tale, or local superstition. Hofer had brought Johann with him partly out of fondness, and to amuse Anna, partly lest he should be seized as hostage; and partly because he knew the little fellow to be without reticence, and as likely to betray him from heedlessness as an enemy might be from mischief. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XIX. WINTER ON THE MOUNTAINS. On the 22d of January, about two hours before dark, Theresa and Rudolf's mother were busily packing a basket with as much as it would hold. "When they started, there were four of them," observed Theresa, "and they carried four times as much as can be carried by one; therefore their provisions would last four times as long as they will now, so we must send them the oftener. Meanwhile, they shall have as much as Rudolf can carry. Here's room for a bit of soap: and here's a corner into which I can squeeze a cake for Johann. The brandy--the oil--the bacon--the loaves--the dried chamois,--do you think you can carry anything more, Rudolf?" Rudolf lifted the burthen, and pronounced it "no weight at all." "However," added he, "there's some difference in a burthen on a level floor like this, and dragging one down the side of a mountain too steep to scale, except in _crampons_; so I think it will do." "Just this one cheese more, Rudolf." "Very well. I think that will do." "Is it not rather too early to start yet?" "It would be safer, in some respects, to wait longer; but, considering the distance, and other things, I might fail of reaching the châlet if I put it off later." "Yes, yes. Oh, Rudolf! believe me, I know full well the great dangers you are encountering for my poor parents--" "Don't name it, Theresa. Even if you were no ways related to them, think you I would not do it for the sake of Hofer?" "Surely, surely!" cried his mother. "My boy speaks well; but yet, Theresa, I think it were better to go twice, than go overburthened and meet some evil by the way." "Rudolf," said Theresa, "you will laugh at what I have prepared for you; but see! here is a loose white garment, with a hood, to cover you quite up, which, if you put on when you reach the mountains, will enable you to cross the snow undiscerned." "Excellent!" said Rudolf, arraying himself in it, to make sure how it looked. "I shall certainly find it useful." Theresa rolled it up into as small a compass as possible. "And here are a few lumps of sugar, Rudolf: put one in your mouth when you reach the glaciers--" "You make too much of me," said he, tenderly. "And now," said his mother, "let us kneel down and pray." With an atmosphere of sanctity about him, and a heart full of good purposes, the young man cheerily started on his perilous mission. It was yet light; but as long as he kept among villages and cottages, there was nothing in a man's trudging along, openly carrying a basket. Once or twice, when he fancied a suspicious eye rested upon it, he cried gaily, "I hope you expect as good a dinner to-morrow as I do!" and began whistling. At length, after a walk of about six miles, he found himself rising above the haunts of men, though not beyond their observation. He now enveloped himself in the white garment, which covered his burthen as well as himself, put a lump of sugar in his mouth, and pursued his way over the frozen snow; looking like a snow-wreath himself. Suddenly he perceived footprints in various directions. "Some one has been here lately," thought he: "this outer crust has not long been crushed. Yet who, without a purpose, would be here but the wolf or bear?" Turning the angle of a rock, he ran against a man, who uttered a shriek, and sprang backwards, throwing out his hands, and exclaiming-- "Avaunt, spirit of the mountain!" Rudolf, instantly perceiving that his extraordinary costume had made him mistaken for something supernatural, would have seized his advantage by rushing past with a flourish of his arms, and a wild, terrific cry; but unfortunately his white drapery fell off. "Why, it's Rudolf!" exclaimed Franz, relieved. "Franz!" cried Rudolf, in alarm and displeasure. "What are you about here?" "What are _you_ about, you mean?" retorted Franz. "One question's as good as another. To whom are you carrying that basket?" "That's no matter of yours!" "I _know_. You can have but one object, and that's to go to the Sandwirth." "Look ye, Franz," said Rudolf, boiling over with rage, and setting down his burthen: "this won't do to go any further. Who are you, to interfere with my objects, whatsoever they may be? We'll have it out on this spot. I've got on my wrestling-ring;" exhibiting a very thick silver ring on the little finger of his right hand; "and, if you choose to persist in this matter, we'll try a fall together, and I'll pitch you afterwards into the bottomless lake." As Rudolf suited the action to the word, by flourishing his fists and bounding towards him, Franz stepped aside in affright. He knew that the loss of an eye, an ear, or a nose, often resulted from these national combats; and his fear of Rudolf's prowess was such, that nothing short of death, to his belief, would ensue to him if he accepted the challenge. As for the bottomless lake,--which was a sullen piece of water in a neighbouring basin, reported to be fed by no springs and have no outlet for its waters; to be uninfluenced by the winds, and, when affronted by having anything cast into it, to blow up little tempests and thunder-storms of its own,--Franz had a profound horror of it, and was at this moment very unwillingly detained in its vicinity. Therefore, succumbing before Rudolf at once, he querulously cried-- "Saints alive, man! what are you dreaming of? Who wants to be pitched into the bottomless lake? Not I, for one, I can tell you, this cold weather; and as for wrestling, I hope there are better ways of warming one's self than that. I don't care where you're going, not I,--rather you than me, on a January night! You take your course, and leave me alone to take mine; the mountain's free to us both, I suppose." Saying which, he walked off very fast. Rudolf was terribly vexed. He was pretty sure that Franz was hunting for the Sandwirth, and on the right track, and would probably return and ferret it out. After a few minutes' painful thought, he resolved not to be instrumental to it, if he could help it; and therefore went considerably out of his way, in order that his footprints might lead Franz astray, if he endeavoured to follow the trail. The worst of it was, that Rudolf thus lost not only time, but his way also. A good deal of snow had fallen since his former expedition, and altered the aspect of the ground, making that appear solid which was unsubstantial, and creating mounds and hillocks out of snowdrifts. Besides, it was growing dusk, and the worst part of his journey lay before him. He thought he recognised a rock, which he might reach by cutting across what looked like an inclined plane. All at once, he felt the snow give way beneath him--he sank with great swiftness into an abyss of great depth, and profoundly dark. He was not hurt--merely shaken by his fall; but his perturbation was extreme, and his first thought, be it said to his praise, was not of himself, but of Hofer. He would be starved to death! Who would ever know, till too late, that Rudolf had never reached him? The extremity roused him. He began to grope about with his hands, but could feel nothing but rough stones, and, here and there, what felt and smelt like bones. Moving a little onward, he perceived a small speck of white afar off, which, it struck him, was daylight. His eyes, now getting accustomed to the intense darkness, could discern even the faint twilight which, through some fissure, thus attracted him. He cautiously advanced, found his prison resolve itself into some sort of deep cavern; and, advancing to its mouth, saw it guarded by two huge bears! They were looking forth from the cave, without moving, which gave him time to decide on his course before they saw or scented him. Hastily enveloping himself anew in the white garment, and securing his precious basket to him by his red sash, he took a large stone in each hand, and, uttering a fearful yell, rushed from his retreat, extending his white drapery high above his head. The bears, who certainly had never beheld such an apparition before, moved off in seeming trepidation; and soon, mending their pace into a clumsy trot, retreated into a neighbouring ravine.[E] Rudolf, right glad to have dispersed his foes, wandered on amid enormous masses of variously tinted glaciers,--some deep blue, others sea-green, others dirty yellow,--resounding with the hollow roar of unseen waters; and here and there he encountered the dead bodies of stags, and other animals, not in a state of decomposition, but preserved by the cold in a shrivelled condition, like mummies. Presently the path became a mere shelf, and, turning abruptly, disclosed a wide reach of valley at a tremendous depth beneath. An Englishman's head might have spun, but Rudolf began to scramble upwards by what might be called some giant steps; and as these occasioned him one or two ugly slips, he coolly took off his boots, cut his feet with a flint, and let the blood flow from them, that its stickiness might enable his feet to adhere to the rock with more tenacity. He was presently stopped by a broad and deep ridge of snow, which he found, on sounding, was likely to prove as infirm as that which had deposited him in the bears' cavern. But the trickling of water beneath the ice had made a crevice between the rock and the snow-bank; and along this Rudolf squeezed himself sideways, till he emerged at the foot of a glacier, dirty yellow without, but blue as lapis lazuli within. He painfully climbed another ridge by a zigzag course, and on through a wild glen of dripping, dreary rocks; while the fitful wintry blasts, sounding like the flappings of mighty wings among the crags, alone broke the awful silence. Night was closing round him; he took many false steps, and repeatedly sank in snow to his waist. He was beginning to feel something like despair, when, lo! in a little rocky cup just below him, there lay the châlet of Hofer! He could not resist giving a glad hurra and a cheerful whistle, pretty sure that only the right people would hear him. The next minute, he was at the door, giving the concerted signal; and it was instantly opened by Hofer, with his wife peering anxiously over his shoulder, and Johann pressing closely to her side. "Rudolf, my dear lad!" cried Hofer, embracing him. Anna embraced him too; and Johann, seeing the basket of provisions, began to cry with joy. "Fie, Johann!" said his mother, cheerfully; "we are going to have a merry feasting, after all! Only think, Rudolf, this silly child thought we were going to starve!" "A likely thing we would let you!" cried Rudolf. "Why, I'd eat my own fingers first. Come and see what a heap of good things there are in this basket Johann! Here are some sausages, to begin with; and a seasoned pie; and cheese--oh, what a cheese!" "That's famous!" said Johann, hungrily; while his mother sought to appease him by immediately giving him something to eat. A miserable little oil-lamp twinkled in the corner of the stable; there was a cattle-trough, plenty of hay and straw,--nothing more. "And how goes it with you, Sandwirth?" said Rudolf, seizing his hand, as soon as he had secured the door. "As well as may be, boy. A little down, of course, now and then, with so much leisure for thinking of the troubles I helped to bring on our poor country." "Never think that, I pray you, Sandwirth! You tried to bring us out of them--and _did_. It was only that we were deserted by our natural liege-protectors." "Well, lad, don't speak against the powers that be. If God had meant us to prosper, we should have done so. His ways are hidden; but they're always good. And our Franzel has written me a noble letter--" "The Emperor!--_has_ he?" cried Rudolf. "Aye, that he has," said Anna, leaving the basket to fetch the lamp; "do show it to him, Anderl." "Why, how on earth did it reach you?" "Eisenstecken knew this place," said Hofer. "He's at Vienna now, and he sent the letter here by a trusty hand--one who knew the mountains." As he spoke, he drew the letter from his bosom, and placed it in Rudolf's hand. "Amazing!" said Rudolf, eagerly running through it, while Anna held the lamp to enable him to read. "Why, what prevents your accepting it?" "What should make me accept it?" returned Hofer. "What should such an one as I do at Vienna? No, no!--where the tree was planted, there let it fall. My country has been much to me, and I've no mind to desert my country." "Your countrymen burn to secure your safety. Dear Sandwirth, reconsider this!" "My sole thought," said Hofer, calmly laying his hand on the young man's shoulder, "is how to make a good end." Rudolf looked wistfully at him. He thought he seemed worn and wasted by anxiety and abstinence, and his heart ached for him. "Come," said he, gaily, "let us have some supper before we talk any more of these matters. I'm hungry enough, I can tell you; and I have plenty of news of one sort and another." "First about the dear children," said Anna, eagerly. "Theresa--" "Theresa is an angel," said Rudolf, hastily. "My mother says she never knew any one to come up to her--so thoughtful, and yet so tender." "Aye, that's just Theresa," said Hofer; "and a good daughter, Rudolf, will make a good wife, I fancy." "Sandwirth! you won't go from your word?" "A likely thing I should," said Hofer, heartily. "Come, let's drink to her," said Rudolf, anxious to get Hofer to take some of the sustenance he so much needed. A couple of horn cups were filled with brandy tempered with water, and handed round. Cold as the weather was, there was no fire; but they kept themselves warmly stowed among the trusses of hay. In a little while, they grew quite genial. Anna plunged the only knife into the savoury pie, and dispensed its contents. Rudolf told all the news and gossip he could think of, which was listened to with avidity by Anna, and rewarded by many a short laugh from the Sandwirth. Johann lay along on the straw, eating as if he never would be satiated, hearing all, and saying nothing,--quite content with the present moment, especially when, in honour of old customs, Rudolf sang a ballad, and the Sandwirth told a fairy-tale. The story was this:-- "A young man, who had a fine cherry-tree, laden with fruit, in his garden, had the fruit stolen year after year by the fairies. Not guessing who were the thieves, and anxious to detect the culprits, he one year strewed the ground all round about the cherry-tree with fine ashes, that he might see the pillagers' footprints. Now, the 'little folk,' though a beautiful race, have ugly little webbed feet, of which they are much ashamed; for which reason they wear very long garments. Well, the next morning, the young man got up, and went out to examine the cherry-tree, which he could see at a glance had been stripped during the night. On examining the ashes, he found them covered with the impressions of little webbed feet, as if a flock of geese had crossed them. He guessed the fairies to be the thieves; and they were so angry with him for detecting them, that, though they robbed his garden no more, his cherry-tree never bore fruit again." Hour after hour, they continued talking; till Johann, unable to keep his eyes open any longer, crawled up to his straw-bed in the loft, which Rudolf was to share with him. Rudolf, now that his friend was strengthened and refreshed, referred to the Emperor's letter, and earnestly pleaded with him that the offer of protection should be accepted. He dwelt on the state of Europe,--as far as anything was known of it in the Tyrol,--on the little probability there was that any good would result from continuing to hold out, or from awaiting another rising. "The spring will come, and find you just where you are," continued he, "unless some degrees worse off. You will have no resource but to accept the Emperor's offer; for every old ruin of a castle in the Tyrol will continue to be garrisoned with French and Bavarian soldiers, who will have so little to do, that their commanders will pursue the search after you, by way of keeping them out of idleness. So, why not give in at once, when you may slip out of the country more safety than when the mountain passes can be again used by other than mountaineers? Your country, your religion demand that you should not throw away a life that may yet be eminently useful; and common sense shows that the most prudent care to take of it will be to quit the Tyrol." "Ah, yes, listen to him, Anderl!" said Anna, earnestly; and the two argued and persuaded, till at length Hofer gave way, and consented to write to the Emperor, accepting the protection he had so lately declined, and asking for an escort. Rudolf undertook to speed this missive to Vienna; and after some further talk, which carried them far into the night, he repaired to the loft, where he soon lay in dreamless sleep. The following morning, after another domestic council, and innumerable kind messages and promises exchanged, he, with hearty farewells, sped on his homeward route before it was yet light. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XX. THE CHÂLET. A few hours after Rudolf had gone, Hofer was standing at the door of his hut, when he thought he saw a dark object stealthily moving among the firs. At first he took it for some animal of prey, but his next impression was that it was a human creature on all fours; and, as he had certainly been himself seen, he thought he lost nothing by rushing out on the intruder. A man, creeping along under an ox-hide, started up, and proved to be Franz. "What do you here?" cried Hofer. "Why, Sandwirth, can that be you?" said Franz, in seeming astonishment. "Why, how you surprise me! How are you?--How altered you are, to be sure!" "Very likely, Franz; but the question is, what brought you here to seek me?" "Nothing brought me--how should I guess where you were?" returned Franz, hardily. "I came to look for a strayed calf." "Well--I've sought for a strayed calf too, in my time, but never up this high in deep winter, nor yet on all fours with an ox-hide over me. Franz!--now, don't tamper with an old friend. I've oft had dealings with you, and I've done you many a kindness. You know, my lad, I'm in jeopardy, and you know that if you say where I am, you will get me into trouble--" "What matter is it of mine?" grumbled Franz. "What good would it do me?" "As to the _real_ good it would do you, I think you would get none; but as to a handful of zwanzigers, I dare say they would give you so much, for the price of your old friend's blood." "Don't talk in that way, Sandwirth," said Franz, whiningly. "Poor as I am,--and I'm very poor,--I hope I'm not so bad as you think me." "Well, Franz, as to poor, you have made a good deal of money in your time; and it has always been your way to be with full pockets one day and empty ones the next--" "But they're _always_ empty now, Sandwirth, for I can't do a stroke of business, and my mother's dead, and my sister's married to Karl Hoven, and Karl won't speak to me; so that I'm really what one may call _in want_." "Well, boy, well--the case is hard, I grant ye: but bad as it is, you'll make it worse if you take to evil courses. Go to Nicolas Wagner at Botzen--tell him that the last time you saw me, I bade you go to him and say I hoped he would give you some employment. And be mum--do you observe?--as to when that was. Stay, here are a couple of dollars--it's but little I have myself, and I shall perhaps need them shortly, as much as yourself; but you shall have them. Now, go; and forget where or when you have seen me; and according as you are faithful to your old comrade, may your worldly affairs prosper." Franz looked sheepish, made a movement of his hand towards Hofer's, drew it back, and crept off. Even his gait was that of a caitiff. "How altered the Sandwirth is!" mused he--"his hair, that was raven black, is now half grey; his beard looks as if it hadn't been trimmed for a month. His face is full of lines and furrows, and he is very thin. Why, he isn't half the bulk he was!--very likely, knows pretty well what it is to want victuals. Well, so do I; and when a man wants victuals, it makes him ready to do things that he wouldn't think of doing when full fed. Why now, these two dollars will keep me four days, I'll say--they won't keep me longer, because, this cold weather, I must drink as well as eat. At the end of that time, I must starve, unless through Father Donay; for, as to Nicolas Wagner of Botzen,--no, I thank ye! I'm as good a fellow as he; I won't work under him! Still, I can't be too hard upon the Sandwirth--I'll give him a fair start. He dropped that perhaps he should soon be as much in want of dollars as myself. Now, as he can't spend them on the mountain-top, that must intimate that he means soon to leave it--very likely, now that he has taken alarm at me, he'll steal off this very night. All the better for us both, if he does. Because all I engaged for, to Father Donay, was to find out where he was. I've done that, and I can lead to the spot; but if, when they reach it, the steed is gone and the stable empty,--why, that won't be _my_ fault, I say. Besides, they may soon make out his track and follow it; but meanwhile, my part in the business will be done. Well, but I won't do it while the Sandwirth's money is keeping me in bread. No, no; I'll give him his chance while it lasts, and I'll make it last four days--that will be hon ... hum!--I won't go a-near Father Donay the while, or I shouldn't make it last so long, and he'd get the secret out of me too soon--No, no." At this instant, Franz--who, while his mind was thus pre-occupied, had unwittingly followed the path by which Rudolf had gone to the châlet instead of that by which he had returned from it--suddenly came upon the two bears, who instantly pursued him; and in his hurry and affright, he was precipitated down a steep acclivity, down which he pitched over and over, till he found himself several hundred feet below his shaggy enemies, bruised and breathless, but not seriously hurt. The search which was being made for Speckbacher, all this time, was quite as vigorous as for Hofer. Minute descriptions of his person and dress were published, large rewards offered for his apprehension; and every nook and corner eagerly searched for him by cruel and greedy enemies. Speckbacher, on separating from his comrades, had first concealed himself in the little mountain hamlet of Dux; but his retreat being discovered, he was obliged to retire from the haunts of man, and was hunted from place to place, till at length he found refuge in heights hitherto deemed inaccessible save to the eagle and vulture. Here he underwent incredible sufferings from cold, hunger, and fatigue; but his indomitable nature made him prefer it to submission to the enemy. When Hofer returned to his châlet after the encounter with Franz, his wife observed, "I really do think, Anderl, it is now time you should cut off your beard. It makes you unlike everybody else; and, therefore, easily recognisable at a distance; whereas, should a spy to whom you were personally unknown, find his way up here, you, without your beard, might easily persuade him you were somebody else." "No, that would be the hardest thing in the world to me," said Hofer. "He might deceive himself about me; but I could not deceive him. Whenever a man has put to me the question, 'Are you Hofer?' I have never yet said 'No;' and I cannot begin now." Anna was going to remonstrate; but he smiled rather sadly at her and said-- "It would be to little good, dear--we are already discovered by Franz." Here Johann burst into a loud fit of crying, and flung himself on the straw; while Anna stood speechless. "We had better go somewhere else, then," said she, after a moment. "Where? We dare not descend into the valleys; and if we stray about the mountains, Rudolf will not know where to find us, and we shall perish with hunger. Patience, dear wife! Rudolf may come again in a few days, and we can then concert fresh measures with him; or the emperor's safeguard may arrive in the meantime, and we can then avail ourselves of it." "Ah, I hope we shall!" "No doubt of it. Cheer up, Johann! Perhaps you will be staring at the pretty things in the shop-windows of Vienna in another fortnight. Come here, and see me carve this horn, and I'll tell you a story about what I used to do when I was a little boy." While Hofer amused this wayward little son with one story after another, rewarded therein by beguiling himself of his own heavy thoughts, Anna stood musing, with her eyes wistfully fixed on her husband's rifle. "It has brought down many a man in battle," thought she; "and why not now, if spies come lurking about him to make a prey of him? He would not do it, I know; but, I declare, if I espy any one prowling about that has no business here, I'll see if I can't manage to hit him myself!" Just four evenings after his previous visit, Rudolf reappeared. He did not think their provisions could fall short yet; but he was anxious about Franz, and he thought Hofer and his wife wanted cheering up, and would be glad to know the message to the emperor was already on its way; so he started with a fresh-filled basket. This time he met with no interruptions, and had a prosperous journey; he had also the comfort of finding his friends cheerful and hopeful. They talked about his marriage with Theresa in the spring; the household goods they would start with and those which they must provide; and many a sage maxim of thrifty housewifery did Anna repeat and Hofer laugh at, and Rudolf promise to bear faithfully in mind. The evening, as usual, concluded with prayer. Hofer was now in the habit of praying extempore and with great fervour, after the usual offices of the church; and Anna was wont to go over her beads very devoutly, after which they all joined in singing several simple hymns of a great many verses, and then lay down for the night. Rudolf, as usual, slept with Johann in the loft. He was tired with his journey, and the evening had altogether been more satisfactory than he expected; yet, somehow, he could not settle to sleep. The conversation respecting his marriage had been too interesting and exciting to enable him to compose himself; add to which, he had a vague fear of some evil impending over the Sandwirth, for which he seemed to have no need. When he slept by snatches, it was to dream painfully: of Theresa being borne from him by Franz over crackling ice, beneath which they both disappeared--of bears growling over her remains--of the emperor's escort coming too late--of Hofer's hut being attacked at dead of night--of the air ringing with the sharp reports of rifles--of his throwing himself between Hofer and Franz. Rudolf awoke with a start; and smiled to hear Johann talking in his sleep and saying, "Some more soup, mother." Then he lay wakeful, but still, till day began to break, when his quick ear became aware of the measured tread of many men over the snow. Springing to his feet, he shouted to Hofer below,--"The enemy are on us!" and leapt from the loft-window to the ground, followed by the dizzy Johann, when both were immediately seized and bound. The châlet was encircled by sixteen hundred French soldiers, come to capture one unfortunate man. The next instant, the châlet-door was opened from within; and there stood the mild Hofer, in his red waistcoat and green jacket, with the medal round his neck; his dark eye calmly looking around. His was the first voice that broke the thrilling silence. "Speaks any one among you German?" The commandant, Captain Renouard, here stepped forward, accompanied by a gendarme, and said, hurriedly-- "Are you Andreas Hofer?" "I am." The clear voice rang through the air. Turning to his wife, Johann, and Rudolf, he said,--"These have offended in nothing; let them not be bound." Then, addressing those whom he loved so deeply, he said-- "Pray, and be steadfast. Suffer with patience: so will your sins be forgiven." Their bonds were not unloosed, and Hofer was heavily chained hand and foot. Captain Renouard entered the châlet for a moment, looked around, shrugged his shoulders, saw the noted rifle standing in the corner, and brought it out. "This is a clumsy piece, after all," said he, handing it to the gendarme, after surveying it somewhat curiously. "Take care! it's loaded!" dodging it in some alarm, as the gendarme handled it carelessly. It would have been singular if he had been shot by Hofer's rifle, after all--the rifle that Hofer would not fire in his own defence. The word of command was given; the troops closed around the prisoners, and began to descend the mountain. Hofer trod as firmly as when the master of Innsbruck. Anna's face was smeared with tears; but she was too proud to sob, and chide Johann for crying. Rudolf's heart beat wildly. He looked on every side for Franz; but Franz, having brought the party to the verge of the hollow, had prudently decamped with Father Donay, to enjoy such peace of mind as his conscience would permit. On approaching a village, the French band struck up a lively strain of music, which nearly drove Anna out of her senses; and with loud huzzas, they proclaimed to the people who came rushing from their cottages, that they had captured the famous "General _Sanvird_; le fameux _Birbone_." They were answered with tears, maledictions, and lamentations. Though not permitted to approach the prisoners, the villagers kept up with them, crying aloud in voices that the musicians could not drown-- "Never mind, Sandwirth! They'll bring vengeance on their own heads, Sandwirth! Keep a good heart! They won't dare to touch you! We'll never, never forget you!" And this in every town and village through which they passed. On reaching Meran, they were joined by the weeping Theresa. She had been seized and bound at _am Sand_, and the house plundered. The two little girls had escaped and taken refuge with Rudolf's mother. The only consolation of the unhappy family was that they were together; but at Botzen they were sundered. Here they were received with more courtesy and kindness by General Baraguay d'Hilliers than had yet been accorded them. He would not triumph over a fallen foe, but received the brave and unfortunate captive with a soldier's frankness. He affected to be indignant at his chains, ordered them instantly to be struck off, and appointed him and his family a tolerably commodious prison, where they were treated with as little rigour as was consistent with their safety. Here they enjoyed the last snatch of unrestrained family intercourse they were destined to have on earth; it was embittered from many sources, but yet it had its sweetness. Their friends also had access to them; and many of the townspeople of Botzen came to express their sympathy,--of whom Hofer asked forgiveness for anything they might have to impute to him; but he was only answered by their tears. The French officers, also, did all in their power to show, by their attentions, their sense of the kindness exceeding mere humanity which he had always shown his prisoners. Some of them were surprised to behold the serenity of his countenance, as he conversed with his family, and gave them various directions concerning affairs small as well as great. There seemed no end to the people to whom he charged them to give messages of kind remembrance; often with some allusion to this one's wedding, or that one's illness, which showed that his head was quite clear enough to keep in view their minute affairs. At length the hour of parting came, the last embrace was given, the last kiss taken, though not the last tear wept, by many; when he consigned his wife and children, in the companionship of Rudolf, to the appointed escort of French soldiers who were to see them safely to _am Sand_, and restore all the property that had been plundered. "Sandwirth! I'll never forget you!--You'll soon be among us again!" were the last words that burst from Rudolf, as he clasped his friend in his arms, and then hurried away with tears streaming down his cheeks. After the heart-breaking separation, one or two officers, with kindly feelings, would have interrupted Hofer's solitude; but he mildly requested to be left to himself. His guards said he prayed; whether he wept, they did not say. After a short interval of repose, he was sent, under a strong escort, to Mantua, and confined in a prison near the Porta Molina, already crowded by many Tyrolese. He was speedily tried by a court-martial, which sat in the Palazzo d'Arco. Its president was General Bisson, already embittered against him and his cause by his own defeat. On comparing the votes, a great difference of opinion was found as to the nature of his sentence. The majority were for simple confinement: one or two had the courage to vote for his complete acquittal; but a telegraph from Milan decided the question by decreeing _death in twenty-four hours_,--thus putting the mediation of Austria beyond his reach. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XXI. TYRANNY RAMPANT, GRACE TRIUMPHANT. Hofer, though not expecting so sudden a doom, received the announcement of it with fortitude. "Let me see a priest," said he. Father Manifesti, a dignified and venerable old man, immediately came to him, and remained with him to the hour of his death. The greater part of the night was spent in devotional exercises; the remainder in conversing on the war; in the course of which, Hofer expressed his firm conviction that the Tyrol must and would eventually revert to Austria. He also penned the following letter to an old friend and neighbour in the Passeyrthal:-- "MY VERY DEAR BROTHER, "It is the will of God, that here, at Mantua, I change a mortal for an eternal state. But, thanks be to God! this step appears as easy to me as if it were to conduct me elsewhere; and He will, doubtless, support me, and conduct me safely to the end, that my soul may join the company of the elect, in that place where it may be permitted to me to implore his mercy towards all those so dear to me here below; those, especially, whose kindnesses have reached me. You, yourself, my very dear friend, and your wife, are included among the latter; and my thanks are yours for the little book, and for many things else. Pray for me!--you and all the dear friends who yet live in the world I am leaving,--pray for me! that I may be delivered from the purgatory where I must otherwise, perhaps, suffer for my sins. "My very dear wife will take care that mass shall be said, and a requiem sung, in the Chapel of St. Martin, and that prayers shall be put up in the parish churches. The innkeeper will provide meat and soup, and half a pot of wine, for each of my friends and relatives. "My dear Puhler, go yourself to St. Martin, and tell all to the innkeeper: he will do what is necessary; but do not say a word to any other person of the affair. "May you, and all whom I leave behind me, be well and happy in this world, till we meet in a better, and praise God for ever. I beg all my friends, and the inhabitants of Passeyr, to remember me in their prayers. Let not my dear wife afflict herself too much on account of my death. I will pray for her, and for all, in the presence of God. "Farewell, fleeting world! death appears so sweet as to render life unworthy of a tear. "Written at five o'clock in the morning: and, at nine, I go to God, and the glorious company of the saints! "Thy beloved in this life, "ANDREW HOFER, "Of Sand, in Passeyr. "Mantua, February 20, 1810. "In the name and by the help of the Lord I shall undertake this journey." At the appointed hour, he was led from his prison cell to the bastion near the Porta Ceresa. On his way thither, several Tyrolese threw themselves, weeping, at his feet, and besought his blessing: others pressed their anxious faces against their prison-bars, as though to devour him with their eyes, weeping and praying for him aloud. Hofer paused, and begged forgiveness of them all, if, haply, he had led them astray; assuring them he felt confident they would yet be restored to the protection of their loved emperor Franzel, for whom he gave a final hurra. He had already given into Father Manifesti's charge all that he possessed, consisting of five hundred florins in Austrian bank-notes, a silver snuff-box, and two rosaries, entreating him to convey them, with his last words, to his family. Arrived at the bastion, the commanding-officer ordered his men to halt. The grenadiers formed a square, open in the rear; twelve men and a corporal then stepped forward, while Hofer remained standing in the centre. The drummer then offered him a white handkerchief to bind over his eyes, and desired him to kneel down; but, to the first, Hofer replied, "I have been accustomed to look into the mouths of cannon;" and to the second, "No! I am accustomed to stand in the presence of my Creator, and in that posture will I deliver up my soul to Him." There was a simple grandeur in his words and mien that unsteadied the hands of his executioners. He gave a twenty-kreutzer piece to the corporal, recommending him to do his duty well, and pronounced the word "Fire!" in a firm voice. But they all fired ineffectually! A firmer hand, at length, proved successful; and Hofer fell--fell, to rise to immortal fame in this world, and eternal happiness in another! Among the numerous crimes of Buonaparte, none stains him with a greater disgrace than this. Berthier, who was then at Vienna, excited general indignation by the hypocrisy of his affected pity for him, which led him even to assert that his death would give great pain to Napoleon, who would never have permitted it, could he have helped it. The spot on which he fell is still regarded as holy ground. His body, instead of being left for some time, as is usual, at the place of execution, was immediately borne by the grenadiers on a black bier to St. Michael's church, where it lay in state, watched by a guard of honour, that the people might see that the famous chieftain was actually slain. The funeral then took place with all the impressive solemnity of the Roman Catholic ritual, as though, by the honour they paid his remains, the French were anxious to compensate for the injuries they had done him while living. The voice of bitter weeping was heard from _am Sand_. The valleys of the Tyrol were in sorrow. Troops of dejected or indignant peasants were seen hurrying across the mountains, to attend the funeral services in the parish churches of the Passeyrthal. The widow and orphans refused to be comforted. A messenger from the Emperor Francis arrived at _am Sand_, offering the family an asylum in Austria, with money enough to settle themselves, and a pension of two thousand florins. But, no; Anna Hofer could not bring herself to leave _am Sand_. She accepted the pension, and the promise to provide for her son; but she herself would never quit the old walls. Speckbacher was not immediately aware of Hofer's fall. We left him in his mountain fastnesses, dwelling among perpetual snows, and only approaching the haunts of men when impelled by hunger. On one of these occasions, he was cautiously approaching a group of people, consisting of a man, woman, and some children, near the little village of Volderberg, when it struck him that they appeared to be fugitives like himself, and would probably prove unable to assist him in his need. On approaching them, O joy! he beheld his Maria, with her children and honest Zoppel. They had been driven from their home, and knew not whither to turn, unless to some humble kinsfolk of Zoppel's. Gratitude for their reunion made them, for a time, insensible to their privations. Zoppel's good cousin made them welcome to some out-buildings, where Zoppel supported them for some weeks by the labour of his hands. Even in this poor refuge, they enjoyed sweet, though sorrowful, communion: Maria had the children to occupy her, and Speckbacher carved chamois-horns delicately, and made those exquisite little bassi-relievi of birds, with feathers fastened on paper, for which the Tyrolese are so famous. At length his hiding-place was suspected; they withdrew to the ruin of an old castle, perched on a dizzy peak. Here, too, his enemies tracked him; so he was obliged to tear himself again from his beloved family, and seek refuge in a cavern on the Gemshaken, one of the most inaccessible heights of the Eisglet Scherr. Taking advantage of a fearful snow-storm, which answered the purpose of effacing his footsteps, he, aided by Zoppel, succeeded in conveying to this dangerous place a stock of provisions, sufficient to last a temperate mountaineer a fortnight or three weeks. When these were exhausted, he could only depend on the wild animals he caught by stratagem, which he was obliged to eat raw, as the smoke of a fire would have betrayed him to his enemies. Endeavour to realize the terrible condition of this man--his solitude, inaction, exposure to intense cold, miserable food, and perpetual danger! And yet, though fallen on evil times, he seems to have bated no jot of heart or hope; but, in the true spirit of a man and a Christian, to have endured. At the close of winter, when the snow began to melt, he had ventured a few paces from his cavern, when an avalanche from the summit of the Gemshaken suddenly descended with an awful noise, and swept him along with it, down a descent of not less than half a league. Though to escape with life was marvellous, he had not much reason to exult in his good fortune, for he had dislocated his hip; and, finding himself unable to return to his cavern, he painfully crawled towards the little village of Volderberg, which had formerly given shelter to him with his family. He did not reach the cottage of Zoppel's kinsman, Hans, till after dark. Hans, hearing a slight sound outside, thought a wolf was prowling round the cottage, and approached the door cautiously with his rifle. On beholding a man crouching down, he at first took him for a spy, and was half ready to give him the reception he had intended for the wolf; but on hearing Speckbacher faintly say, "Hans, don't you know me?" he became overwhelmed with joy and grief. "O master! is it you?" cried he. "O master! master!" "Draw me in, Hans,--draw me gently,--I have broken some bone, I think--" "Alas! alas! and we knew not what had become of you--my dame and I. We had given you over as lost. And to think of the poor Sandwirth being shot!"-- "Hold!--" Speckbacher began to cry like a child. His sobs grew deeper and deeper, till they were terrible to hear. The awe-stricken peasants stood beside him, pressing their hands hard together, without venturing to proffer a word. "Tell me how it all was," said he, at length drying his eyes, and then bursting out anew. Hans told all he had heard; and Speckbacher continued to weep. At length, the good woman of the cottage got him to bed, tended him carefully, and gave him a warm drink in which she had infused a few drops of the steinbock's blood, that rare and sovereign remedy for all hurts in the mountains! "This will throw you into a violent perspiration and put you soundly to sleep," said she sapiently; "and after twenty-four hours in bed, you will be quite well. The water in which I have bathed your wounds had had the ball that shot the steinbock boiled in it, for that also is of sovereign virtue in cases such as these." Speckbacher did not lack faith; and, exhausted by sorrow, pain, and fatigue, he soon justified his hostess's prediction by sleeping profoundly, and for many hours. When he woke, it was with a heavy heart. Hans had called in a village doctor to see to the dislocated hip-joint; the case required inaction, but spies were abroad, and Hans did not believe his safety from them could be reckoned on for a moment. When night closed in, therefore, these two faithful men took the tall Speckbacher in their arms, and carried him through by-paths to his own cottage at Rinn, two good leagues off, where they deposited him in the stable. Zoppel, sleeping in the loft, drowsily called out-- "I say! who's there?" Then, peering down upon them, "Why, Hans! is it you?" "Hist!" says Hans. "We've brought home your master, and laid him on the straw; and now we must be off, or day will break and we shall be seen, which will spoil all." "Oh, what joy!" murmurs Zoppel, somewhat incoherently, as he slips on his clothes. He hastened down to Speckbacher, and they had a long talk together, before they could well see one another's faces. "But, master," says Zoppel, "I can't think how on earth we shall manage, for Hans little guessed we have some Bavarian soldiers quartered upon us, who are lounging in and out all day, expecting you to be hanging about your home. But I know what I'll do! I'll dig a trench for you underneath where the cattle stand, but beyond the reach of their hoofs, and lay plenty of straw in it. Into this I will lift you, and then cover you well up with straw, only leaving you just room to breathe--" "But, Zoppel, I should like to see my wife first--" "No, no, master! no!--let her be, I advise ye. Women are soft-hearted, and she would be distressed beyond measure to see you in such a place, and would always be fidgeting about, wanting to make you more comfortable, and the soldiers would naturally ask themselves, 'Why does the woman go so often into the stable?' and so you would be found out. No, no--leave her to me, master; I'll find the right time to tell her you're safe and not far off; but if I told her _how_ near you were, you wouldn't be safe long!" All this while, Zoppel was digging the trench with might and main; and, as soon as it was finished, he lifted his master into it, and covered him well up: having previously given him a piece of bread and a good draught of milk. It was well he had lost no time in these proceedings; for scarcely had day dawned, when a couple of Bavarian soldiers lounged into the stable to look after their horses, and began to talk to Zoppel while he appeared to be busy cleaning some harness. Speckbacher remained in this agreeable position seven weeks! _un vivo sepolto_--unable to change his position, and only taking such food as his servant could administer to him thus recumbent. But it was better than the cavern of Gemshaken--here he had bread instead of raw meat, and milk instead of snow-water: warmth instead of cold--society instead of solitude--proximity to his family instead of being beyond all ken of them--knowledge of the affairs of the world without, instead of ignorance and anxiety. He could hear the hens cluck and the geese cackle; could look into the oxen's large, patient eyes, without fear of their betraying him; could now and then hear Maria's voice, Anderl's laugh, and the baby's cry. One day Anderl and his little sister had quite a long gossip just outside the stable, within a yard of Speckbacher's ear. At other times, he slily listened to the Bavarians; through whom, as they cleaned their horses, he learned a good deal of news that was not intended for him: among other things, that they were heartily sick of their present life. His posture became almost intolerably irksome and painful; but it effected one good thing; an entire cure of his dislocated joint; and, when he found himself growing impatient, he thought of Him who was born in a manger. At length, just as he was beginning to feel he could bear it no longer, the soldiers ran in, began saddling their horses, and, as he gathered from them, were about to depart. In about an hour, Zoppel came in, full of suppressed joy. After carefully securing the door, "I am now going to dig you up," said he, "wash you, dress you, and trim your hair and beard; for if your wife were to see you as you are, she would take you for a wild beast." Poor Speckbacher was quite a log in his hands; for long inaction had deprived him of the use of his limbs; and it was not in less than two or three days that he was able to quit the stable. Meanwhile, however, Zoppel, having finished his task much to their mutual satisfaction, sought Maria, and told her the wonderful secret. The joy of the meeting, when she flew into the stable, need hardly be described. It was felt, however, that the Tyrol could not shelter him; therefore, as soon as he regained the use of his limbs, he reluctantly gave the children his farewell embrace and blessing, and started at dusk towards the Styrian Alps, accompanied the first league by his faithful wife. Once across the Alps, he was no longer in danger; and, after a fatiguing and painful journey, he reached Vienna, where he was joined a few months afterwards by his Maria and the children. Here they remained quietly, till the Tyrol reverted to Austria, when they returned to spend the remainder of their days in their beloved country. Speckbacher lived till 1820, when he died at the age of fifty-two, and was buried with military honours. His brave son Anderl was recently, and may be now, superintendent of the iron-works at Jenbach. Father Joachim, after hiding in various quarters, and leading a life of great peril for nearly a year, at length succeeded in crossing the Bavarian Alps to the Lake of Constance. By way of St. Gall, he reached the abbey of Einsiedeln, in Switzerland. From thence he passed into the estates of Venice; and, by way of Friuli and Carinthia, he at length reached Vienna, where he found Speckbacher. He received a golden cross and a sum of money from the emperor, in acknowledgment of his loyal service; and for some years afterwards, he officiated in different cures in Lower Austria. In 1848, the cry went through the Tyrol, "The Rothbart is up again!" and eager volunteers flocked round the old man, who was once more, as field-chaplain, on his way to the battle-field in Italy. Danger seemed to threaten the empire from that quarter; and the Tyrolese, with their old fidelity, were again ready to fight for Austria. In 1856, the veteran had quarters assigned him in the imperial summer-palace at Salzberg, with a pension of a thousand florins per annum. There, on fine days, he might be seen, scarcely more than a year ago, sitting under the majestic trees in tranquil meditation. His hair was silver-grey; he was slightly lame, a little deaf, and very chary of his speech: but, if spoken to of _the Year Nine_, his cheek would kindle, his eye would light up, and the old man would speak of his comrades and their stirring deeds as if they were but of yesterday. His jubilee,--the fiftieth anniversary of his priesthood,--was held last September. Soon afterwards, the venerable Capuchin was gathered to his fathers. In the autumn of 1810, a wedding-train might have been seen issuing from the little church of St. Martin, and proceeding to _am Sand_. It was not a gay, but a sympathetic festival, for many of Hofer's companions in arms were there; and, though several spies mingled among them, they were on their guard, and would not be tempted by them to pledge the dangerous toast, "Freiheit Zur Tyrol!" But they drank health and happiness to Rudolf and Theresa, and many an old allusion was safely made, with a sigh, under the breath, and standing apart; and they felt they all loved one another the dearer for having suffered together in a generous though lost cause. In 1824, a tardy act of justice was done by the Emperor of Austria. The remains of Hofer were removed to Botzen; and thence, in solemn procession, to Innsbruck, where they were interred in the imperial church, on the day following the fourteenth anniversary of his execution. The Tyrolese flocked to join the funeral in astonishing multitudes. The governor of the Tyrol took part in it; the nobles and dignitaries of the land swelled the train; long columns of imperial troops slowly marched to the solemn strains of music that befit a soldier's funeral. Then came the priests in their sacred vestments, with crosier and crucifix borne aloft. On the coffin lay Hofer's hat, sword, gold chain, and medal. Twelve of his brother innkeepers bore the pall, and many of his companions in arms followed in the procession. The Abbot of Wiltau pronounced the funeral benediction,--a requiem was chanted; and then--they left his perishable remains with all the honours that perishable men have to give. A monument has since been erected over his tomb, which is not far from that giant-guarded one of the Emperor Maximilian, and excites as much interest, though of a different kind. His statue well represents him in his accustomed peasant-garb, his face turned heavenward, one hand grasping the national banner, the other holding the barrel of the rifle slung from his shoulder. His sword-belt bears his initials, and the date of the Year Nine. The whole embodies your conception of the man. His name continues to be a dangerous spell. It is spoken under the breath, if spoken at all. Gold cannot buy any memoir of his life in the Tyrol. The German accounts of him are in the highest degree depreciating. His poor relics in the Innsbruck Museum were at one time deemed too exciting to be seen. But his spirit still lives among the mountains: his name will never perish. It was soon after the statue had been erected, that a couple of men might have been seen attentively gazing upon it. The taller and elder of the two leant strongly on the shoulder of the younger--the likeness they bore one another bespoke them father and son. Speckbacher gazed long and earnestly--then dashed away a tear. "'Tis himself," murmured he, in a low, emphatic voice; "as like as stone can be to flesh and blood. See, Anderl! how a plain, homely, upright man may achieve fame! But yet this sinks into nothing, compared with his heavenly reward." THE END. * * * * * R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL. RECENT PUBLICATIONS. THE LITTLE WORLD OF LONDON; or, Pictures in Little of London Life. By CHARLES MANBY SMITH. Author of "The Working Man's Way in the World," &c. &c. Post 8vo., cloth, price 7s. 6d. JULIAN; or, The Close of an Era. By BUNGENER. 2 vols., price 4s. GEOLOGICAL FACTS; or, The Crust of the Earth, what it is, and what are its uses. By W. G. BARRETT. With wood cuts, fcap., cloth, 3s. 6d. THE HISTORY OF A MAN. Edited by GEORGE GILFILLAN. Price 7s. 6d., post 8vo., cloth. HERTHA. 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43614	----	THE VALLEYS OF TIROL THEIR TRADITIONS AND CUSTOMS AND HOW TO VISIT THEM BY MISS R. H. BUSK AUTHOR OF 'PATRAÑAS' 'SAGAS FROM THE FAR EAST' 'FOLK-LORE OF ROME' ETC. WITH FRONTISPIECE AND THREE MAPS LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 1874 All rights reserved PREFACE. There are none who know Tirol but are forward to express regret that so picturesque and so primitive a country should be as yet, comparatively with other tracks of travel, so little opened up to the dilettante explorer. It is quite true, on the other hand, that just in proportion as a country becomes better known, it loses, little by little, its merit of being primitive and even picturesque. Intercourse with the world beyond the mountains naturally sweeps away the idiosyncracies of the mountaineers; and though the trail of progress which the civilized tourist leaves behind him cannot absolutely obliterate the actual configuration of the country, yet its original characteristics must inevitably be modified by the changes which his visits almost insensibly occasion. The new traditions which he brings with him of vast manufacturing enterprise and rapid commercial success cannot but replace in the minds of the people the old traditions of the fire-side and the Filò, with their dreams of treasure-granting dwarfs and the Bergsegen dependent on prayer. The uniform erections of a monster Hotel Company, 'convenient to the Railway Station,' supersede the frescoed or timbered hostelry perched on high to receive the wayfarer at his weariest. The giant mill-chimneys, which sooner or later spring up from seed unwittingly scattered by the way-side, not only mar the landscape with their intrinsic deformity, but actually strip the mountains of their natural covering, and convert wooded slopes into grey and barren wastes; [1] just as the shriek of the whistle overpowers the Jödel-call, and the barrel-organ supersedes the zitther and the guitar. Such considerations naturally make one shrink from the responsibility of taking a part (how insignificant soever) in directing the migration of tourists into such a country as Tirol. I have heard a Tirolese, while at the same time mourning that the attractions of his country were so often passed over, express this feeling very strongly, and allege it as a reason why he did not give the result of his local observations to the press; and I listened to his apprehensions with sympathy. But then these changes must be. The attempt to delay them is idle; nor would individual abstention from participating in the necessary movement of events have any sensible effect in stemming the even course of inevitable development. Circumstances oblige us continually to co-operate in bringing about results which we might personally deprecate. 'In whatsoe'er we perpetrate We do but row; we're steered by fate.' And after all, why should we deprecate the result? We all admire the simple mind and chubby face of childhood; yet who (except the sentimental father in the French ballad, 'Reste toujours petit!') would wish to see his son in petticoats and leading-strings all his days. The morning mists which lend their precious charm of mystery to the sunrise landscape must be dispelled as day advances, or day would be of little use to man. The day cannot be all morning; man's life cannot be all infancy; and we have no right so much as to wish--even though wishes avail nothing--that the minds of others should be involved in absurd illusions to which we should scorn to be thought a prey ourselves. Nature has richly endowed Tirol with beauty and healthfulness; and they must be dull indeed who, coming in search of these qualities, do not find them enhanced a hundredfold by the clothing of poetry with which the people have superindued them. Who, in penetrating its mountain solitudes, would not thank the guide who peoples them for him with mysterious beings of transcendent power; who interprets for him, in the nondescript echoes of evening, the utterances of a world unknown; and in the voices of the storm and of the breeze the expression of an avenging power or the whisperings of an almighty tenderness. But then--if this is found to be something more than poetry, if the allegory which delights our fancy turns out to be a grotesque blunder in the system of the peasant who narrates it,--it cannot be fair to wish that he should continue subject to fallacious fancies, in order that we may be entertained by their recital. It is one thing for a man who has settled the grounds of his belief (or his unbelief) to his best satisfaction in any rational way, to say, 'I take this beautiful allegory into my repertory; it elevates my moral perceptions and illustrates my higher reaches of thought;' but it is quite another thing if one reasons thus with himself, 'My belief is so and so, because a certain supernatural visitation proves it;' when actually the said supernatural visitation never took place at all, and was nothing but an allegory, or still less, a mere freak of fancy in its beginning. Perhaps if the vote could be taken, and if desires availed anything, the general consensus of thinking people would go in favour of the desire that there had been no myths, no legends. But the vote would involve the consequence that we should have antecedently to be possessed of a complete innate knowledge of the forces of being, corresponding to the correct criteria, which we flatter ourselves do indwell us of the principles of beauty and of harmony. If there are any who are sanguine enough to believe that science will one of these days give us a certain knowledge of how everything came about, it is beyond dispute that for long ages past mankind has been profoundly puzzled about the question, and it cannot be an uninteresting study to trace its gropings round and round it. Perfect precision of ideas again would involve perfect exactness of expression. No one can fail to regret the inadequacies and vagaries of language which so often disguise instead of expressing thought, and lead to the most terrible disputes just where men seek to be most definite. If we could dedicate one articulate expression to every possible idea, we should no longer be continually called to litigate on the meanings of creeds and documents, and even verbal statements. But when we had attained all this, we should have surrendered all the occupation of conjecture and all the charms of mystery; we should have parted with all poetry and all jeux d'esprit. If knowledge was so positive and language so precise that misunderstanding had no existence, then neither could we indulge in metaphor nor égayer la matière with any play on words. In fact, there would be nothing left to say at all! Perhaps the price could not be too high; but in the meantime we have to deal with circumstances as they are. We cannot suppress mythology, or make it non-existent by ignoring it. It exists, and we may as well see what we can make of it, either as a study or a recreation. Conjectures and fancies surround us like thistles and roses; and as brains won't stand the wear of being ceaselessly carded with the thistles of conjecture, we may take refuge in the alternative of amusing ourselves on a holiday tour with plucking the roses which old world fancy has planted--and planted nowhere more prolifically than in Tirol. In speaking of Tirol as comparatively little opened up, I have not overlooked the publications of pioneers who have gone before. The pages of Inglis, though both interesting and appreciative, are unhappily almost forgotten, and they only treat quite incidentally of the people's traditions. But as it is the most salient points of any matter which must always arrest attention first, it has been chiefly the mountains of Tirol to which attention has hitherto been drawn. Besides the universally useful 'Murray' and others, very efficient guidance to them has of late years been afforded in the pages of 'Ball's Central Alps,' in some of the contributions to 'Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers;' in the various works of Messrs. Gilbert and Churchill; and now Miss A. B. Edwards has shown what even ladies may do among its Untrodden Peaks. The aspects of its scenery and character, for which it is my object on the other hand to claim attention, lie hidden among its Valleys, Trodden and Untrodden. And down in its Valleys it is that its traditions dwell. [2] If the names of the Valleys of Tirol do not at present awaken in our mind stirring memories such as cling to other European routes whither our steps are invited, ours is the fault, in that we have overlooked their history. The past has scattered liberally among them characteristic landmarks dating from every age, and far beyond the reach of dates. Every stage even of the geological formation of the country--which may almost boast of being in its courage and its probity, as it does boast of being in the shape in which it is fashioned, the heart of Europe--is sung of in popular Sage as the result of some poetically conceived agency; humdrum physical forces transformed by the wand of imagination into personal beings; now bountiful, now retributive; now loving; now terrible; but nearly always rational and just. To the use of those who care to find such gleams of poetry thrown athwart Nature's work the following pages are dedicated. The traditions they record do not claim to have been all gathered at first hand from the stocks on which they were grown or grafted. A life, or several lives, would hardly have sufficed for the work. In Germany, unlike Italy, myths have called into being a whole race of collectors, and Tirol has an abundant share of them among her offspring. Not only have able and diligent sons devoted themselves professionally to the preservation of her traditions, but every valley nurtures appreciative minds to whom it is a delight to store them in silence, and who willingly discuss such lore with the traveller who has a taste for it. That a foreigner should attempt to add another to these very full, if not exhaustive collections, would seem an impertinent labour of supererogation. My work, therefore, has been to collate and arrange those traditions which have been given me, or which I have found ready heaped up; to select from the exuberant mass those which, for one reason or another, appeared to possess the most considerable interest; and to localise them in such a way as to facilitate their study both by myself and others along the wayside; not neglecting, however, any opportunity that has come in my way of conversing about them with the people themselves, and so meeting them again, living, as it were, in their respective homes. This task, as far as I know, has not been performed by any native writer. [3] The names of the collectors I have followed are, to all who know the country, the best possible guarantee of the authenticity of what they advance; and I subjoin here a list of the chief works I have either studied myself or referred to, through the medium of kind helpers in Tirol, so as not to weary the reader as well as myself with references in every chapter:-- Von Alpenburg: Mythen und Sagen Tirols. Brandis: Ehrenkränzel Tirols. H. J. von Collin: Kaiser Max auf der Martinswand: ein Gedicht. Das Drama des Mittelalters in Tirol. A. Pickler. Hormayr: Taschenbuch für die Vaterländische Geschichte. Meyer: Sagenkränzlein aus Tirol. Nork: Die Mythologie der Volkssagen und Volksmärchen. Die Oswaldlegende und ihre Beziehung auf Deutscher Mythologie. Oswald v. Wolkenstein: Gedichte. Reprint, with introduction by Weber. Perini: I Castelli del Tirolo. Der Pilger durch Tirol; geschichtliche und topographische Beschreibung der Wallfahrtsorte u. Gnadenbilder in Tirol u. Vorarlberg. A. Pickler: Frühlieder aus Tirol. Scherer: Geographie und Geschichte von Tirol. Simrock: Legenden. Schneller: Märchen und Sagen aus Wälsch-Tirol. Stafler: Das Deutsche Tirol und Vorarlberg. Die Sage von Kaiser Max auf der Martinswand. J. Thaler: Geschichte Tirols von der Urzeit. Der Untersberg bei Salzburg, dessen geheimnissvolle Sagen der Vorzeit, nebst Beschreibung dieses Wunderberges. Vonbun: Sagen Vorarlbergs. Weber: Das Land Tirol. Drei Bänder. Zingerle: König Laurin, oder der Rosengarten in Tirol. Die Sagen von Margaretha der Maultasche. Sagen, Märchen u. Gebräuche aus Tirol. Der berühmte Landwirth Andreas Hofer. I hope my little maps will convey a sufficient notion of the divisions of Tirol, the position of its valleys and of the routes through them tracked in the following pages. I have been desirous to crowd them as little as possible, and to indicate as far as may be, by the size and direction of the words, the direction and the relative importance of the valleys. Of its four divisions the present volume is concerned with the first (Vorarlberg), the fourth (Wälsch-Tirol), and with the greater part of the valleys of the second (Nord or Deutsch-Tirol.) In the remoter recesses of them all some strange and peculiar dialects linger, which perhaps hold a mine in store for the philologist. Yet, though the belief was expressed more than thirty years ago [4] that they might serve as a key to the Etruscan language, I believe no one has since been at the pains to pursue this most interesting research. In the hope of inducing some one to enter this field of enquiry, I will subjoin a list of some few expressions which do not carry on their face a striking resemblance to either of the main languages of the country, leaving to the better-informed to make out whence they come. The two main languages (and these will suffice the ordinary traveller for all practical purposes), are German in Vorarlberg and North Tirol, Italian in Wälsch-Tirol, mixed with occasional patches of German; and in South-Tirol with a considerable preponderance of these patches. A tendency to bring about the absorption of the Italian-speaking valleys into Italy has been much stimulated in modern times, and in the various troubled epochs of the last five-and-twenty years Garibaldian attacks have been made upon the frontier line. The population was found stedfast in its loyalty to Austria, however, and all these attempts were repulsed by the native sharp-shooters, with little assistance from the regular troops. An active club and newspaper propagandism is still going on, promoted by those who would obliterate Austria from the map of Europe. For them, there exists only German-Tirol and the Trentino. And the Trentino is now frequently spoken of as a province bordering on, instead of as in reality, a division of, Tirol. Although German is generally spoken throughout Vorarlberg, there is a mixture of Italian expressions in the language of the people, which does not occur at all in North-Tirol: as fazanedle, for a handkerchief (Ital. fazzoletto.) gaude, gladness (Ital. gaudio.) guttera, a bottle (Ital. gutto a cruet.) gespusa, a bride (Ital. sposa). gouter, a counterpane (Ital. coltre). schapel, the hat (peculiar to local costume), (Ital. cappello, a hat). The k in many German words is here written with ch; and no doubt such names as the Walgau, Walserthal, &c., commemorate periods of Venetian rule. Now for some of the more 'outlandish' words:-- baschga' (the final n, en, rn, &c. of the German form of the infinitive is usually clipped by the Vorarlbergers, even in German words, just as the Italians constantly clip the final letters of their infinitive, as anda' and andar' for andare, to walk, &c.) to overcome. batta', to serve. pütze' or buetza', to sew or to piece. häss, clothing. res, speech. tobel, a ravine. feel, a girl; spudel, an active girl; schmel, a smiling girl. hattel, a goat; mütl, a kid. Atti, [5] father, and datti, 'daddy.' frei, pleasant. zoana, a wattled basket. schlutta and schoope, a smock-frock. täibe, anger. kîba', to strive. rêra', to weep. [6] musper, merry. tribiliera', to constrain. waedle, swift. raetig werden, to deliberate. Tripstrüll, = Utopia. wech, spruce, also vain. laegla, a little vessel. hengest, a friendly gathering of men. [7] koga, cursed, also corrupted. fegga, a wing. krom, a gift. blaetz, a patch. grind, a brute's head, a jolterhead. bratza, a paw, an ugly hand. briegga', to pucker up the face ready for crying. deihja, a shepherd's or cattle-herd's hut. [8] also dieja, which is generally reserved for a hut formed by taking advantage of a natural hole, leaving only a roof to be supplied. garreg, prominent. (I think that gareggiante in Italian is sometimes used in a similar sense.) Other words in Vorarlberg dialect are very like English, as:-- Witsch, a witch. Pfülle, a pillow. rôt, wrath. gompa', to jump. gülla, a gulley. also datti and schmel, mentioned already. Aftermötig (after-Monday) is a local name for Tuesday. In Wälsch-Tirol, they have carega, a chair. bagherle, a little carriage, a car. troz, a mountain path. Malga, [9] equivalent to Alp, a mountain pasture. zufolo, [10] a pipe. And Turlulù (infra, p. 432) is nearly identical in form and sound with a word expounded in Etrus. Researches, p. 299. Of 'Salvan' and 'Gannes,' I have already spoken. [11] But all this is, I am aware, but a mere turning over of the surface; my only wish is that some one of stronger capacity will dig deeper. Of many dialects, too, I have had no opportunity of knowing anything at all. Here are, however, a few suggestive or strange words from North and South Tirol:-- Pill, which occurs in various localities [12] of both those provinces to designate a place built on a little hill or knoll, is identical with an Etruscan word to which Mr. Isaac Taylor gives a similar significance. [13] I do not overlook Weber's observation that 'Pill is obviously a corruption of Büchel (the German for a knoll), through Bühel and Bühl;' but, which proceeds from which is often a knotty point in questions of derivation, and Weber did not know of the Etruscan 'pil.' Ziller and celer I have already alluded to, [14] though of course it may be said that the Tirolean river had its name from an already romanised Etruscan word, and does not necessarily involve direct contact with the Etruscan vocabulary. Grau-wutzl is a name in the Zillerthal for the Devil. Disel, for disease of any kind. Gigl, a sheep. Kiess, a heifer. Triel, a lip. Bueg, a leg. knospen stands in South-Tirol for wooden shoes, and fokazie for cakes used at Eastertide. (Focaccia is used for 'cake' in many parts of Italy, and 'dar pan per focaccia' is equivalent to 'tit for tat' all over the Peninsula.) It remains only to excuse myself for the spelling of the word Tirol. I have no wish to incur the charge of 'pedantry' which has heretofore been laid on me for so writing it. It seems to me that, in the absence of any glaring mis-derivation, it is most natural to adopt a country's own nomenclature; and in Tirol, or by Tirolean writers, I have never seen the name spelt with a y. I have not been able to get nearer its derivation than that the Castle above Meran, which gave it to the whole principality, was called by the Romans, when they rebuilt it, Teriolis. Why they called it so, or what it was called before, I have not been able to learn. The English use of the definite article in naming Tirol is more difficult to account for than the adoption of the y, in which we seem to have been misled by the Germans. We do not say 'the France' or 'the Italy;' even to accommodate ourselves to the genius of the languages of those countries, therefore, that we should have gone out of our way to say 'the Tyrol' when the genius of that country's language does not require us so to call it, can have arisen only from a piece of carelessness which there is no need to repeat. CONTENTS. Page CHAPTER I. VORARLBERG. Introductory remarks on the use of myths, legends, and traditions; their imagery beyond imitation; have become a study; now a science; Prof. M. Müller; Rev. G. W. Cox--Karl Blind on attractions for the English in Germanic mythology; mythological persons of Tirol--Mythological symbols in art; in poetry; Dante on popular traditions; their record of thoughts and customs; Tullio Dandolo; Depping; Tirolean peasants 1 Our introduction to Tirol--Excursions round Feldkirch; the Katzenthurm; St. Fidelis; St. Eusebius--Rankweil--Fridolins- kapelle--Valduna--S. Gerold--Route into Tirol by Lindau--Bregenz, birthplace of Flatz--Legend of Charlemagne; of Ulrich and Wendelgard--Ehreguota--Riedenberg school--the natural preserves of Lustenau--Merboth, Diedo, and Ilga--Embs; its chronicles; Swiss embroidery; Sulphur baths; Jews' synagogue--Lichtenstein; Vaduz; Hot sulphur-baths of Pfäffers; Taminaschlund; Luziensteig 12 From Feldkirch to Innsbruck--The Pass of Frastanz; Shepherd lad's heroism; the traitor's fate--S. Joder and the Devil--Bludenz--Montafon; who gave it its arms--Prazalanz--The Tear-rill; Kirschwasser--Dalaas-- Silberthal--Das Bruederhüsle--Engineering of the Arlberg pass-- Stanzerthal--Hospice of St. Christof--Wiesburg--Ischgl; its 'skullery' --Landeck--Legend of Schrofenstein--Sharpshooter's monument--Auf dem Fern--Nassereit--Tschirgants Branch road to Füssen--Plansee--Lechthal --Imst--Pitzthal--Growth of a modern legend--Heiterwang--Ehrenberger Klauze Archenthal--Vierzehn Nothhelfer 24 A border adventure; our party; our plans; our route--Aarau--Rorschach; its skeleton-Caryatidæ--Oberriet--Our luggage overpowers the station- master--Our wild colt--Our disaster--Our walk--Our embroideress guide --The Rhine ferry--The Rhætian Alps--Altenstadt--Schattenburg--British missionaries to Tirol--Feldkirch, festa, costumes--Our luggage again --Our new route--Our postilion--The Stase-saddle--The Devil's House --The Voralberger-ghost 39 CHAPTER II. NORTH TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL--(RIGHT INN-BANK). KUFSTEIN TO ROTTENBURG. Kufstein--Pienzenau's unlucky joke--Ainliffen--Rocsla Sandor; the Hungarian lovers--National anthem--Thierberg--A modern pilgrim-- Der Büsser--Public memorials of religion--Zell--Ottokapelle--Kundl --S. Leonhard auf der Wiese; its sculptures--Henry II.'s vow--The Auflänger-Bründl--Rattenberg--Rottenburg--St. Nothburga; her integrity, charity, persecution, patience, piety, observance of Sunday; judgment overtakes Ottilia: Nothburga's restoration; legend of her burial--Henry VI. of Rottenburg and Friedrich mit der leeren Tasche--Character of each--Henry's literary tastes; his mysterious fate--The fire spares Nothburga's cell--Mining legend 53 CHAPTER III. NORTH TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL--(RIGHT INN-BANK). THE ZILLERTHAL. The Zillerthal--Conveyances--Etruscan remnant--Thurnegg and Tratzberg across the river--Strass--Corn or coin?--The two churches of Schlitters--Castles of the Zillerthal--The peace of Kropfsberg--'The only Fügen'--The patriot Riedl--Zell--Expulsion of Lutherans--Hippach--Hainzenberg; ultra co-operative gold mines--Mayrhof--Garnet mills--Mariä-Rastkapelle--Hulda--Tributary valleys--Duxerthal--Hinter-Dux--Hardiness of the people--Legends of the frozen wall--Dog's-throat valley--The Devil's path--The Zemmer glacier--Schwarzensteingrund 79 CHAPTER IV. NORTH TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL--(RIGHT INN-BANK). ZILLERTHAL CUSTOMS--THE WILDSCHÖNAU. Zillerthal customs--Games--Spirits play with gold skittles--Pedlar of Starkenberg--Dances: Schnodahüpfl: Hosennagler--Cow-fights-- Kirchtag--Primizen and Sekundizen--Carneval--Christnacht-- Kloubabrod--Sternsingen--Gömacht--Weddings--Zutrinken--Customs of other valleys--The cat, patron of courtship 92 Kundl again--Wiltschenau--Niederaich--Kundlburg--Oberau--Niederrau --Thierberg--Silver-mines--Legends of dwarfs and Knappen--Moidl and the gold-cave--Legend of the Landmark--Der Umgehende Schuster-- Perchtl, Pilate's wife--Comparative mythologists--Wodin, Wilder Jäger, Wilhelm Tell--Symbolism in tales of enchanted Princesses-- Perahta, the daughter of Dagha--Brixlegg--Burgleckner--Claudia de' Medici--Biener's dying challenge--The Bienerweible--Sandbichler, the Bible-commentator 110 CHAPTER V. NORTH TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL. LEFT INN-BANK. Jenbach--Wiesing--Thiergarten--Kramsach--Brandenberger Ache-- Voldepp--The Mooserthal--The Mariathal--Rheinthalersee--Achenrain --Mariathal, village and ruined Dominican convent--Georg von Freundsberg--The Brandenbergerthal--Steinberg--Heimaththal, Freiheitthal--The gold-herds of the Reiche Spitze--Die Kalte Pein--Mariastein--The irremovable image--Jenbach--Wiesing--The Thiergarten--The Achenthal--The Käsbachthal--The Blue Achensee-- Skolastica--Pertisau--Buchau, Nature's imitation fortress-- Tegernsee--The Achen-pass--The judgment of Achensee--Playing at ball in St. Paul's cathedral--Legend of Wildenfeld--Eben--The escape of the vampire--Stans--Joseph Arnold--Tirolean artists-- The Stallenthal--St. Georgenberg--Unsere liebe Frau zur Linde-- Viecht, Benedictine monastery, library, sculpture--Vomperthal-- Sigmundslust--Sigismund the Monied--Terfens--Marialarch-- Volandseck--Thierberg--S. Michael's--S. Martin's--The Gnadenwald --Baumkirchen--Fritzens--External tokens of faith--The holy family at home--Frost phantoms--Hall; Münzthurm; Sandwirthszwanziger; salt-works; Speckbacher; Waldaufischer- Kapelle; S. Saviour's; institutions of Hall--Johanniswürmchen; Bauernkrieg--Excursions round Hall; the Salzberg; the explorations of the 'Fromme Ritter;' grandeur of the salt-mines; salt-works; visit of Hofer and Speckbacher; the Salzthal--Absam; the dragons of Schloss Melans; Count Spaur's ride to Babylon; combat with the toad--Max Müller on legends--The image on the window-pane; the Gnadenmutter von Absam; Stainer the violin-maker --Mils--Grünegg--Schneeberg--The Gnadenwald--The Glockenhof; the Glockengiesser; his temptation, condemnation, and dying request-- The Loreto-kirche--Heiligenkreuz--Taur--Thürl--The Kaisersäule-- St. Romedius, St. Vigilius and the bear; the spectre priest--Rum, landslip 125 CHAPTER VI. NORTH TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL--(RIGHT INN-BANK). SCHWATZ. Schwatz, its situation; effigy of S. John Nepomuk; his example; the village frescoes; a hunt for a breakfast; the lessons of traveller's fare; market; church; its size disproportioned to the population; the reason of this--Schwatz a Roman station; silver-mines; prosperity; importance; influence of miners of Saxony; reformation; riots; polemical disputes; decline; copper and iron works; other industries; misfortunes. History of the parish church; peculiar construction; the Knappenhochaltar; monuments; Hans Dreyling; altar-pieces; Michaels-kapelle; its legend; churchyard; its reliquary and holy oil; the Robler and the gossip's corpse; penance and vision of the unmarried--Franciscan church--characteristics of the inns; singular use of the beds; guitar playing--Blessed Sacrament visits the sick--Freundsberg; the ruined castles of Tirol; Georg von Freundsberg; his prowess, strength, success; devotion of his men; sung of as a hero; his part in the siege of Rome, sudden death, and ruin of his house; tower; chapel--Weird-woman; her story; her legends; Oswald Milser of Seefeld; the bird-catcher of the Goaslahn; strange birds; chamois; the curse of the swallow--Hospital; chapel--Tobacco; factory girls at benediction--Pews in German churches 168 CHAPTER VII. NORTH TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL--(RIGHT INN-BANK). EXCURSIONS FROM SCHWATZ. Falkenstein; exhausted mines; religious observances of miners; tokens of their craft--Buch--Margareth--Galzein--Kugelmoos--The Schwaderalpe --The Kellerspitze--Troi--Arzberg--Heiligenkreuzkapelle--Baierische- Rumpel--Pill--The Weerthal, Schloss Rettenberg; its spectre warder-- The Kolsassthal--Wattens--Walchen--Mols--The Navisthal--Lizumthal; the Blue Lake--Volders--Voldererthal--Hanzenheim--Friedberg--Aschbach, why it is in the parish of Mils--Hippolitus Guarinoni, page to St. Charles, physician of the poor; religious zeal; church of St. Charles, Servitenkloster, the Stein des Gehorsams; analogous legend--Rinn; S. Anderle's martyrdom; the Judenstein; lettered lilies--Aversion to Jews--Voldererbad--Ampass--Lans--The Patscherkofl--The Lansersee; the poor proprietor and the unjust noble--Sistrans; legend of its champion wrestler--Heiligenwasser 200 CHAPTER VIII. NORTH TIROL--THE INNTHAL. INNSBRUCK. Our greeting; characteristics of the people; Innsbruck's treatment of Kaiser Max; the OEstereichischer hof; our apartment; mountain view; character of the town; its history--Wilten; the minster; myth of Haymon the giant; his burial-place; parish church; Marienbild unter den vier Säulen; relic of the thundering legion--First record of Innsbruck; chosen for seat of government; for residence by Friedl mit der leeren Tasche--Character of Tirolean rulers--the Goldene-Dachl-Gebäude--Sigismund the Monied; his reception of Christian I.; condition of Tirol in his time; his castles; abdication--Maximilian; builds the Burg; magnificence of his reign; legends of him; his decline--Charles Quint; cedes Tirol to Ferdinand I.; his wise administration; quiets popular agitation; Charles Quint's visits to Innsbruck; attacked by Maurice, Elector of Saxony; carried into Carinthia in a litter; death of Maurice--Ferdinand I., the Hof-Kirche; Maximilian's cenotaph; its bas-relief; statues; Mirakel-Bild des H. Anton; Fürstenchor; abjuration of Queen Christina--Introduction of Jesuits; results--The 'Fromme Siechin'--Ferdinand II.; his peaceful tastes; romantic attachment; Philippine Welser; ménage at Schloss Ambras; collections; curiosities; portraits; Philippine's end 225 CHAPTER IX. NORTH TIROL--THE INNTHAL. INNSBRUCK (continued). Wallenstein's vow--Theophrastus Paracelsus; his mysterious dealings --The Tummelplatz--The Silberne Kapelle--Earthquake and dearth; their lessons--Ferdinand's devotion to the Blessed Sacrament; analogous legend of Rudolf of Hapsburg--Ferdinand's second marriage --The Capuchin Church--Maximilian the Deutschmeister; introduces the Servites--Paul Lederer--Maximilian's hermitage--S. Lorenzo of Brindisi--Dreiheiligkeitskirche--Provisions against ravages of the Thirty Years' War--The Siechenhaus--Leopold V.; dispensed from his episcopal jurisdiction and vows; Marries Claudia de' Medici-- Friedrich v. Tiefenbach--Festivities at Innsbruck--The Hofgarten-- Kranach's Madonna, Mariähülfskirche built to receive it; translation to the Pfarr-kirche under Ferdinand Karl--Ferdinand Karl--Regency of Claudia de' Medici; administrative ability; Italian influences-- Sigismund Franz--Claudia Felicita--Charles of Lotharingia--War of succession; Bavarian inroad of 1703; the Pontlatzerbrücke; Baierische-Rumpel--St. Annensäule--Joseph I.--Karl Philipp; builds the Land-haus and gymnasium, restores the Pfarrkirche; stucco and marble decorations; frescoes; preservation of Damian Asam-- Strafarbeitshaus--Church of S. John Nepomuk; his popularity; canonisation--Maria Theresa; her partiality for Innsbruck; example; Prussian prisoners; marriage of Leopold; death of Francis I.; the Triumphpforte, the Damenstift--Joseph II.--Archduchess Maria Elizabeth--Pius VI. passes through Innsbruck--Leopold II.--Repeal of Josephinischen measures--Francis II.--Outbreak of the French revolution---Das Mädchen v. Spinges--The Auferstehungsfeier-- Archduchess Maria Elizabeth--Gottesacker--Treaty of Pressburg-- 'The Year Nine'--Andreas Hofer--Peace of Schönbrunn--Speckbacher; successes at Berg Isel; Hofer as Schützen-Kommandant; his moderation, simplicity, subordination; his betrayal; last hours; firmness; execution--Restoration of Austrian rule--Hofer's monument--Tirolese loyalty in 1848--The Ferdinandeum; its curiosities--Early editions of German authors--Paintings on cobweb --The Schiess-stand--Policy of the Viennese Government, constitutional opposition of Tirol--Population of Innsbruck 265 CHAPTER X. NORTH TIROL--OBERINNTHAL. INNSBRUCK TO ZIRL AND SCHARNITZ--INNSBRUCK TO THE LISENS-FERNER. Excursions from Innsbruck--Mühlau; new church; Baronin Sternbach --Judgment of Frau Hütt--Büchsenhausen--Weierburg--Mariä-Brunn-- Hottingen; monuments in the Friedhof--Schloss Lichtenthurm--The Höttingerbild; the student's Madonna; stalactites--Excursion to Zirl--Grossen Herr-Gott Strasse--Kranebitten--The Schwefelloch-- The Hundskapelle--The Zirlerchristen--Gross Solstein--The Martinswand; danger of the Emperor Maximilian; Collin's ballad; who led the Kaiser astray?--His importance in Europe; efforts to rescue him; the Blessed Sacrament visits him; unknown deliverer --Martinsbühl--Traditions of Kaiser Max--Zirl--Fragenstein; its hidden treasure--Leiten--Reit--Seefeld--The Heilige Blutskapelle --The Seekapelle--Scharnitz--Isarthal--Porta Klaudia--Dirstenöhl --The beggar-woman's prayer; vision of the peasant of Dorf 310 Unter-Perfuss--Selrainthal--The Melach--Rothenbrunn--Fatscherthal --The Hohe Villerspitz--Sonnenberg--Magdalenen-Bründl--Character of the Selrainthalers--Ober-Perfuss; Peter Anich--Kematen--Völs; the Blasienberg; S. Jodok--The Galwiese--The Schwarze-Kreuzkapelle; Hölzl's vow--Ferneck--Berg Isel--Noise of the rifle practice--Count v. Stachel--Natters and Mutters--Waidburg--The Nockspitze--Götzens --Schloss Völlenberg; Oswald v. Wolkenstein--Birgitz--Axams--The Sendersthal 329 CHAPTER XI. WÄLSCH-TIROL. THE WÄLSCHEROLISCHE-ETSCHTHAL AND ITS TRIBUTARY VALLEYS. Val di Lagarina--Borghetto--Ala--Roveredo--Surrounding castles--Dante at Lizzana--The Slavini di S. Marco--La Busa del Barbaz; its myths--Serravalle--Schloss Junk--The Madonna del Monte--Industries--Chapel of S. Columban--Trent, Festa of St. Vigilius; comparison between Trent and Rome; the Domkirche; its notabilia; Sta. Maria Maggiore; seat of the council; assenting crucifix; centenary celebration; legend of the organ-builder--Church of St. Peter; Chapel of S. Simonin; club; museum; Palazzi; Palazzo Zambelli, Teufelspalast; its legend; General Gallas--The Madonna alle Laste; view of Trent--Dos Trento--St. Ingenuin's garden; St. Albuin's apples--Lavis--French spoliation--Restitution--Wälsch Michel 340 Tributary valleys--Val di Non; Annaunia--Rochetta Pass Wälschmetz--Visiaun--Spaur Maggiore--Denno--Schloss Belasis--The Seidenbaum--Tobel Wild-see--Cles; Tavola Clesiana; Roman remains; the Schwarzen Felder--SS. Sisinus, Martyrius and Alexander--Val di Sole--Livo--Magras; Val di Rabbi; San Bernardo--Malè--Charles Quint's visit--Pellizano--Val di Pejo--Cogolo--Corno de' tre Signori--Val Vermiglio--Tonale; the witches' sabbath there--Tregiovo--Cloz--U-Liebe Frau auf dem Gampen--Fondo--Sanzeno--Legend of the three brothers: mithraic bas-relief--The Tirolean Petrarch--St. Romediusthal; legend of St. Romedius; angelic consecration; conversion of the false penitents; extraordinary construction and arrangement of the building; romantic situation; fifteen centuries of uninterrupted veneration--Castel Thun; attachment of the people to the family; a Nonesade; aqueduct--Dombel; its Etruscan key; its import 358 The Avisiothal--Val di Cembra; its inaccessibility--Altrei; presentation of colours--Fleimserthal; Cavalese; its church a museum of Tirolese Art; local parliament; legend of its site; handsome new church--Fassathal--Moena--Analogous English and French traditions--Marriage customs of the valley--The Feuriger Verräther--Vigo--The Marmolata; its legends--St. Ulrich 374 CHAPTER XII. WÄLSCH-TIROL. VAL SUGANA--GIUDICARIA--FOLKLORE. Val Sugana--Baselga--The Madonna di Pinè; legend of the Madonna di Caravaggio--Pergine; miners; the Canoppa--The Schloss--Marriage customs of the valley--Lake Caldonazzo--St. Hermes at Calzeranica--Bosentino--Nossa signora del Feles--The sleeper of Valle del Orco--Caldonazzo--Lafraun; legend of the disunited brothers--Borgo, the Italian Meran--Franciscan convent; Castel Telvana; dangers of a carneval procession; Count Welsburg's vow--Gallant border defences--Stalactite caves of Costalta--Sette Comuni--Castelalto--Strigno--Castelrotto--Cima d'Asta--Quarazza garnet quarry--Ivano--Grigno; Legend of St. Udalric--Castel Tesino--Canal San Bovo to Primiero--Tale of Virginia Loss; humble heroism--Le Tezze; modern heroes 382 Judicarien; its divisions--Castel Madruzz; Cardinal Karl Madruzz; his dispensation; its conditions--Abraham's Garden--Sta. Massenza; Bishop's Summer Palace--Loreto-kapelle--The Rendenathal; St. Vigilius; his zeal; early admission to the episcopate; missionary labours; builds churches; overthrows idols; his stoning; his burial; the rock cloven for his body to pass; the Acqua della Vela; the bread of Mortaso--S. Zulian; his legend; his penitence--Caresolo; its frescoes; another memorial of Charles Quint; his estimation of Jews--New churches--Legends of Condino and Campiglio--Riva on the Garda-see; its churches; its olive branches--The Altissimo di Nago; view from S. Giacomo; optical illusion--Brentonico--The Ponte delle Streghe--Mori; tobacco cultivation 400 Character of Wälsch-Tirol folklore--Orco-Sagen; his transformations in many lands; transliterations of his name in Tirol--The Salvan and Gannes; perhaps Etruscan genii--Salvanel; Bedelmon; Salvadegh--The Beatrik, identified with Dietrich von Bern--The Angane--What came of marrying an Angana--The focarelli of Lunigiana--The Filò--Froberte--Donna Berta dal nas longh--The discriminating Salvan--The Angana's ring; tales of the Three Wishes and the Faithful Beasts; legend of the Drei Feyen of Thal Vent--Legend of St. Kümmerniss; her effigy in Cadore; the prevailing minstrel--Turlulù--Remnants of Etruscan language--'Storielle da rider'--The bear-hunters--The horrible snail--How to make a church tower grow--Social customs perhaps derived from Etruscan; similar to those of Lombardy and Lunigians--All Souls' Day; feast of Sta. Lucia; Christmas; St. Anthony's Day; Carneval; Giovedi de' Gnocchi; St. Urban--Popular sayings about thunder, crickets, brambles, cockchafers, swallows, scorpions--Astronomical riddles 408 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Kufstein Frontispiece. MAPS. The Valleys of Tirol to face p. 12 Unterinnthal and Neighbourhood of Innsbruck 53 Wälsch-Tirol 341 THE VALLEYS OF TIROL THEIR TRADITIONS AND CUSTOMS. CHAPTER I. VORARLBERG. . . . . . Everywhere Fable and Truth have shed, in rivalry, Each her peculiar influence. Fable came, And laughed and sang, arraying Truth in flowers, Like a young child her grandam. Fable came, Earth, sea, and sky reflecting, as she flew, A thousand, thousand colours not their own.--Rogers. 'Traditions, myths, legends! what is the use of recording and propagating the follies and superstitions of a bygone period, which it is the boast of our modern enlightenment to have cast to the winds?' Such is the hasty exclamation which allusion to these fantastic matters very frequently elicits. With many they find no favour because they seem to yield no profit; nay, rather to set up a hindrance in the way of progress and culture. Yet, on the other hand, in spite of their seeming foolishness, they have worked themselves into favour with very various classes of readers and students. There is an audacity in their imagery which no mere sensation-writer could attempt without falling Phaeton-like from his height; and they plunge us so hardily into a world of their own, so preposterous and so unlike ours, while all the time describing it in a language we can understand without effort, that no one who seeks occasional relief from modern monotony but must experience refreshment in the weird excursions their jaunty will-o'the-wisp dance leads him. But more than this; their sportive fancy has not only charmed the dilettante; they have revealed that they hold inherent in them mysteries which have extorted the study of deep and able thinkers, one of whom [15] insisted, now some years ago, that 'by this time the study of popular tales has become a recognized branch of the studies of mankind;' while important and erudite treatises from his own pen and that of others [16] have elevated it further from a study to a science. All who love poetry and art, as well as all who are interested in the study of languages or races, all who have any care concerning the stirrings of the human mind in its search after the supernatural and the infinite, must confess to standing largely in debt, in the absence of more positive records of the earliest phases of thought, to these various mythologies. Karl Blind, in a recent paper on 'German Mythology,' [17] draws attention to some interesting considerations why the Germanic traditions, which we chiefly meet with in Tirol, should have a fascination for us in this country, in the points of contact they present with our language and customs. Not content with reckoning that 'in the words of the Rev. Isaac Taylor we have obtruded on our notice the names of the deities who were worshipped by the Germanic races' on every Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of our lives, as we all know, he would even find the origin of 'Saturday' in the name of a god "Sætere" hidden, (a malicious deity whose name is but an alias for Loki,) of whom, it is recorded, that once at a great banquet he so insulted all the heavenly rulers that they chained him, Prometheus-like, to a rock, and made a serpent trickle down its venom upon his face. His faithful wife Sigyn held a cup over him to prevent the venom reaching his face, but whenever she turned away to empty the cup his convulsive pains were such that the earth shook and trembled.... Few people now-a-days, when pronouncing the simple word "Saturday," think or know of this weird and pathetic myth. [18]... When we go to Athens we easily think of the Greek goddess Athene, when we go to Rome we are reminded of Romulus its mythic founder. But when we go to Dewerstone in Devonshire, to Dewsbury in Yorkshire, to Tewesley in Surrey, to Great Tew in Oxfordshire, to Tewen in Herefordshire--have a great many of us even an inkling that these are places once sacred to Tiu, the Saxon Mars? When we got to Wednesbury, to Wanborough, to Woodnesborough, to Wembury, to Wanstrow, to Wanslike, to Woden Hill, we visit localities where the Great Spirit Wodan was once worshipped. So also we meet with the name of the God of Thunder in Thudersfield, Thundersleigh, Thursleigh, Thurscross, Thursby, and Thurso. The German Venus Freia is traceable in Fridaythorpe and Frathorpe, in Fraisthorpe and Freasley. Her son was Baldur, also called Phol or Pol, the sweet god of peace and light; his name comes out at Balderby, Balderton, Polbrook, Polstead and Polsden. Sætere is probably hidden in Satterleigh and Satterthwaite; Ostara or Eostre, the Easter goddess of Spring, appears in two Essex parishes, Good Easter and High Easter, in Easterford, Easterlake and Eastermear. Again Hel, the gloomy mistress of the underworld, has given her name to Hellifield, Hellathyrne, Helwith, Healeys and Helagh--all places in Yorkshire, where people seem to have had a particular fancy for that dark and grimy deity. Then we have Asgardby and Aysgarth, places reminding us of Asgard, the celestial garden or castle of the Æsir--the Germanic Olympus. And these instances might be multiplied by the hundred, so full is England to this day of the vestiges of Germanic mythology. Far more important is the fact that in this country, just as in Germany, we find current folk-lore; and quaint customs and superstitious beliefs affecting the daily life, which are remnants of the ancient creed. A rime apparently so bereft of sense as Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home! Thy house is on fire! Thy children at home! can be proved to refer to a belief of our forefathers in the coming downfall of the universe by a great conflagration. The ladybird has its name from having been sacred to our Lady Freia. The words addressed to the insect were once an incantation--an appeal to the goddess for the protection of the soul of the unborn, over whom in her heavenly abode she was supposed to keep watch and ward, and whom she is asked to shield from the fire that consumes the world.... If we ever wean men from the crude notions that haunt them, and yet promote the enjoyment of fancies which serve as embellishing garlands for the rude realities of life, we cannot do better than promote a fuller scientific knowledge of that circle of ideas in which those moved who moulded our very speech. We feel delight in the conceptions of the Greek Olympus. Painters and poets still go back to that old fountain of fancy. Why should we not seek for similar delight in studying the figures of the Germanic Pantheon, and the rich folk-lore connected with them? Why should that powerful Bible of the Norse religion, which contains such a wealth of striking ideas and descriptions in language the most picturesque, not be as much perused as the Iliad, the Odyssey, or the Æneid? Is it too much to say that many even of those who know of the Koran, of the precepts of Kou-fu-tsi and of Buddha, of the Zendavesta and the Vedas, have but the dimmest notion of that grand Germanic Scripture?... 'Can it be said that there is a lack of poetical conception in the figure of Wodan or Odin, the hoary ruler of the winds and the clouds, who, clad in a flowing mantle, careers through the sky on a milk-white horse, from whose nostrils fire issues, and who is followed at night by a retinue of heroic warriors whom he leads into the golden shield-adorned Walhalla? Is there a want of artistic delineation in Freia--an Aphrodite and Venus combined, who changes darkness into light wherever she appears--the goddess with the streaming golden locks and siren voice, who hovers in her sun-white robe between heaven and earth, making flowers sprout along her path and planting irresistible longings in the hearts of men? Do we not see in bold and well-marked outline the figure of the red-bearded, steel-handed Thor, who rolls along the sky in his goat-drawn car, and who smites the mountain giants with his magic hammer? Are these mere spectres without distinct contour?... are they not, even in their uncouth passions, the representatives of a primitive race, in which the pulse throbs with youthful freshness? Or need I allude to that fantastic theory of minor deities, of fairies and wood-women, and elfin and pixies and cobolds, that have been evolved out of all the forces of Nature by the Teutonic mind, and before whose bustling crowd even Hellenic imagination pales? 'Then what a dramatic power has the Germanic mythology! The gods of classic antiquity have been compared to so many statues ranged along a stately edifice ... in the Germanic view all is active struggle, dramatic contest, with a deep dark background of inevitable fate that controls alike gods and men.' Such are the Beings whom we meet wandering all over Tirol; transformed often into new personalities, invested with new attributes and supplemented with many a mysterious companion, the offspring of an imagination informed by another order of thought, but all of them more living, and more readily to be met with, than in any part of wonder-loving Germany itself. Apart from their mythological value, how large is the debt we owe to legends and traditions in building up our very civilization. Their influence on art is apparent, from the earliest sculptured stones unearthed in India or Etruria to the latest breathing of symbolism in the very reproductions of our own day. In poetry, no less a master than Dante lamented that their influence was waning at the very period ascribed a few years ago as the date of their taking rise. Extolling the simpler pursuits and pleasures of his people at a more primitive date than his own, 'One by the crib kept watch,' he says, 'studious to still the infant plaint with words which erst the parents' minds diverted; another, the flaxen maze upon the distaff twirling, recounted to her household, tales of Troy, Fiesole, and Rome.' [19] Their work is patent in his own undying pages, and in those of all true poets before and since. Besides all this, have they not preserved to us, as in a registering mirror, the manners and habits of thought of the ages preceding ours? Have they not served to record as well as to mould the noblest aspirations of those who have gone before? 'What are they,' asks an elegant Italian writer of the present day, [20] treating, however, only of the traditions of the earliest epoch of Christianity, 'but narratives woven beside the chimney, under the tent, during the halt of the caravan, embodying as in a lively picture the popular customs of the apostolic ages, the interior life of the rising (nascente) Christian society? In them we have a delightful opportunity of seeing stereotyped the great transformation and the rich source of ideas and sentiments which the new belief opened up, to illuminate the common people in their huts no less than the patricians in their palaces. Those even who do not please to believe the facts they expose are afforded a genuine view of the habits of life, the manner of speaking and behaving--all that expresses and paints the erudition of those men and of those times. Thus, it may be affirmed, they comment beautifully on the Gospels, and in the midst of fables is grafted a great abundance of truth. 'If we would investigate the cause of their multiplication, and of the favour with which they were received from the earliest times, we shall find it to consist chiefly in the need and love of the marvellous which governed the new society, notwithstanding the severity of its dogmas. Neophytes snatched from the superstitions of paganism would not have been able all at once to suppress every inclination for poetical fables. They needed another food according to their fancy. And indeed were they not great marvels (though of another order from those to which they were accustomed) which were narrated to them? The aggregate mass was, however, increased by the way in which they lived and the scarcity of communication; every uncertain rumour was thus readily dressed up in the form of a wonderful fact. 'Again, dogmatic and historical teaching continued long to be oral; so that when an apostle, or the apostle of an apostle, arrived in any city and chained the interest of the faithful with a narration of the acts of Jesus he had himself witnessed or received from the personal narrative of witnesses, his words ran along from mouth to mouth, and each repeater added something, suggested by his faith or by his heart. In this way his teaching constituted itself into a legend, which in the end was no longer the narrative of one, but the expression of the faith of all. 'Thus whoever looks at legends only as isolated productions of a period most worthy of study, without attending to the influence they exercised on later epochs, must even so hold them in account as literary monuments of great moment.' Nor is this the case only with the earliest legends. The popular mind in all ages has evinced a necessity for filling up all blanks in the histories of its heroes. The probable, and even the merely possible, is idealized; what might have been is reckoned to have happened; the logical deductions as to what a favourite saint or cobbold ought to have done, according to certain fixed principles of action previously ascribed to his nature, are taken to be the very acts he did perform; and thus, even those traditions which are the most transparently human in their origin, have served to show reflected in action the virtues and perfections which it is the boast of religion to inculcate. A Flemish writer on Spanish traditions similarly remarks, 'Peoples who are cut off from the rest of the world by such boundaries as seas, mountains, or wastes, by reason of the difficulty of communication thus occasioned, are driven to concentrate their attention to local events; and in their many idle hours they work up their myths and tales into poems, which stand them in stead of books, and, in fact, constitute a literature.' [21] Europe possesses in Tirol one little country at least in whose mountain fastnesses a store of these treasures not only lies enshrined, but where we may yet see it in request. Primitive and unsophisticated tillers of the soil, accustomed to watch as a yearly miracle the welling up of its fruits, and to depend for their hopes of subsistence on the sun and rain in the hand of their Creator, its children have not yet acquired the independence of thought and the habit of referring all events to natural causes, which is generated by those industries of production to which the human agent appears to be all in all. Among them we have the opportunity of seeing these expositions of the supernatural, at home as it were in their contemporary life, supplying a representation of what has gone before, only to be compared to the revelations of deep-cut strata to the geologist, and the unearthing of buried cities to the student of history. It is further satisfactory to find that, in spite of our repugnance to superstition, this unreasoning realization of the supernatural has in no way deteriorated the people. Their public virtues, seen in their indomitable devotion to their country, have been conspicuous in all ages, no less than their heroic labours in grappling with the obstacles of soil and climate; while all who have visited them concur in bearing testimony to their possession of sterling homely qualities, frugality, morality, hospitality; and, for that which is of most importance to the tourist, all who have been among them will bear witness to the justice of the remark in the latest Guide-book, that, except just in the more cultivated centres of Innsbruck, Brixen, and Botzen, you need take no thought among the Tiroleans concerning the calls on your purse. My first acquaintance with Tirol was made at Feldkirch, where I had to pay somewhat dearly for my love of the legendary and the primitive. Our plan for the autumn was to join a party of friends from Italy at Innsbruck, spend some months of long-promised enjoyment in exploring Tirol, and return together to winter in Rome. The arrangements of the journey had been left to me; and as I delight in getting beyond railways and travelling in a conveyance whose pace and hours are more under one's own control, I traced our road through France to Bâle, and then by way of Zurich and Rorschach and Oberriet to Feldkirch (which I knew to be a post-station) as a base of operations, for leisurely threading our mountain way through Bludenz and Landeck and the intervening valleys to Innsbruck. How our plan was thwarted [22] I will relate presently. I still recommend this line of route to others less encumbered with luggage, as leading through out-of-the-way and unfrequented places. The projected railway between Feldkirch and Innsbruck is now completed as far as Bludenz; and Feldkirch is reached direct by the new junction with the Rorschach-Chur railway at Buchsstation. [23] Feldkirch affords excursions, accessible for all, to the Margarethenkapf and the St. Veitskapf, from either of which a glorious view is to be enjoyed. The latter commands the stern gorges through which the Ill makes its final struggles before losing its identity in the Rhine--struggles which are often terrific and devastating, for every few years it carries down a whole torrent of pebbles for many days together. The former overlooks the more smiling tracts we traversed in our forced march, locally called the Ardetzen, hemmed in by noble mountain peaks. Then its fortifications, intended at one time to make it a strong border town against Switzerland, have left some few picturesque remains, and in particular the so-called Katzenthurm, named from certain clumsy weapons styled 'cat's head guns,' which once defended it, and which were ultimately melted down to make a chime of peaceful bells. And then it has two or three churches to which peculiar legends attach. Not the least curious of these is that of St. Fidelis, a local saint, whose cultus sprang up as late as the year 1622, when he was laid in wait for and assassinated by certain fanatical reprobates, whose consciences his earnest preaching had disturbed. He was declared a martyr, and canonized at Rome in 1746. The sword with which he was put to death, the bier on which his body was carried back into the town, and other things belonging to him, are venerated as relics. About eight miles outside the town another saint is venerated with a precisely similar history, but dating from the year 844. This is St. Eusebius, one of a band of Scotch missionaries, who founded a monastery there called Victorsberg, the oldest foundation in all Vorarlberg. St. Eusebius, returning from a pilgrimage one day, lay down to sleep in this neighbourhood, being overtaken by the darkness of night. Heathen peasants, who had resisted his attempts at converting them, going out early in the morning to mow, found him lying on the ground, and one of them cut off his head with his scythe. To their astonishment the decapitated body rose to its feet, and, taking up the head in its hands, walked straight to the door of the monastery, where the brethren took it in and laid it to rest in the churchyard. A little further (reached most conveniently by a by-path off the road near Altenstadt, mentioned below,) is Rankweil. In the church on Our Lady's Mount (Frauenberg) is a little chapel on the north side, where a reddish stone is preserved (Der rothe Stein in der Fridolinskapelle), of which the following story is told. St. Fridolin was a Scotch missionary in the seventh century, and among other religious houses had founded one at Müsigen. Two noblemen of this neighbourhood (brothers) held him in great respect, and before dying, one of them, Ursus by name, endowed the convent with all his worldly goods. Sandolf, the other, who did not carry his admiration of the saint to so great a length as to renounce his brother's rich inheritance, disputed the possession, and it was decided that Fridolin must give it up unless he could produce the testimony of the donor. Fridolin went in faith to Glarus, where Ursus had been buried two years before. At his call the dead man rose to his feet, and pushing the grave-stone aside, walked, hand-in-hand, with his friend back to Rankweil, where he not only substantiated Fridolin's statements, but so effectually frightened his brother that he immediately added to the gift all his own possessions also. But the story says that when the judgment requiring him to produce the testimony of the dead was first given, Fridolin went to pray in the chapel of Rankweil, and there a shining being appeared to him, and told him to go to Glarus and call Ursus; and as he spoke Fridolin's knees sank into the 'red stone,' making the marks now seen. [24] The reason given why this hill is called Our Lady's Mound is, that on it once stood a fortress called Schönberg. Schönberg having been burnt down, its owner, the knight of Hörnlingen, set about rebuilding it; but whatever work his workmen did in the day-time, was destroyed by invisible hands during the night. A pious old workman, too, used to hear a mysterious voice saying that instead of a fortress they should build a sanctuary in honour of the mother of God. The knight yielded to the commands of the voice, and the church was built out of the ruins of his castle. In this church, too, is preserved a singular antique cross, studded with coloured glass gems, which the people venerate because it was brought down to them by the mountain stream. It is obviously of very ancient workmanship, and an inscription records that it was repaired in 1347. Winding round the mountain path which from Rankweil runs behind Feldkirch to Satteins, the convent of Valduna is reached; and the origin of this sanctuary is ascribed to a legend, of which counterparts crop up in various places, of a hermit who passed half a life within a hollow tree, [25] and acquired the lasting veneration of the neighbouring people. Another mountain sanctuary which received its veneration from the memory of a tree-hermit, is S. Gerold, situated on a little elevation below the Hoch Gerach, about seven miles on the east side of Feldkirch. It dates from the tenth century. Count Otho, Lord of Sax in the Rhinethal, was out hunting, when the bear to which he was giving chase sought refuge at the foot of an old oak tree, whither his dogs durst not follow it. Living as a hermit within this oak tree Count Otho found his long lost father, S. Gerold, who years before had forsaken his throne and found there a life of contemplation in the wild. [26] The tomb of the saint and his two sons is to be seen in the church, and some curious frescoes with the story of his adventures. Another way to be recommended for entering Vorarlberg is by crossing Lake Constance from Rorschach to Lindau, a very pleasant trajet of about two hours in the tolerably well-appointed, but not very swift lake-steamers. Lindau itself is a charming old place, formed out of three islands on the edge of the lake; but as it is outside the border of Tirol, I will only note in favour of the honesty of its inhabitants, that I saw a tree laden with remarkably fine ripe pears overhanging a wall in the principal street, and no street-boy raised a hand to them. The first town in Tirol by this route is Bregenz, which reckons as the capital of Vorarlberg. It may be reached by boat in less than half an hour. It is well situated at the foot of the Gebhartsberg, which affords a most delightful, and in Tirol widely celebrated, view over Lake Constance and the Appenzel mountains and the rapid Rhine between; and here, at either the Post Hotel or the Black Eagle, there is no lack of carriages for reaching Feldkirch. Bregenz deserves to be remembered as the birth-place of one of the best modern painters of the Munich-Roman school, Flatz, who I believe, spends much of his time there. Among the objects of interest in Bregenz are the Capuchin Convent, situated on a wooded peak of the Gebhardsberg, founded in 1636; on another peak, S. Gebhard auf dem Pfannenberge, called after a bishop of Constance, who preached the Christian faith in the neighbourhood, and was martyred. Bregenz has an ancient history and high lineage. Its lords, who were powerful throughout the Middle Ages, were of sufficiently high estate at the time of Charlemagne that he should take Hildegard, the daughter of one of them, to be his wife, and there is a highly poetical popular tale about her. Taland (a favourite name in Vorarlberg) was a suitor who had, with jealous eye, seen her given to the powerful Emperor, and in the bitterness of his rejected affection, so calumniated her to Charlemagne, that he repudiated her and married Desiderata, the Lombard princess. [27] Hildegard accepted her trial with angelic resignation, and devoted her life to tending pilgrims at Rome. Meantime Taland, stricken with blindness, came to Rome in penitential pilgrimage, where he fell under the charitable care of Hildegard. Hildegard's saintly handling restored his sight--not only that of his bodily eyes, but also his moral perception of truth and falsehood. In reparation for the evil he had done, he now led her back to Charlemagne, confessed all, and she was once more restored to favour and honour. Bregenz has also another analogous and equally beautiful legend. One of its later counts, Ulrich V., was supposed by his people to have died in war in Hungary, about the year 916. Wendelgard, his wife, devoted her widowhood to the cloistral life, but took the veil under the condition that she should every year hold a popular festival and distribution of alms in memory of her husband. On the fourth anniversary, as she was distributing her bounty, a pilgrim came forward who allowed himself the liberty of kissing the hand which bestowed the dole. Wendelgard's indignation was changed into delight when she recognized that the audaciously gallant pilgrim was no other than her own lord, who, having succeeded in delivering himself from captivity, had elected to make himself thus known to her. Salomo, Bishop of Constance, dispensed her from her vow, and Ulrich passed the remainder of his life at Bregenz by her side. Another celebrated worthy of Bregenz, whose name must not be passed over, is 'Ehreguota' or 'Ehre Guta,' a name still dear to every peasant of Vorarlberg, and which has perpetuated itself in the appellation of Hergotha, a favourite Christian name there to the present day. She was a poor beggar-woman really named Guta, whose sagacity and courage delivered her country people from an attack of the Appenzell folk, to which they had nearly succumbed in the year 1408; it was the 'honour' paid her by her patriotic friends that added the byname of 'Ehre,' and made them erect a monument to her. One of the variants of the story makes her, instead of a beggar-woman, the beautiful young bride of Count Wilhelm of Montfort-Bregenz; some have further sought to identify her with the goddess Epona. Pursuing the journey southwards towards Feldkirch, every step is full of natural beauty and legendary interest. At first leaving Bregenz you have to part company with Lake Constance, and leave in the right hand distance the ruins of Castle Fussach. On the left is Riedenberg, which, if not great architecturally, is interesting as a highly useful institution, under the fostering care of the present Empress of Austria, for the education of girls belonging to families of a superior class with restricted means. From Fussach the road runs parallel to the Rhine; there is a shorter road by Dornbirn, but less interesting, which joins it again at Götzis, near Hohenembs. The two roads separate before Fussach at Wolfurth, where there is an interesting chapel, the bourne of a pilgrimage worth making if only for the view over the lake. The country between S. John Höchst and Lustenau is much frequented in autumn for the sake of the shooting afforded by the wild birds which haunt its secluded recesses on the banks of the Rhine at that season. At Lustenau there is a ferry over the Rhine. The favourite saints of this part of the country are Merboth, Diedo, and Ilga--two brothers and a sister of a noble family, hermit-apostles and martyrs of the eleventh century. Ilga established her hermit-cell in the Schwarzenberg, just over Dornbirn, where not only all dainty food, but even water, was wanting. The people of Dornbirn also wanted water; and though she had not asked the boon for herself, she asked it for her people, and obtained from the hard rock, a miraculous spring of sparkling water which even the winter cold could not freeze. Ilga used to fetch this water for her own use, and carry it up the mountain paths in her apron. One day she spilt some of it on the rock near her cell on her arrival, and see! as it touched the rock, the rock responded to the appeal, and from out there flowed a corresponding stream, which has never ceased to flow to this day. The most important and interesting spot between Bregenz and Feldkirch, is Embs or Hohenembs, with its grand situation, its picturesque buildings and its two ruined castles, which though distinguished as Alt and Neu Hohenembs, do not display at first sight any very great disparity of age; both repay a visit, but the view from Alt Hohenembs is the finer. The virtues and bravery of the lords of Hohenembs have been duly chronicled. James Von Embs served by the side of the chevalier Bayard in the battle of Ravenna, and having at the first onset received his death wound, raised himself up again to pour out his last breath in crying to his men, 'The King of France has been our fair ally, let us serve him bravely this day!' His grandson, who was curiously enough christened James Hannibal, was the first Count of Embs, and his descendants often figure in records of the wars of the Austrian Empire, particularly in those connected with the famous Schmalkaldischer Krieg, and are now merged in the family of Count Harrach. The 'Swiss embroidery' industry here crosses the Rhine, and, in the female gatherings which it occasions, as in the 'Filo' of the south, many local chronicles and legends are, or at least have been, perpetuated. In the parish church, I have been told by a traveller, that the cardinal's hat of S. Charles Borromeo is preserved, though why it should be so I cannot tell; and I think I have myself had it shown me both at Milan and, if I mistake not, also at the church in Rome whence he had his 'title.' The ascent to Neu Hohenembs has sufficient difficulty and danger for the unpractised pedestrian to give it special interest, which the roaring of the waterfall tends to excite. A little way beyond it the water was formerly turned to the purpose of an Italian pescheria (or fish-preserve for the use of the castle), which is not now very well preserved. Further up still are the ruins of Alt Hohenembs. There are also prettily situated sulphur baths a little way out of the town, much frequented from June to September by the country people. It is curious that the Jews, who have never hitherto settled in large numbers in any part of Tirol, have here a synagogue; and I am told that it serves for nearly a hundred families scattered over the surrounding country, though there are not a dozen even at Innsbruck. All I have met with of interest between this and Feldkirch, I have mentioned under the head of excursions from Feldkirch. Stretching along the bank of the Rhine to the south of Feldkirch, is the little principality of Lichtenstein or Liechtenstein, a territory of some three square miles and a half in extent, which yet gives its possessor--lately by marriage made a member of English society--certain seignorial rights. The chief industry of the people is the Swiss embroidery. Vaduz, its chief town, is situated in its centre, and above it, in the midst of a thick wood, is the somewhat imposing and well kept up castle of Lichtenstein. Further south, overhanging the Rhine, is Schloss Gutenberg, and beyond, a remarkable warm sulphur spring, which runs only in summer, at a temperature of 98° to 100° Fahrenheit; it is crowded by Swiss and Tiroleans from June to September, though unknown to the rest of the world. [28] It was discovered in the year 1240 by a chamois-hunter, and was soon after taken in charge by a colony of Benedictine monks, established close by at Pfäffers, who continued to entertain those who visited it until it was taken possession of by the Communal Council of Chur, and the monastery turned into a poor-house. The country round it is exceedingly wild and romantic, and there is a celebrated ravine called the Tamina-Schlund, of so-called immeasurable depth, where at certain hours of a sunny day a wonderful play of light is to be observed. Pfäffers is just outside the boundary of Tirol; the actual boundary line is formed by the Rhætian Alps, which are traversed by a pass called Luziensteig, after St. Lucius, 'first Christian king of Britain,' who, tradition says, preached the gospel to Lichtenstein. [29] The road from Feldkirch to Innsbruck first runs along the Illthal, which between Feldkirch and Bludenz is also called the Wallgau, and merges at Bludenz into the Walserthal on the left or north side. On the right or south side are the Montafonthal, Klosterthal, and Silberthal. Soon after leaving Feldkirch the mountains narrow upon the road, which crosses the Ill at Felsenau, forming what is called the gorge of the Ill, near Frastanz. Round this terrible pass linger memories of one of the direst struggles for independence the Tiroleans ever waged. In 1499 the Swiss hosts were shown the inlet, through the mountains that so well protect Tirol, by a treacherous peasant whom their gold had bought. [30] A little shepherd lad seeing them advance, in his burning desire to save his country, blew such a call to arms upon his horn that he never desisted till he had blown all the breath out of his little body. The subsequent battle was fierce and determined; and when it slackened from loss of men, the women rushed in and fought with the bravest. So earnestly was the cause of those who fell felt to be the cause of all, that even to the present time the souls of those who were slain that day are remembered in the prayers said as the procession nears the spot when blessing the fields on Rogation-Wednesday. On the heights above Valduna are the striking ruins of a convent of Poor Clares, one of those abandoned at the fiat of Joseph II. It was founded on occasion of a hermit declaring he had often seen a beautiful angel sitting and singing enchantingly on the peak. Below is a tiny lake, which lends an additional charm to the tranquil beauty of the spot. The patron saint of the Walserthal is St. Joder or Theodul (local renderings of Theodoric), and his legend is most fantastic. St. Joder went to Rome to see the Pope; the Pope, in commendation of his zeal, gave him a fine bell for his church. Homewards went St. Joder with his bell, but when he came to the mountains it was more than he could manage, to drag the bell after him. What did he then do? He bethought him that he had, by his prayers and exorcisms, conjured the devil out of the valley where he had preached the faith, so why should not prayer and exorcism conjure him to carry the bell for the service of his faithful flock? If St. Joder's faith did not remove mountains it removed the obstacles they presented, and many a bit of rude carving in mountain chapels throughout the Walserthal shows a youthful saint, in rich episcopal vestments, leading by a chain, like a showman his bear, the arch enemy of souls, crouched and sweating under the weight of the bell whose holy tones are to sound his own ban. [31] Bludenz retains some picturesque remnants of its old buildings. It belonged to the Counts of Sonnenberg, and hence it is said that it is often called by that name; but it is perhaps more probable that the height above Bludenz was called Sonnenberg, in contrast with Schattenberg, above Feldkirch, and that its lords derived their name from it. The story of the fidelity of Bludenz to Friedrich mit der leeren Tasche, I have narrated in another place. [32] The valley of Montafon has for its arms the cross keys of St. Peter, in memory of a traditionary but anachronistic journey of Pope John XXIII. to the Council of Constance, in 1414. [33] In memory of the same journey a joy-peal is rung on every Wednesday throughout the year. A little way south of Bludenz, down the Montafon valley, is a chapel on a little height called S. Anton, covering the spot where tradition says was once a mighty city called Prazalanz, destroyed by an avalanche. Near here is a tiny stream, of which the peasants tell the following story:--They say up the mountain lives a beautiful maiden, set to guard a treasure, and she can only be released when some one will thrice kiss a loathsome toad, [34] which has its place on the cover of the treasury, and the maiden feels assured no one will ever make the venture. She weeps evermore, and they call this streamlet the 'Trächnabächle'--the Tear-rill. The valley of Montafon is further celebrated for its production of kirschwasser. Opposite Dalaas is a striking peak, attaining an elevation of some 5,000 feet, called the Christberg. On the opposite side to Dalaas is a chapel of St. Agatha; in the days of the silver mining of Tirol, in the fifteenth century, silver was found in this neighbourhood. On one occasion a landslip imprisoned a number of miners in their workings. In terror at their threatened death, they vowed that if help reached them in time, they would build a chapel on the spot to commemorate their deliverance. Help did reach them, and they kept their vow. The chapel is built into the living rock where this occurred, and a grey mark on the rock is pointed out as a supernatural token which cannot be effaced, to remind the people of the deliverance that took place there. It is reached from Dalaas by a terribly steep and rugged path, running over the Christberg, near the summit of which may be found, by those whom its hardships do not deter, another chapel, or wayside shrine, consisting of an image of the Blessed Virgin under a canopy, with an alcoved seat beneath it for the votary to rest in, called 'Das Bruederhüsle,' and this is the reason of its name:--The wife of a Count Tanberg gave birth to a dead child; in the fulness of their faith, the parents mourned that to the soul of their little one Christian baptism had been denied, more than the loss of their offspring. In pursuance of a custom then in vogue in parts of Tirol, if not elsewhere, the Count sent the body of the infant to be laid on the altar of St. Joseph, in the parish church, in the hope that at the intercession of the fosterfather of the Saviour it might revive for a sufficient interval to receive the sacrament of admission into the Christian family. The servant, however, instead of carrying his burden to the church at Schruns (in Montafonthal), finding himself weary by the time he had climbed up the Christberg, dug a grave, and buried it instead. The next year there was another infant, also born dead; this time the Count determined to carry it himself to the church, and by the time he had toiled to the same spot he too was weary, and sat down to rest. As he sat he heard a little voice crying from under the ground, 'ätti, nüm mi' ô met!' [35] The Count turned up the soil, and found the body of his last year's infant. Full of joy he carried both brothers to the altar of St. Joseph, at Schruns; here, continues the legend, his prayer went up before the divine throne; both infants gave signs of life before devout witnesses; baptism could be validly administered, and they, laid to rest in holy ground. [36] After Dalaas the road assumes a character of real grandeur, both as an engineering work and as a study of nature. The size of the telegraph poles alone (something like fourteen inches in diameter) gives an idea of the sort of storms the road is built to resist; so do the veritable fortifications, erected here and there, to protect it from avalanches. The summit (6,218 ft.) of the Arlberg, whence the province has its name--and which in turn is named from Schloss Arlen, the ruins of which are to be observed from the road--is marked by a gigantic crucifix, overhanging the road. An inscription cut in the rock records that it was opened for traffic (after three hard years of labour) on St. James's day, 1787; but a considerable stretch of the road now used was made along a safer and more sheltered pass in 1822-4, when a remarkable viaduct called the Franzensbrücke was built. Two posts, striped with the local colours, near the crucifix above-named, mark the boundary of Vorarlberg and Oberinnthal. As we pass them we should take leave of Vorarlberg; but it may be convenient to mention in this place some few of the more salient of the many points of interest on the onward road to Innsbruck. The opening of the Stanzerthal, indeed, on which the road is carried, seems to belong of right to Vorarlberg, for its first post-halt of S. Christof came into existence through the agency of a poor foundling boy of that province, who was so moved by the sufferings of travellers at his date (1386), that he devoted his life to their service, and by begging collected money to found the nucleus of the hospice and brotherhood of S. Christof, which lasted till the time of Joseph II. The pass at its highest part is free from snow only from the beginning of July to September, and in the depth of winter it accumulates to a height of twenty feet. The church contains considerable remains of the date of its founder, Heinrich das Findelkind; of this date, or not much later, must be the gigantic statue of S. Christopher, patron of wayfarers. The Stanzerthal, without being less grand, presents a much more smiling prospect than that traversed during the later part of the journey through Vorarlberg. The waters of the Rosanna and the Trisanna flow by the way; the mountains stretch away in the distance, in every hue of brilliant colouring; the whole landscape is studded with villages clustering round their church steeples, while Indian-corn-fields, fruit-gardens in which the barberry holds no insignificant place, and vast patches of a deep-tinted wild flora, fill up the picture. At Schloss Wiesburg is the opening into the Patznaunthal, the chief village of which is Ischgl, where the custom I have heard of in other parts of Tirol, and also in Brittany, prevails, of preserving the skulls of the dead in an open vault in the churchyard, with their names painted on them. Nearly opposite it, off the left side of the road lies Grüns or Grins, so called because it affords a bright green patch amid the grey of the rocks. It was a more important place in mediæval times, for the road then ran beside it; the bridge with its pointed arches dates from the year 1639. Margareta Maultasch, with whose place in Tirolese history we must make acquaintance further on, had a house here which still contains some curious mural paintings. Landeck [37] is an important thriving little town, with the Inn flowing through its midst. It has two fine remains of ancient castles: Schloss Landeck, now used partly as a hospice; and Schloss Schrofenstein, of difficult access, haunted by a knight, who gave too ready ear to the calumnies of a rejected suitor of his wife, and must wander round its precincts wringing his fettered hands and crying 'Woe!' On the slope of the hill crowned by Schloss Landeck stands the parish church. Its first foundation dates from the fifteenth century, when a Landecker named Henry and his wife Eva, having lost their two children in a forest, on vowing a church in honour of the Blessed Virgin, met a bear and a wolf each carrying one of the children tenderly on its back. It has a double-bulbed tower of much later date, and it was restored with considerable care a few years back; but many important parts remain in their original condition, including some early sculpture. In the churchyard are two important monuments, one dating from the fifteenth century, of Oswald Y. Schrofenstein; the other, a little gothic chapel, consecrated on August 22, 1870, in memory of the Landeck contingent of the Tirolean sharpshooters, who assisted in defending the borders of Wälsch-Tirol in 1866. [38] About two or three miles from Landeck there is a celebrated waterfall, at a spot called Letz. Imst was formerly celebrated for its breed of canary-birds, which its townsmen used to carry all over Europe. The church contains a votive tablet, put up by some of them on occasion of being saved from shipwreck in the Mediterranean. It has a good old inn, once a knightly palace. From Imst the Pitzthal branches southwards; but concerning it I have not space to enlarge, as the more interesting excursion to Füssen, on the Bavarian frontier, must not be passed over. The pleasantest way of making this excursion is to engage a carriage for the whole distance at Imst, but a diligence or 'Eilwagen,' running daily between Innsbruck and Füssen, may be met at Nassereit, some three miles along the Gunglthal. At Nassereit I will pause a moment to mention a circumstance, bearing on the question of the formation of legends, which seemed to take considerable hold on the people, and was narrated to me with a manifest impression of belief in the supernatural. There was a pilgrimage from a place called Biberwier to a shrine of the Virgin, at Dormiz, on August 10, 1869. It was to gain the indulgence of the Vatican Council, and the priest of Biberwier in exhorting his people to treat it entirely as a matter of penance, and not as a party of pleasure, had made use of a figure of speech bidding them not to trust themselves to the bark of worldly pleasure, for, he assured them, it had many holes in it, and would swamp them instead of bearing them on to the joys of heaven. Four of the men, however, persisted in disregarding his warning, and in combining a trip to the Fernsee, one of two romantically situated mountain lakes overlooked by the ancient castle of Sigmundsburg, on a promontory running into it and with its Wirthshaus 'auf dem Fern' forming a favourite though difficult pleasure-excursion. The weather was treacherous; the boat was swamped in the squall which ensued, and all four men were drowned. From Nassereit also is generally made the ascent of the Tschirgants, the peak which has constantly formed a remarkable feature in the landscape all the way from Arlberg. The road to Füssen passes by Sigmundsburg, Fernsee and Biberwier mentioned in the preceding narrative also the beautiful Blendsee and Mittersee (accessible only to the pedestrian) or rather the by-paths leading to them. Leermoos is the next place passed,--a straggling, inconsiderable hamlet, but affording a pleasing incident in the landscape, when, after passing it, the steep road winds back upon it and reveals it again far far below you. It is, however, quite possible to put up for a night with the accommodation afforded by the Post inn, and by this means one of the most justly celebrated natural beauties may be enjoyed, in the sunset effects produced by the lighting up of the Zugspitzwand. Next is Lähn, whose situation disposes one to believe the tradition that it has its name from the avalanches (Lawinen, locally contracted into Lähne) by which the valley is frequently visited, and chiefly from a terrible one, in the fifteenth century, which destroyed the village, till then called Mitterwald. A carrier who had been wont to pass that way, struck with compassion at the desolation of the place, aided in providing the surviving inhabitants to rebuild their chapel, and tradition fables of him that they were aided by an angel. The road opens out once more as we approach Heiterwang; there is also a post-road hence to Ammergau; here, a small party may put up at the Rossl, for the sake of visiting the Plansee, the second largest lake of Tirol, on the right (east) of the road; on the left is the opening of the Lechthal, a difficult excursion even to the most practised pedestrian. For those who study convenience the Plansee may be better visited from Reutte. After Heiterwang the rocks close in again on the road as we pass through the Ehrenberger Klause, celebrated again and again through the pages of Tirolese history, from the very earliest times, for heroic defences; its castle is an important and beautiful ruin; and so the road proceeds to Reutte, Füssen, and the much visited Lustschloss of Schwangau; but as these are in Bavaria I must not occupy my Tirolese pages with them, but mention only the Mangtritt, the boundary pass, where a cross stands out boldly against the sky, in memory of S. Magnus, the apostle of these valleys. The devil, furious at the success of the saint with his conversion of the heathen inhabitants, sent a tribe of wild and evil men, says one version of the legend, a formidable dragon according to another, to exterminate him; he was thus driven to the narrow glen where the fine post-road now runs between the rocks beside the roaring Lech. Nothing daunted, the saint sprang across to the opposite rock whither his adversaries, who had no guardian angels' wings to 'bear them up', durst not pursue him; it is a curious fact for the comparative mythologist that the same pass bears also the name of Jusulte (Saltus Julii) and the tradition that Julius Cæsar performed a similar feat here on horseback. Near it is a poor little inn, called 'the White House,' where local vintages may be tasted. Reutte has two inns; the Post and Krone, and from it more excursions may be made than I have space to chronicle. That to Breitenwang is an easy one; a house here is pointed out as having been built on the spot where stood a poor hut which gave shelter in his last moments to Lothair II. 'the Saxon' overtaken by death on his return journey from the war in Italy, 1137; what remained of the old materials having been conscientiously worked into the building, down to the most insignificant spar; a tablet records the event. The church, a Benedictine foundation of the twelfth century, was rebuilt in the seventeenth, and contains many specimens of what Tirolese artists can do in sculpture, wood-carving, and painting. A quaint chapel in the churchyard has a representation in stucco of the 'Dance of Death.' The country between this and the Plansee is called the Achenthal, fortunately distinguished by local mispronounciation as the Archenthal from the better known (though not deservingly so) Achenthal, which we shall visit later. The Ache or Arche affords several water-falls, the most important of them, the Stuibfall, is nearly a hundred feet in height, and on a bright evening a beautiful 'iris' may be seen enthroned in its foam. At the easternmost extremity of the Plansee, to be reached either by pleasure boat or mountain path, near the little border custom-house, the Kaiser-brunnen flows into the lake, so called because its cool waters once afforded a refreshing drink to Ludwig of Brandenberg, when out hunting: a crucifix marks the spot. There is also a chapel erected at the end of the 17th century, in consequence of some local vow, containing a picture of the 'Vierzehn Nothhelfer;' and as the so-called 'Fourteen Helpers in Need' are a favourite devotion all over North-Tirol I may as well mention their legend here at our first time of meeting them. The story is that on the feast of the Invention of the Cross, 1445, a shepherd-boy named Hermann, serving the Cistercian monks of Langheim (some thirty miles south of Mayence) was keeping sheep on a farm belonging to them in Frankenthal not far from Würtzburg, when he heard a child's voice crying to him out of the long grass; he turned round and saw a beautiful infant with two tapers burning before it, who disappeared as he approached. On the vigil of S. Peter in the following year Hermann saw the same vision repeated, only this time the beautiful infant was surrounded by a court of fourteen other children, who told him they were the 'Vierzehn Nothelfer,' and that he was to build a chapel to them. The monks refused to believe Hermann's story, but the popular mind connected it with a devotion which was already widespread, and by the year 1448 the mysteriously ordered chapel was raised, and speedily became a place of pilgrimage. This chapel has been constantly maintained and enlarged and has now grown into a considerable church; and the devotion to the 'Fourteen Helpers in Need' spread over the surrounding country with the usual rapid spread of a popular devotion. [39] The chief remaining points of interest in the further journey to Innsbruck, taking it up where we diverged from it at Nassereit, are mentioned later in my excursions for Innsbruck. Before closing my chapter on Vorarlberg I must put on record, as a warning to those who may choose to thread its pleasant valleys, a laughable incident which cut short my first attempt to penetrate into Tirol by its means. Our line of route I have already named. [40] Our start was in the most genial of August weather; our party not only harmonious, but humorously inclined; all our stages were full of interest and pleasure, and their memory glances at me reproachfully as I pass them over in rigid obedience to the duty of adhering to my programme. But no, I must devote a word of gratitude to the friendly Swiss people, and their kindly hospitable manners on all occasions. The pretty bathing establishments on the lakes, where the little girls go in on their way to school, and swim about as elegantly as if the water were their natural element; the wonderful roofs of Aarau; its late-flowering pomegranates; and the clear delicious water, tumbling along its narrow bed down the centre of all the streets, where we stop to taste of the crystal brook, using the hollow of our hands, pilgrim fashion, and the kind people more than once come out of their houses to offer us glasses and chairs! I must bestow, too, another line of record on the charming village of Rorschach, the little colony of Catholics in the midst of a Protestant canton. Its delicious situation on the Boden-see; our row over the lake by moonlight, where we are nearly run down by one of the steamers perpetually crossing it in all directions, while our old boatman pours out and loses himself in the mazes of his legendary lore; the strange effect of interlacing moonbeams, interspersed by golden rays from the sanct lamps with Turner-like effect, seen through the open grated door of the church; the grotesque draped skeletons supporting the roof of one of the chapels, Caryatid fashion and the rustic procession on the early morning of the Assumption. So far all had gone passing well; my first misgiving arose when I saw the factotum of the Oberriet station eye our luggage, the provision of four English winterers in Rome, and a look of embarrassed astonishment dilate his stolid German countenance. It was evident that when he engaged himself as ticket-clerk, porter, 'and everyting,' he never contemplated such a pile of boxes being ever deposited at his station. We left him wrapt in his earnest gaze, and walked on to see what help we could get in the village. It was a collection of a half-dozen cottages, picturesque in their utter uncivilization, clustered round an inn of some pretensions. The host had apparently heard of the depth of English purses, and was delighted to make his premières armes in testing their capacity. Of course there was 'no arguing with the master of' the only horses to whose assistance we had to look for carrying us beyond the mountains, which now somehow struck us as much more plainly marked on the map than we had noticed before. His price had to be ours, and his statement of the distance, about double the reality, had to be accepted also. His stud was soon displayed before us. Three rather tired greys were brought in from the field, and made fast (or rather loose) with ropes to a waggon, on which our formidable Gepäck was piled, and took their start with funeral solemnity. An hour later a parcel of boys had succeeded in capturing a wild colt destined to assist his venerable parent in transporting ourselves in a 'shay,' of the Gilpin type, and to which we managed to hang on with some difficulty, the wild-looking driver good-naturedly volunteering to run by the side. Off we started with the inevitable thunder of German whip-cracking and German imprecations on the cattle, sufficient for the first twenty paces to astonish the colt into propriety. No sooner had we reached the village boundary, however, than he seemed to guess for the first time that he had been entrapped into bondage. With refreshing juvenile buoyancy he instantly determined to show us his indomitable spirit. Resisting all efforts of his companion in harness to proceed, he suddenly made such desperate assault and battery with his hind legs, that one or two of the ropes were quickly snapped, the Jehu sent sprawling in the ditch on one side, and the travelling bags on the other; so that, but for the staid demeanour of the old mare, we should probably in two minutes more have been 'nowhere.' Hans was on his feet again in an instant, like the balanced mannikins of a bull-fight, and to knot the ropes and make a fresh start required only a minute more; but another and another exhibition of the colt's pranks decided us to trust to our own powers of locomotion. A bare-footed, short-petticoated wench, who astonished us by proving that her rough hands could earn her livelihood at delicate 'Swiss' embroidery, and still more by details of the small remuneration that contented her, volunteered to pilot us through the woods where we had quite lost our way; and finding our luggage van waiting on the banks of the Rhine for the return of the ferry, we crossed with it and walked by its side for the rest of the distance. Our road lay right across the Ardetzen, a basin of pasture enclosed by a magnificent circuit of mountains,--behind us the distant eminences of Appenzell, before us the great Rhætian Alps, and at their base a number of smiling villages each with its green spire scarcely detaching from the verdant slopes behind. The undertaking, pleasant and bright at first, grew weary and anxious as the sun descended, and the mountains of Appenzell began to throw their long shadow over the lowland we were traversing, and yet the end was not reached. At last the strains of an organ burst upon our ears, lights from latticed windows diapered our path, and a train of worshippers poured past us to join in the melodies of the Church, sufficiently large to argue that our stopping-place was attained. We cast about to find the Gasthof zur Post to which we were bound, but all in vain, there was no rest for us. Here indeed, Feldkirch fuit, but here it was no more. In the year 909, the Counts of Montfort built themselves a castle on the neighbouring height of Schattenburg, (so called because the higher eminences around shade it from the sun till late in the morning,) and lured away the people from this pristine Feldkirch to settle themselves round the foot of their fortress. Some of the original inhabitants still clung to the old place, and its old Church of St. Peter, that very church whose earlier foundations, some say, were laid by monks from Britain, S. Columban and St. Gall, who, when the people were oppressed by their Frankish masters, came and lived among them, and by their preaching and their prayers rekindled the light of religion, working out at the same time their political relief; the former subsequently made his way, shedding blessings as he went, on to Italy, where he died at the age of ninety, in 615; the latter founded, and ended his days at the age of ninety-five, in the famous monastery which has given his name to the neighbouring Swiss Canton. The descendants of this remnant have kept up the original settlement to this day with the name of Altenstadt, while the first built street of the present thriving town of Feldkirch still retains its appellation of the Neustadt. It seemed a long stretch ere we again came upon an inhabited spot, but this time there was no mistake. All around were the signs of a prosperous centre, the causeways correctly laid out, new buildings rising on every side, and--I am fain to add--the church dark and closed; in place of the train of worshippers of unsophisticated Altenstadt, one solitary figure in mourning weeds was kneeling in the moonlight at a desk such as we often see placed under a cross against the outer wall of churches in Germany. Before five next morning I was awakened by the pealing organ and hearty voices of the Feldkirch peasants at Mass in the church just opposite my window. I dressed hastily, and descended to take my place among them. It was a village festival and Mass succeeded Mass at each of the gaily decorated altars, and before them assembled groups in quaint costumes from far and near. [41] As each half hour struck, a bell sounded, and a relic was brought round to the high altar rails, all the women in the church going up first, and then all the men, to venerate it. Our first care of the day was to engage our carriage for Innsbruck. We were at the Post hotel, and had the best chance there; for besides its own conveyances, there were those of the post-office, which generally in Germany afford great convenience. Not one was there, however, that would undertake our luggage over the mountain roads. The post-master and his men all declared that at every winding of the passes there would be too great risk of overturning the vehicle. It was in vain we argued that the same amount had often accompanied us over higher mountains in Italy; it was clear they were not prepared for it. There was a service for heavy goods by which it could be sent; there was no other way, and they did not advise that. They could not ensure any due care being taken of it, or that it should reach within three or four weeks. Four or five hours spent in weighing, measuring, arranging, and arguing, advanced our cause not a whit; there was no plan to be adopted but to return by Oberriet to Rorschach, cross lake Constance to Lindau, and make our way round by Augsburg, Munich, and Rosenheim! It was with great reluctance we relinquished the cherished project. Our now hated luggage deposited in a waggon, as the day before, we mounted our rather more presentable, and certainly better horsed vehicle, in no cheerful mood, for, besides the disappointment, there was the mortification which always attaches to a failed project and retraced steps. 'The Herrschaften are not in such bright spirits as the sun to-day!' exclaimed our driver, when, finally tired of cracking his whip and shouting to his horses, he found we still sat silent and crest-fallen. He wore the jauntiest costume to be found in Europe, after that of his Hungarian confrère, a short postilion jacket, bound and trimmed with yellow lace, a horn slung across his breast by a bright yellow cord, and a hat shining like looking-glass cocked on one side of his head, while his face expressed everything that is pleasant and jovial. 'How can one be anything but out of spirits when one is crossed by such a stupid set as the people of your town? Why, there is no part of Europe in which they will even believe it possible!' 'Well, you see they don't understand much, about here,' he replied, with an air of superiority, for he was a travelled postilion, as he took care to let us know. 'In Italy they manage better; they tie the luggage on behind, or underneath, where it is safe enough. Here they have only one idea--to stick it on the top, and in that way a carriage may be easily upset at a sharp turn. You cannot drive any new idea into these fellows; it is like an echo between their own mountains, whatever is once there, goes on and on and on.' I showed him the map, and traced before him the difference in the length of the route we should have taken and that we had now to pursue. I don't think he had ever understood a map before, for he seemed vastly pleased at the compliment paid to his intelligence. 'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'if we could always go as the crow flies, how quickly we should get to our journey's end; or if we had the Stase-Sattel, as they used to have--wasn't that fine!' 'The Stase-Sattel,' I replied, 'what is that?' 'What! don't you know about the Stase-Sattel--at that place, Bludenz, there,' and he pointed to it on the map, 'where you were telling me you wanted to have gone, there used to live an old woman named Stase, and folk said she was a witch. She had a wonderful saddle, on to which she used to set herself when she wanted anything, and it used to fly with her ever so high, and quicker than a bird. One day the reapers were in a field cooking their mess, and they had forgotten to bring any salt--and hupf! quick! before the pot had begun to boil she had flown off on her saddle to the salt-mines at Hall, beyond Innsbruck, and back with salt enough to pickle an ox. Another time there was a farmer who had been kind to her, whose crops were failing for the drought. She no sooner heard of his distress than up she flew in her saddle and swept all the clouds together with her broom till there was enough to make a good rainfall. Another time, a boy who had been sent with a message by his master to the next village had wasted all the day in playing and drinking with her; towards dusk he bethought himself that the gates would be shut and the dogs let loose, so that it was a chance if he reached the house alive. But she told him not to mind, and taking him up on her saddle, she carried him up through the air and set him down at home before the sun was an inch lower.' 'And what became of her?' I inquired. 'Became of her! why, she went the way of all such folk. They go on for a time, but God's hand overtakes them at the last. One day she was on one of her wild errands, and it was a Fest-tag to boot. Her course took her exactly over a church spire, and just as she passed, the Wandlung bell [42] tolled. The sacred sound tormented her so that she lost her seat and fell headlong to the ground. When they came out of church they found her lying a shapeless mass upon the stone step of the churchyard cross. Her enchanted saddle was long kept in the Castle of Landeck--maybe it is there yet; and even now when we want to tell one to go quickly on an errand, we say, "Fly on the saddle of Dame Stase."' 'You have had many such folk about here,' I observed seriously, with the view of drawing him out. 'Well, yes, they tell many such tales,' he answered; 'and if they're not true, they at least serve to keep alive the faith that God is over us all, and that the evil one has no more power than just what He allows. There's another story they tell, just showing that,' he continued. 'Many years ago there was a peasant (and he lived near Bludenz too) who had a great desire to have a fine large farm-house. He worked hard, and put his savings by prudently; but it wouldn't do, he never could get enough. One day, in an evil hour, he let his great desire get the better of him, and he called the devil in dreiteufelsnamen [43] to his assistance. It was not, you see, a deliberate wickedness--it was all in a moment, like. But the devil came, and didn't give him time to reflect. "I know what you want," he said; "you shall have your house and your barns and your hen-house, and all complete, this very night, without costing you a penny; but when you have enjoyed it long enough, your old worn-out carcass shall belong to me." The good peasant hesitated; and the devil, finding it necessary to add another bait, ran on: "And what is more, I'll go so far as to say that if every stone is not complete by the first cock-crow, I'll strike out even this condition, and you shall have it out and out." The peasant was dazzled with the prospect, and could not bring himself all at once to refuse the accomplishment of his darling hope. The devil shook him by the hand as a way of clenching the bargain, and disappeared. 'The peasant went home more alarmed than rejoiced, and full of fear above all that his wife should inquire the meaning of all the hammering and blustering and running hither and thither which was to be heard going on in the homestead, for she was a pious God-fearing woman. 'He remained dumb to all her inquiries, hour after hour through the night; but at last, towards morning, his courage failed him, and he told her all. She, like a good wife, gave back no word of reproach, but cast about to find a remedy. First she considered that he had done the thing thoughtlessly and rashly, and then she ascertained that at last he had given no actual consent. Finally, deciding matters were not as bad as might be, she got up, and bid him leave the issue to her. 'First she knelt down and commended herself and her undertaking to God and His holy saints; then in the small hours, when the devil's work was nearly finished, she took her lamp and spread out the wick so that it should give its greatest glare, and poured fresh oil upon it, and went out with a basket of grain to feed the hens. The cock, seeing the bright light and the good wife with her basket of food, never doubted but that it was morning, and springing up, he flapped his wings, and crowed with all his might. At that very moment the devil himself was coming by with the last roof-stone. [44] At the sound of the premature cock-crow he was so much astonished that he didn't know which way to turn, and sank into the ground bearing the stone still in his hand. 'The house belonged to the peasant by every right, but no stone could ever be made to stay on the vacant space. This inconvenience was the penance he had to endure for the desperate game he had played, and he took it cheerfully, and when the rain came in he used to kiss his good wife in gratitude for the more terrible chastisement from which she had saved him.' The jaunty postilion whipped the horses on as he thus brought his story to a close, or rather cracked his whip in the air till the mountains resounded with it, for he had slackened speed while telling his tale, and the day was wearing on. 'We must take care and not be late for the train,' he observed. 'The Herrschaften have had enough of the inn of Oberriet, and don't want to have to spend a night there, and we have no Vorarlberger-geist to speed us now-a-days.' 'Who was he?' I inquired eagerly. 'I suppose you know that all this country round about here is called the Vorarlberg, and in olden time there was a spirit that used to wander about helping travellers all along its roads. When they were benighted, it used to go before them with a light; when they were in difficulties, it used to procure them aid; if one lost his way, it used to direct him aright; till one day a poor priest came by who had been to administer a distant parishioner. His way had lain now over bog, now over torrent-beds. In the roughness of the way the priest's horse had cast a shoe. A long stretch of road lay yet before him, but no forge was near. Suddenly the Vorarlberger-geist came out of a cleft in the rock, silently set to work and shod the horse, and passed on its way as usual with a sigh. '"Vergeltsgott!" [45] cried the priest after it. '"God be praised!" exclaimed the spirit. "Now am I at last set free. These hundred years have I served mankind thus, and till now no man has performed this act of gratitude, the condition of my release." And since this time it has never been seen again.' We had now once more reached the banks of the Rhine. The driver of the luggage van held the ferry in expectation of us, and with its team it was already stowed on board. Our horses were next embarked, and then ourselves, as we sat, perched on the carriage. A couple of rough donkeys, a patriarchal goat, and half-a-dozen wild-looking half-clothed peasants, made up a freight which seemed to tax the powers of the crazy barge to the utmost; and as the three brawny ferrymen pulled it dexterously along the guide rope, the waters of the here broad and rapid river rose some inches through the chinks. All went well, however, and in another half-hour we were again astonishing the factotum of the Oberriet station with a vision of the 'Gepäck' which had puzzled him so immensely the day before. CHAPTER II. NORTH-TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL (RIGHT-INN BANK). KUFSTEIN TO ROTTENBURG. ... 'Peasant of the Alps, Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free; Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; Thy days of health, thy nights of sleep, thy toil By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes Of cheerful old age, and then a quiet grave With cross and garland over its green turf, And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph, This do I see!...' Byron (Manfred). When, after our forced détour, we next penetrated into Tirol, it was by the way of Kufstein. Ruffled as we had been in the meantime by Bavarian 'Rohheit,' we were glad to find ourselves again in the hands of the gentle Tirolese. Kufstein, however, is not gentle in appearance. Its vast fortress seems to shed a stifling gloom over the whole place; it looks so hard and selfish and tyrannical, that you long to get away from its influence. Noble hearts from honest Hungary have pined away within its cold strong grasp; and many a time, as my sketch-book has been turned over by Magyar friends, the page which depicted its outline--for it wears a grand and gallant form, such as the pencil cannot resist--has raised a deep sigh over the 'trauriges Andenken' it served to call up. [46] When Margaretha Maultasch ceded the country she found herself unable to govern, to Austria at the earnest request of her people, in 1363, it was stipulated that Kufstein, Kitzbühel, and Rattenberg, which had been added to it by her marriage with Louis of Bradenburg, should revert to Bavaria. These three dependencies were recovered by the Emperor Maximilian in 1504, the two latter accepting his allegiance gladly, the former holding out stoutly against him. The story of the reduction of this stronghold is almost a stain on his otherwise prudent and prosperous reign. Pienzenau, its commander, who was in the Bavarian interest, had particularly excited his ire by setting his men to sweep away with brooms the traces of the small damage which had been effected by his cannon, placed at too great a distance to do more than graze the massive walls. Philip von Recenau, Regent of Innsbruck, meantime cast two enormous field-pieces, which received the names of Weckauf and Purlepaus. These entirely turned the tide of affairs. Chronicles of the time do not mention their calibre, but declare that their missiles not only pierced the 'fourteen feet-thick wall' through and through, but entered a foot and a half into the living rock. Pienzenau's heart misgave him when he saw the work of these destructive engines, and hastened to send in his submission to the Emperor; but it was too late. 'So he is in a hurry to throw away his brooms at last, is he?' cried Maximilian. 'But he should have done it before. He has allowed the wall of this noble castle to be so disgracefully shattered, that he can make no amends but by giving up his own carcass to the same fate.' No entreaty could move the Emperor from carrying out this chastisement, and some five-and-twenty of the principal men who had held out against him were condemned to be beheaded on the spot. When eleven had fallen before the headsman's sword, Erich, Duke of Brunswick, sickening at the scene of blood, pleaded so earnestly with the Emperor, that he obtained the pardon of the rest. The eleven were buried by the pious country-people in a common grave; and who will may yet tread the ground where their remains rest in a little chapel built over their grave at Ainliff (dialectic for eleven), on the other side of the river Inn. Its situation near the frontier has made it the scene of other sieges, of which none is more endeared to Tiroleans than that of 1809, when the patriot Speckbacher distinguished himself by many a dauntless deed. If Kufstein has long had a truce to these stirring memories, many a fantastic story has floated out of it concerning the prisoners harboured there, even of late years. The Hungarian patriot brigand, Rocsla Sandor (Andrew Roshla), who won by his unscrupulous daring quite a legendary place in popular story, was long confined here. He was finally tried and condemned (but I think not executed) at Szeghedin, in July 1870; 454 other persons were included in the same trial, of whom 234 under homicidal charges; 100 homicides were laid to his charge alone, but there is no doubt that his services to the popular cause, at the same time that they condoned some of his excesses, in the popular judgment may have disposed the authorities to exaggerate the charges against him. The whole story is fantastic, and even in Kufstein, where he was almost an alien, there was admiration and sympathy underlying the shudder with which the people spoke of him. A much more interesting and no less romantic narrative, was told me of a Hungarian political prisoner, who formed the solitary instance of an escape from the stony walls of the fortress. His lady-love--and she was a lady by birth--with the heroic instincts of a Hungarian maiden, having with infinite difficulty made out where he was confined, followed him hither in peasant disguise, and with invincible perseverance succeeded, first in engaging herself as servant to the governor and then in conveying every day to her lover, in his soup, a hank of hemp. With this he twisted a rope and got safely away; and this occurred not more than six or seven years ago. St. Louis's day fell while we were at Kufstein--the name-day of the King of Bavaria; and being the border town, the polite Tiroleans make a complimentary fête of it. There was a grand musical Mass, which the officers from the Bavarian frontier attended, and a modest banquet was offered them after it. The peasants put on their holiday attire--passable enough as far as the men are concerned, but consisting mainly on the women's behalf in an ugly black cloth square-waisted dress, and a black felt broad-brimmed hat, with large gold tassels lying on the brim. After Mass the Bavarian national hymn was sung to the familiar strains of our own. All seemed gay and glad without. I returned to the primitive rambling inn; everyone was gone to take his or her part in the Kufstein idea of a holiday. There were three entrances, and three staircases; I took a wrong one, and in trying to retrace my steps passed a room through the half-open door of which I heard a sound of moaning, which arrested me. I could not find it in my heart to pass on. I pushed the door gently aside, and discovered a grey-haired old man lying comfortlessly on the bed in a state of torpor. I laid him back in a posture in which he could breathe more freely, opened his collar and gave him air, and with the aid of one or two simple means soon brought him back to consciousness. The room was barely furnished; his luggage was a small bundle tied in a handkerchief, his clothes betokened that he belonged to the respectable of the lower class. I was too desirous to converse with a genuine Tirolean peasant to refuse his invitation to sit down by his side. I had soon learnt his tale, which he seemed not a little pleased to find had an interest for a foreigner. His lot had been marked by severe trials. In early youth he had been called to lose his parents; in later life, the dear wife who had for a season clothed his home again with brightness and hope. In old age he had had a heavier trial still. His only child, the son whom he had reared in the hope that he would have been the staff of his declining years, whom he had brought up in innocence in childhood, and shielded from knowledge of evil in early youth, had gone from him, and he knew not where to find him. The boy had always had a fancy for a roving adventurous life, but it had been his hope to have kept him always near him, free from the contamination of great cities. I asked if it was not the custom in these parts for young men to go abroad and seek employment where it was more highly paid, and come back and settle on their earnings. But he shook his head proudly. It was so in Switzerland, it was so in some few valleys of Tirol, and the poor Engadeiners supplied all the cities of Europe with confectioners; but his son had no need to tramp the world in search of fortune. But what had made him most anxious was, that the night before his son left some wild young men had passed through the village. They were bold and uproarious, and his fear was that his boy might have been tempted to join them. He did not know exactly what their game was, but he had an idea they were gathering recruits to join the lawless Garibaldian bands in their attempts upon the Roman frontier. With their designs he was confident his son had no sympathy. If he had stopped to consider them, he would have shrunk from them with horror; and it was his dread that his spirited love of danger and excitement had carried him into a vortex from which he might by-and-by be longing to extricate himself in vain. It was to pray that the lad might be guided aright that he made this pilgrimage up the Thierberg--no easy journey for one of his years. He had come across hill and valley from a village of which I forget the name, but situated near Sterzing. 'But Sterzing itself is a place of pilgrimage,' I said, glad to turn to account my scanty knowledge of the sacred places of the country. 'Why did you come all this way?' 'Indeed is Sterzing,' he replied, 'a place of benedictions. It is the spot where Sterzing, our first hermit, lived, and left his name to our town. But this is the spot for those who need penance. There, in that place,' and as I followed the direction of his hand I saw through the low lattice window the lofty elevation of the Thierberg like a phantom tower, enveloped in mist, standing out against the clear sky beyond, and wondered how his palsied limbs had carried him up the steep. 'In that place, in olden time, lived a true penitent. Once it was a lordly castle, and he to whom it belonged was a rich and honoured knight; but on one occasion he forgot his knightly honour, and with false vows led astray an unthinking maiden of the village. Soon, however, the conviction of his sin came back to him clear as the sun's light, and without an hour's hesitation he put it from him. To the girl he made the best amends he could by first leading her to repentance, then procuring her admission to a neighbouring convent. But for him, from that day the lordly castle became as a hermit's cell, the sound of mirth and revelry and of friendly voices was hushed for ever. The memory of his own name even he would have wiped out, and would have men call him only, as they do to the present day, 'der Büsser'--the Penitent. And so many has his example brought to this shrine in a spirit of compunction, that the Church has endowed it with the indulgence of the Portiuncula.' What a picture of Tirolese faith it was! Instead of setting in motion the detective police, or the telegraph-wire, or the second column of the 'Times,' this old man had come many miles in the opposite direction from that his child was supposed to have taken, to bring his burden and lay it before a shrine he believed to have been made dear to heaven by tears of penance in another age, and there commend his petition to God that He might bring it to pass, accepting the suffering as a merited chastisement in a spirit of sincere penitence! He was feeling better, and I rose to go. He pressed my hand in acknowledgment of my sympathy, and I assured him of it. It was not a case for more substantial charity; I had gathered from his recital that he had no lack of worldly means. I only strove at parting to kindle a ray of hope. I said after all it might not be so bad as he imagined; his boy had been well brought up, and might perhaps be trusted to keep out of the way of evil. It was thoughtless of him not to seek his father's blessing and consent to his choice of an adventurous career, but it might be he had feared his opposition, and that he had no unworthy reason for concealing his plans. There was at least as much reason to hope as to despond, and he must look forward to his coming back, true to the instincts of his mountain home, wiser than he had set out. His pale blue eye glistened, and he gasped like one who had seen a vision. 'Ay! just so! Just so it appeared to me when I was on the Thierberg this morning! And now, in case my weak old heart did not see it clearly enough, God, in His mercy, has sent you to expound the thing more plainly to me. Now I know that I am heard.' Poor old man! I shuddered lest the hope so strongly entertained should prove delusive in the end. I may never know the result; but I felt that at all events as he was one who took all things at God's hands, nothing could, in one sense, come amiss; and for the present, at least, I saw that he went down to his house comforted. I strolled along the street, and, possessed with the type of the Tirolean peasant, as I received it from this old man, I conceived a feeling of deeper curiosity for all whom I met by the way. I thought of them as of men for whom an unseen world is a reality; who estimate prayer and sacraments and the intercession of saints above steam-power and electricity. At home one meets with one such now and then, but to be transported into a whole country of them was like waking up from a long sleep to find oneself in the age of St. Francis and St. Dominic. Whatever faults the Tirolese may have to answer for, they will not arise from religion being put out of sight. No village but has its hillside path marked with 'the Way of the Cross;' no bridge but carries the statue of S. John Nepomucene, the martyr of the Confessional; no fountain but bears the image of the local saint, a model of virtue to the place; no lone path unmarked by its way-side chapel, or its crucifix shielded from the weather by a rustic roof; no house but has its outer walls covered with memories of holy things; no room without its sacred prints and its holywater stoup. The churches are full of little rude pictures, recording scenes in which all the pleasanter events of life are gratefully ascribed to answers to prayer, while many who cannot afford this more elaborate tribute hang up a tablet with the words Hat geholfen ('He has helped me'), or more simply still, 'aus Dankbarkeit.' Longfellow has written something very true and pretty, which I do not remember well enough to quote; but most will call to mind the verses about leaving landmarks, which a weary brother seeing, may take heart again; and it is incalculable how these good people may stir up one another to hope and endurance by such testimonies of their trust in a Providence. Sometimes, again, the little tablets record that such an one has undertaken a journey. 'N. N. reiset nach N., pray for him;' and we, who have come so far so easily, smile at the short distance which is thought worthy of this importance. The Gott segne meine Reise--'May God bless my journey'--seems to come as naturally to them, however, as 'grace before meat' with us. But most of all, their care is displayed in regard to the dear departed. The spot where an accident deprived one of his life is sacred to all. 'The honourable peasant N. N. was run over here by a heavy waggon;'--'Here was N. N. carried away by the waters of the stream;' with the unfailing adjunct, 'may he rest in peace, let us pray for him;' or sometimes, as if there were no need to address the recommendation to his own neighbours, 'Stranger! pray for him.' The straggling village on the opposite bank of the Inn is called Zell, though appearing part of Kufstein. It affords the best points for viewing the gloomy old fortress, and itself possesses one or two chapels of some interest. At Kiefersfelden, at a short distance on the Bavarian border, is the so-called Ottokapelle, a Gothic chapel marking the spot where Prince Otho quitted his native soil when called to take possession of the throne of Greece. Kundl, about an hour from Kufstein, the third station, by rail, [47] though wretchedly provided with accommodation, is the place to stop at to visit the curious and isolated church of S. Leonhard auf der Wiese (in the meadow), and it is well worthy of a visit. In the year 1004 a life-sized stone image of St. Leonard was brought by the stream to this spot; 'floating,' the wonder-loving people said, but it may well be believed that some rapid swollen torrent had carried the image away in its wild course from some chapel on a higher level. The people not knowing whence it came, reckoned its advent a miracle, and set it up in the highway, that all who passed might know of it. It was not long before a no less illustrious wayfarer than the Emperor Henry II. came that way, and seeing the uncovered image set up on high, stopped to inquire its history. When he had heard it, he vowed that if his arms were prosperous in Italy he would on his return build the saint an honourable church. Success indeed attended him in the campaign, and he was crowned Emperor at Pavia, but St. Leonard and his vow were alike forgotten. The year 1012 brought him again into Italy through Tirol, and passing the spot where he had registered his vow before, his horse, foaming and stamping, refused to pass the image or carry him further. The circumstance reminded him of his promise, and he at once set to work to carry it out worthily. The church was completed within a few years, but an unhappy accident signalized its completion. A young man who had undertaken to place the ornament on the summit was seized with vertigo in the moment of completing his exploit, and losing his balance was dashed lifeless on to the ground below. [48] His remains were gathered up tenderly by the neighbours, and his skull laid as an offering at the foot of the crucifix on the high altar, where it yet remains. An inscription to the following effect is preserved in the church: 'A.D. 1019 Præsens ecclesia Sti. Leonhardi a sancto Henrico Imperatore exstructa, et anno 1020 a summo Pontifice Benedicto VIII. consecrata est,' though there would not seem to be any other record of the Pope having made the journey. S. Kunigunda, consort of Henry II., bore a great affection to the spot, and often visited it. The image of St. Leonard now in the church bears the date of 1481, and there is no record of the time when it was substituted for the original. [49] The interior has suffered a great deal during the whitewash period; but some of the original carvings are remarkable, particularly the grotesque creatures displayed on the main columns. On one a doubled-bodied lion is trampling on two dragons; on another a youth stands holding the prophetic roll of the book of revelation, and a hideous symbolical figure, with something of the form of a bear, cowers before him, showing a certain resemblance to the sculptures in the chapel-porch of Castle Tirol. Round the high altar are ten pilasters, each setting forth the figure of a saint, and all various. A great deal of the old work was destroyed, however, when it was rebuilt, about the year 1500. Between St. Leonhard and Ratfield runs the Auflängerbründl--so called from the Angerberg, celebrated as itself a very charming excursion from Kundl--a watercourse directed by the side of the road through the charity of the townspeople of Rattenberg and Ratfeld, in the year 1424, with the view that no wayfarer might faint by the way for want of a drink of pure and refreshing water. Rattenberg is a little town of some importance on account of the copper works in the neighbourhood, but not much frequented by visitors, though it has three passable inns. It is curious that the castle of Rottenburg near Rothholz, though so like in name, has a different derivation, the latter arising from the red earth of the neighbourhood, and the former from an old word Rat, meaning 'richness,' and in old documents it is found spelt Rat in berc (riches in the mountain). This was the favoured locality of the holy Nothburga's earthly career. St. Nothburga is eminently characteristic of her country. She was the poorest of village maidens, and yet attained the highest and most lasting veneration of her people by the simple force of virtue. She was born in 1280. The child of pious parents, she drank in their good instructions with an instinctive aptitude. Their lessons of pure and Christian manners seemed as it were to crystallize and model themselves in her conduct; she grew up a living picture of holy counsels. She was scarcely seventeen when the lord of Castle Rottenburg, hearing of her perfect life, desired to have her in his household. Her parents, knowing she could have no better protectors, when they were no more, than their honoured knight Henry of Rottenburg and his good wife Gutta, gladly accepted the proposal. [50] In her new sphere Nothburga showed how well grounded was her virtue. It readily adapted itself to her altered position, and she became as faithful and devoted to her employers as she had been loving and obedient to her parents. In time she was advanced to the highest position of trust in the castle, and the greatest delight of her heart was fulfilled when she was nominated to superintend the distribution of alms to the poor. Her prudence enabled her to distinguish between real and feigned need, and while she delighted in ministering to the one, she was firm in resisting the appeals of the other. Her general uprightness won for her the respect of all with whom she had to do, and she was the general favourite of all classes. Such bright days could not last; the enemy of God's saints looked on with envy, and desired to 'sift' her 'as wheat.' The knight's son, Henry VI., in progress of time brought home his bride, Ottilia by name; and according to local custom, the older Knight Henry ceded his authority to the young castellan, living himself in comparative retirement. Ottilia was young and thoughtless, and haughty to boot, and it was not without a feeling of bitter resentment that she saw both her husband and his parents looked to Nothburga to supply her deficiencies in the management of the household. She resolved to get rid of the faithful servant, and her fury against her was only increased in proportion as she realized that the perfect uprightness of her conduct rendered it impossible to discover any pretext for dismissing her. For Nothburga it was a life of daily silent martyrdom. There were a thousand mortifications in her mistress's power to inflict, and she lost no opportunity of annoying her, but never once succeeded in ruffling the gentleness of her spirit. 'My life has been too easy hitherto,' she would say in the stillness of her own heart; 'now I am honoured at last by admission to the way of the Cross.' There was no brightness, no praise, no subsequent hope of distinction, to be derived from her patience; they were stabs in the dark, seen by no human eye, which made her bleed day by day. Yet she would not complain, much less seek to change her service. She said it would have been ungrateful to her first benefactors and employers to leave them, so long as she could spend herself for them, and ungrateful to God to shirk the trial He had lovingly sent her. A crucial test of her fidelity, however, was at hand. The day came when Knight Henry and Gutta his wife were called to their long rest, and with them the chief protection of Nothburga departed. She was now almost at Ottilia's mercy. One of the first consequences of this change was that she was deprived of her favourite office of relieving the poor; and not only their customary alms were stopped, but their dole of food also; and as a final provocation, she was required to feed the pigs with the broken meat which she had been accustomed to husband for the necessitous. The good girl's heart bled to see the needy whom she had been wont to relieve turned hungry away. The only means that occurred to her of remedying the evil in some measure, was to deny herself her own food and distribute it among them. Restricting her own diet to bread and water, she saved a little basketful, which she would take down every evening when work was done to the foot of the Leuchtenburg, where the poorest of the castle dependents lived; and the blessing which multiplied the loaves in the wilderness made her scanty savings suffice to feed all who had come to beg of her. That Nothburga contrived to feed the poor of a whole district, in spite of her orders to the contrary, of course became in time a ground of complaint for Ottilia. She had now a plausible reason for stirring up the Knight Henry against her. He had always defended her, out of regard for his parents' memory; but coming one evening past the Leuchtenburg, at Ottilia's instigation, he met Nothburga with her little burden, and asked her what she carried. Here the adversary of the saints had prepared for her a great trial, says the legend. She, in her innocence, told fairly and honestly the import of her errand; but to the Knight's eyes, who had meantime untied her apron, the contents appeared, the legend says, to be wood shavings; and further, putting the wine-flask to his lips, it seemed to him to contain soap-suds. To her charitable intention he had made no objection, but at this, which appeared to him a studied affront, he was furious. He would listen to no explanation, but, returning at once to the castle, he gave Ottilia free and full leave to deal with the offending handmaiden as she pleased. Ottilia readily put the permission into effect by directing the castle guard to forbid her, on her return, ever again to pass the threshold of the castle. This blow told with terrible effect on the poor girl. During her service at the castle both her parents had died; she had now no home to resort to. Putting her trust in God, however, she retraced her steps alone through the darkness, and found shelter in a cottage of one of her clients. Her path was watched by the angels, who marked the track with fair seeds; and even to this day the hill-side which her feet so often pressed on her holy errand is said to be marked with a peculiar growth of flowers. The next day she applied to a peasant of Eben to engage her as a field labourer. The peasant was exceedingly doubtful of her capacity for the work after the comparatively delicate nature of her previous mode of life. Her hardy perseverance and determination, aided by the grace of God, on which she implicitly relied, overcame all obstacles, and old Valentine soon found that her presence brought a blessing on all his substance. She had been with him about a year, when one day, being Saturday, he was very anxious to gather in the remainder of his harvest before an apprehended storm, and desired Nothburga, with the other reapers, to continue their labours after the hour of eve, when the holy rest was reckoned to have commenced. Nothburga, usually so obedient to his wishes, had the courage to refuse to infringe the commandment of religion; and to manifest that the will of God was on her side, showed him her sickle resting from labour, suspended in the air. Valentine, convinced by the prodigy, yielded to her representations, and her piety was more and more honoured by all the neighbours. Soon after this, Ottilia, in the midst of her health and strength, was stricken with a dangerous illness. In presence of the fear of death she remembered her harsh treatment of Nothburga, and sent for her to make amends for the past. As the good girl reached her bed-side she was just under the influence of a frightful attack of fevered remorse. Her long golden hair waved in untended masses over the pillow, like the flames of purgatory; her eyes glared like wheels of fire. Unconscious of what was passing round her, and filled only with her distempered fancies, she cried piteously: 'Drive away those horrid beasts! don't let them come near me! And why do you let those pale-faced creatures pursue me with their hollow glances? If I did deny them food, I cannot help it now! Oh! keep those horrid swine off me! If I did give them the portion of the poor, it is no reason you should let them defile me and trample on me!' Nothburga was melted with compassion, and her glance of sympathy seemed to chase away the horrid vision. Come to herself, and calm again, Otillia recognized her and begged her pardon, which we may well believe she readily accorded; and shortly after, having reconciled herself to God with true compunction, she fell asleep in peace. [51] Henry proposed to Nothburga to come and resume her old post in the castle, and moreover to add to it that of superintending the nurture of his only boy. Nothburga gladly accepted his offer, but, in her strict integrity, insisted on accepting no remission from the three years' service under which she had bound herself to Valentine. This concluded, she was received back with open arms at Castle Rottenburg, whither she took with her one of Valentine's daughters to instruct in household duties, that she might be meet to succeed her when her time should come. Days of peace on earth are not for the saints. Her fight was fought out. The privations she had undergone in sparing her food for the poor, and her subsequent exposure in the field, brought on an illness, under which she shortly after sank. In conformity with her express desire, her body was laid on a bier, to which two young oxen were yoked, and left to follow their own course. The willing beasts tramped straight away over hill and dale and water-course till they came to the village of Eben, then consisting of but a couple of huts of the poor tillers of the soil, and Valentine's homestead; now, a thriving village, its two inns crowded every holiday with peasants, who make their excursions coincide with a visit of devotion to the peasant maiden's shrine. A small field-chapel of St. Ruprecht was then the only place of devotion, but here next morning the body of the holy maiden was found carefully laid at the foot of the altar, and here it was reverently buried, and for centuries it has been honoured by all the country round. [52] In 1434 the Emperor Maximilian, and Christopher, Prince-Bishop of Brixen, built a church over the spot, of which the ancient chapel served as the quire. In 1718 Gaspar Ignatius, Count of Künigl, the then Prince-Bishop, had the remains exhumed, and carried them with pomp to the neighbouring town of Schwatz, where they were left while the church was restored, and an open sarcophagus prepared for them to remain exposed for the veneration of the faithful, which was completed in 1738. In 1838 a centenary festival was observed with great rejoicing, and on March 27, 1862, the cycle of Nothburga's honour was completed in her solemn canonization at Rome. The lords of Rottenburg had had possession of this territory, and had been the most powerful family of Tirol, ever since the eighth century; one branch extending its sway over the valleys surrounding the Inn, and another branch commanding the country bordering the Etsch; Leuchtenburg and Fleims being the chief fortress-seats of these latter. Their vast power greatly harassed the rulers of Tirol. In every conflict between the native or Austrian princes and the Dukes of Bavaria their influence would always turn the scale, and they often seem to have exercised it simply to show their power. Their family pride grew so high, that it became a proverb among the people. It was observed that just during the period of the holy Nothburga's sojourn in the castle the halo of her humble spirit seemed to exercise a charm over their ruling passion. That was no sooner brought to a close than it once more burst forth, and with intenser energy, and by the end of a century more so blinded them that they ventured on an attempt to seize the supreme power over the land. Friedrich mit der leeren Tasche was not a prince to lose his rights without a worthy struggle; and then ensued one which was a noteworthy instance of the protection which royalty often afforded to the poor against the oppressions of a selfish aristocracy in the Middle Ages. Friedrich was the idol of the people: in his youth his hardy temperament had made him the companion not only of the mountain huntsman, but even of the mountain hewer of wood. Called to rule over the country, he always stood out manfully for the liberties of the peasant and the burghers of the little struggling communities of Tirol. The lords and knights who found their power thereby restricted were glad to follow the standard of Henry VI., Count of Rottenburg, in his rebellions. Forgetting all patriotism in his struggle for power, Henry called to his aid the Duke of Bavaria, who readily answered his appeal, reckoning that as soon as, by aiding Henry, he had driven Friedrich out, he would shortly after be able to secure the prize for himself. The Bavarian troops, ever rough and lawless, now began laying waste the country in ruthless fashion. A Bavarian bishop, moved to compassion by the sufferings of the poor people, though not of his own flock, pleaded so earnestly with the Duke, that he made peace with Friedrich, who was able to inflict due chastisement on Henry, for, powerful as he was, he was no match for him as a leader. He fell prisoner into Friedrich's hands, who magnanimously gave him his liberty; but, according to the laws of the time, his lands and fiefs were forfeit. Though the spirit of the high-minded noble was unbroken, the darling aim of his race which had devolved upon him for execution was defeated; his occupation gone, and his hopes quenched, he wandered about, the last of his race, not caring even to establish himself in any of the fiefs which he held under the Duke of Bavaria, and which consequently yet remained to him. The history of Henry VI. of Rottenburg has a peculiarly gloomy and fantastic character. Ambitious to a fault, it was one cause of his ill success that he exercised himself in the nobler pursuits of life rather than in the career of arms. Letters of his which are still preserved show that he owed the ascendancy he exercised over his neighbours quite as much to his strength of character and grasp of mind as to his title and riches. No complaint is brought against him in chronicles of the time of niggardliness towards the Church, or of want of uprightness or patience as a judge; he is spoken of as if he had learned to make himself respected as well as feared. But he lived apart in a lofty sphere of his own, seldom mixing in social intercourse, while his refined tastes prevented his becoming an adept in the art of war. Friedrich, on the other hand, who was a hero in the field by his bravery, was also the favourite of the people through his frank and ready-spoken sympathy. Henry had perhaps, on the whole, the finer--certainly the more cultivated--character, but Friedrich was more the man of the time; and it was this doom of succumbing to one to whom he felt himself superior which pressed most heavily on the last of the Rottenburgers. What became of him was never known; consequently many wild stories became current to account for his end: that he never laid his proud head low at the call of death, but yet wanders on round the precincts where he once ruled; that his untamable ambition made him a prey to the Power of Evil, who carried him off, body and soul, to the reward of the proud; that, shunning all sympathy and refusing all assistance, he died, untended and unknown, in a spot far from the habitations of men. It would appear most probable, however, that his death, like his life, was a contrast with the habits of his age: it is thought that, unable to bear his humiliation, he fell by his own hand within a twelvemonth of his defeat. The deliverance from this powerful vassal, and the falling in of his domains, tended greatly to strengthen and consolidate Friederich's rule over Tirol, and ultimately to render the government of the country more stable, and more beneficial to the people. Not long after Henry VI.'s disappearance a mysterious fire broke out in the old castle on two separate occasions, laying the greater part of it in ruins. But on each occasion it was noticed that the devouring element, at the height of its fury, spared the little room which was honoured as that in which the holy Nothburga had dwelt. A gentler story about this neighbourhood is of a boy tending sheep upon the neighbouring height, who found among some ruins a beautiful bird's-nest. What was his surprise, on examining his treasure, to find it full of broken shells which the fledglings had cast off and left behind them, but shells of a most singular kind. Still greater was his astonishment when, on showing them at home, his parents told him they were no shells, but pieces of precious ore. The affair caused the peasants to search in the neighbourhood, and led to the discovery of one of those veins of metal the working of which brought so great prosperity to Tirol in the fifteenth century, and which are not yet extinct. Their discovery was always by accident, and often by occasion of some curious incident, while the fact that such finds were to be hit upon acted as a strong stimulant to the imagination of a romantic and wonder-loving people, giving belief to all sorts of fables to tell how the treasure was originally deposited, and how subsequently it was preserved and guarded. CHAPTER III. NORTH TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL (RIGHT INN-BANK). THE ZILLERTHAL. 'I may venture to say that among the nations of Europe, and I have more or less seen them all, I do not know any one in which there is so large a measure of real piety as among the Tyroleans.... I do not recollect to have once heard in the country an expression savouring of scepticism.'--Inglis. The Zillerthal claims to bear the palm over all the Valleys of Tirol for natural beauty--a claim against which the other valleys may, I think, find something to say. There is an organised service of carriages (the road is only good for an einspanner--one-horse vehicle) into the Zillerthal, at both Brixlegg and Jenbach, taking between four and five hours to reach Zell, an hour and a-half more to Mayrhofen. Its greatest ornaments are the castles of Kropfsberg, Lichtwer, and Matzen; the Reiterkogel and the Gerlos mountains, forming the present boundary against Salzburg; and the Ziller, with its rapid current which gave it its name (from celer), [53] its tributary streams might very well have received the same appellation, for their celerity is often so impetuous that great damage is done to the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. Before starting for the Zillerthal I may mention two castles which may also be seen from Jenbach, though like it they belong in strictness to the chapter on the Left Inn-bank. One is Thurnegg by name, which was restored as a hunting-seat by Archduke Ferdinand; and at the instance of his second wife, the pious Anna Katharina of Mantua, he added a chapel, in order that his hunting-parties might always have the opportunity of hearing Mass before setting out for their sport. Another is Tratzberg, which derived its name from its defiant character. It is situated within an easy walk of Jenbach. Permission to visit it is readily given, for it counts as a show-place. It may be taken on the way to S. Georgenberg and Viecht, but it occupies too much time, and quite merits the separate excursion by its collections and its views. Frederick sold it in 1470 to Christian Tänzel, a rich mining proprietor of the neighbourhood, who purchased with it the right to bear the title of Knight of Tratzberg. No expense was spared in its decoration, and its paintings and marbles made it the wonder of the country round. In 1573 it passed into the hands of the Fuggers, and at the present day belongs to Count Enzenberg, who makes it an occasional residence. A story is told of it which is in striking contrast to that mentioned of Thurnegg. One of the knights of the castle in ancient time had a reputation for caring more for the pleasures of the chase than for the observances of religion. Though he could get up at an early hour enough at the call of his Jäger's horn, the chapel bell vainly wooed him to Mass. In vain morning by morning his guardian angel directed the sacred sound upon his ear; the knight only rolled himself up more warmly in the coverlet, and said, 'No need to stir yet, the dogs are not brought round till five o'clock.' 'Ding--dong--dang! Come--to--Mass! Ding--dong--dang!' sang the bells. 'No, I can't,' yawned the knight, and covered his ear with the bed-clothes. The bell was silent, and the knight knew that the pious people who had to work hard all day for their living, and yet spared half an hour to ask God's blessing on their labours, were gone into the chapel. He fancied he saw the venerable old chaplain bowing before the altar, and smiting his breast; he saw the faithful rise from their knees while the glad tidings of the Gospel were announced, and they proclaimed their faith in them in the Creed; he heard them fall on their knees again while the sacred elements were offered on the altar and the solemn words of the consecration pronounced; he saw little Johann, the farrier's son, bow his head reverently on the steps, and then sound the threefold bell which told of the most solemn moment of the sacred mysteries; and the chapel bell took up the note, and announced the joyful news to those whom illness or necessity forced to remain away. Then hark! what was that? The rocks under the foundation of the castle rattled together, and all the stones of its massive walls chattered like the teeth of an old woman stricken with fear. The three hundred and sixty-five windows of the edifice rattled in their casements, but above them all sounded the piercing sound of the knight's cry of anguish. The affrighted people rushed into the knight's chamber; and what was their horror when, still sunk in the soft couch where he was wont to take his ease, there he lay dead, while his throat displayed the print of three black and burning claws. The lesson they drew was that the knight, having received from his guardian angel the impulse to repair his sloth by at least then rising to pay the homage which the bell enjoined, had rejected even this last good counsel, thereby filling up the measure of his faults. For years after marks were shown upon the wall as having been sprinkled by his blood! The first little town that reckons in the Zillerthal is Strass, a very unpretending place, and then Schlitters. At Schlitters they have a story of a butcher who, going to Strass to buy an ox, had scarcely crossed the Zill and got a little way from home, than he saw lying by the way-side a heap of the finest wheat. Not liking to appropriate property which might have a legitimate owner, he contented himself with putting a few grains in his pocket, and a few into his sack, as a specimen. As he went by the way his pockets and his sack began to get heavier and heavier, till it seemed as if the weight would burst them through. Astonished at the circumstance he put in his hand, and found them all full of shining gold. As soon as he had recovered his composure, he set off at the top of his speed, and, heeding neither hill or dale, regained the spot where he had first seen the wheat. But it was no more to be seen. If he had had faith to commend himself to God on his first surprise, say the peasants, and made the holy sign of redemption, the whole treasure would have been his. There is another tradition at Schlitters of a more peculiar character. It is confidently affirmed that the village once boasted two churches, though but a very small one would supply the needs of the inhabitants. Hormayr has sifted the matter to the bottom, and explains it in this way. There lived in the neighbourhood two knights, one belonging to the Rottenburger, and the other to the Freundsberger family. Now the latter had a position of greater importance, but the former possessed a full share of family haughtiness, and would not yield precedence to any one. In order not to be placed on a footing of inferiority, or even of equality, with his rival, he built a second church, which he might attend without being brought into contact with him. No expense was spared, and the church was solidly built enough; but no blessing seemed to come on the edifice so built, no pains could ever keep it in repair, and at last, after crumbling into ruin, every stone of it disappeared. Kropfsberg is a fine ruin, belonging to Count Enzenberg, seen a little above Strass, on a commanding height between the high road and the Inn. It is endeared to the memory of the Tiroleans by having been the spot where, on St. Michael's Day, 1416, their favourite Friedrich mit der leeren Tasche was reconciled with his brother Ernst der Eiserne, who, after the Council of Constance had pronounced its ban on Frederick, had thought to possess himself of his dominions. The largest town of the Zillerthal is Fügen, a short distance below Schlitters, and the people are so proud of it, that they have a saying ever in their mouths, 'There is but one Vienna and one Fügen in the world!' It doubtless owes its comparative liveliness and prosperity to its château being kept up and often inhabited by its owners (the Countess of Dönhof and her family). This is also a great ornament to the place, having been originally built in the fifteenth century by the lords of Fieger, though unhappily the period of its rebuilding (1733) was not one very propitious to its style. The sculpture in the church by the native artist, Nissl, is much more meritorious. The church of Ried, a little further along the valley, is adorned with several very creditable pictures by native artists. It is the native place of one of the bravest of the defenders of throne and country, so celebrated in local annals of the early part of the century, Sebastian Riedl. He was only thirty-nine at his death in 1821. Once, on an occasion of his fulfilling a mission to General Blucher, he received from him a present of a hussar's jacket, which he wore at the battle of Katzbach, and it is still shown with pride by his compatriots. The Zillerthal was the only part of Tirol where Lutheranism ever obtained any hold over the people. The population was very thin and scattered, consequently they were out of the way of the regular means of instruction in their own faith; and it often happened, when their dwellings and lands were devastated by inundations, that they were driven to seek a livelihood by carrying gloves, bags, and other articles made of chamois leather, also of the horns of goats and cattle, into the neighbouring states of Germany. Hence they often came back imbued with the new doctrines, and bringing books with them, which may have spread them further. This went on, though without attracting much attention, till the year 1830, when they demanded permission to erect a church of their own. The Stände of Tirol were unanimous, however, to resist any infringement of the unity of belief which had so long been preserved in the country. The Emperor confirmed their decision, and gave the schismatics the option of being reconciled with the Church, or of following their opinions in other localities of the empire where Lutheran communities already existed. A considerable number chose the latter alternative, and peace was restored to the Zillerthal. Every facility was given them by the government for making the move advantageously, and the inhabitants, who had been long provoked by the scorn and ridicule with which the exiles had treated their time-honoured observances, held a rejoicing at the deliverance. At the farther end of the valley is Zell, which though smaller in population than Fügen, has come to be considered its chief town. Its principal inn, for there are several--zum Post--if I recollect right, claims to be not merely a Gasthaus, but a Gasthof. The Brauhaus, however, with less pretension, is a charming resort of the old-fashioned style, under the paternal management of Franz Eigner, whose daughters sing their local melodies with great zest and taste. The church, dedicated to St. Vitus, is modern, having been built in 1771-82; but its slender green steeple is not inelegant. It contains some meritorious frescoes by Zeiler. The town contains some most picturesque buildings, as the Presbytery, grandiloquently styled the Dechanthof, one or two educational establishments, several well-to-do private houses, and the town-hall, once a flourishing brewery, which failed--I can hardly guess how, for the chief industry of the place is supplying the neighbourhood with beer. A mile beyond Zell is Hainzenberg, where the process of gold-washing on a small scale may be studied, said to be carried on by the owner, the Bishop of Brizen, on a sort of ultra-co-operative principle, as a means of support to the people of the place, without profit to himself. There is also a rather fine waterfall in the neighbourhood, and an inn where luncheon may be had. The most interesting circumstance, perhaps, in connexion with Zell is the Kirchweih-fest, which is very celebrated in all the country round. I was not fortunate enough to be in the neighbourhood at the right time of year to witness it. On the other side of the Hainzenberg, where the mountain climber can take his start for the Gerlozalp, is a little sanctuary called Mariä-rastkapelle, and behind it runs a sparkling brook. Of the chapel the following singular account is given:--In olden time there stood near the stream a patriarchal oak sacred to Hulda; [54] after the introduction of Christianity the tree was hewn down, and as they felled it they heard Hulda cry out from within. The people wanted to build up a chapel on the spot in honour of the Blessed Virgin, and began to collect the materials. No sooner had the labourers left their work, however, than there appeared an army of ravens, who, setting themselves vigorously to the task, carried every stone and every balk of wood to a neighbouring spot. This happened day after day, till at last the people took it as a sign that the soil profaned by the worship of Hulda was not pleasing to heaven, and so they raised their chapel on the place pointed out by the ravens, where it now stands. After Mayrhof, the next village (with three inns), in the neighbourhood of which garnets are found and mills for working them abound, the Zillerthal spreads out into numerous branches of great picturesqueness, but adapted only to the hardy pedestrian, as the Floitenthal, the Sondergrundthal, the Hundskehlthal (Dog's-throat valley), the Stillupethal, with its Teufelsteg, a bridge spanning a giddy ravine, and its dashing series of waterfalls. The whole closed in by the Zemmer range and its glaciers, the boundary against South-Tirol, said to contain some of the finest scenery and best hunting-grounds in the country. It has been also called the 'el Dorado' of the botanist and the mineralogist. The most important of these by-valleys is the Duxerthal, by non-Tiroleans generally written Tuxerthal, a very high-lying tract of country, and consequently one of the coldest and wildest districts of Tirol. Nevertheless, its enclosed and secluded retreat retains a saying perhaps many thousand years old, that once it was a bright and fertile spot yielding the richest pastures, and that then the population grew so wanton in their abundance that they wasted their substance. Then there came upon them from above an icy blast, before which their children and their young cattle sank down and died; and the herbage was, as it were, bound up, and the earth was hardened, so that it only brought forth scarce and stunted herbs, and the mountain which bounded their pleasant valley itself turned to ice, and is called to this day die gefrorene Wand, the frozen wall. The scattered population of this remote valley numbered so few souls, that they depended on neighbouring villages for their ecclesiastical care, and during winter when shut in by the snow within their natural fastnesses, were cut off from all spiritual ministration, so that the bodies of those who died were preserved in a large chest, of which the remains are yet shown, until the spring made their removal to Mattrey possible. In the middle of the seventeenth century they numbered 645 souls, and have now increased to about 1,400; about the year 1686 they built a church of their own, which is now served by two or three priests. For the first couple of miles the valley sides are so steep, that the only level ground between them is the bed of an oft-times torrential stream, but yet they are covered almost to the very top with a certain kind of verdure; further on it widens out into the district of Hinterdux, which is a comparatively pleasant cheerful spot, with some of the small cattle (which are reared here as better adapted to the gradients on which they have to find their food,) browsing about, and sundry goats and sheep, quite at home on the steeps. But scarce a tree or shrub is to be seen--just a few firs, and here and there a solitary mountain pine; and in the coldest season the greatest suffering is experienced from want of wood to burn. The only resource is grubbing up the roots remaining from that earlier happier time, which but for this proof might have been deemed fabulous. The hardships which the inhabitants of this valley cheerfully undergo ought to serve as a lesson of diligence indeed. The whole grass-bearing soil is divided among them. The more prosperous have a cow or more of their own, by the produce of which they live; others take in cows from Innsbruck and Hall to graze. The butter they make becomes an article of merchandise, the transport of which over the mountain paths provides a hard and precarious livelihood for a yet poorer class; the pay is about a halfpenny per lb. per day, and to make the wage eke out a man will carry a hundred and a woman fifty to seventy pounds through all weathers and over dangerous paths, sleeping by night on the hard ground, the chance of a bundle of hay in winter being a luxury; and one of their snow-covered peaks is with a certain irony named the Federbett. They make some six or seven cwt. of cheese in the year, but this is kept entirely for home consumption. The care of these cattle involves a labour which only the strongest constitution could stand--a continual climbing of mountains in the cold, often in the dark, during great part of the year allowing scarcely four or five hours for sleep. Nor is this their only industry. They contrive also to grow barley and flax; this never ripens, yet they make from it a kind of yarn, which finds a ready sale in Innsbruck; they weave from it too a coarse linen, which helps to clothe them, together with the home-spun wool of their sheep. Also, by an incredible exercise of patience, they manage to heap up and support a sufficient quantity of earth round the rough and stony soil of their valley to set potatoes, carrots, and other roots. Notwithstanding all these hardships, they are generally a healthy race, remarkable for their endurance, frugality, and love of home. Neither does their hard life make them neglect the improvement of the mind; nowhere are schools more regularly attended, although the little children have many of them an hour or two's walk through the snow. The church is equally frequented; so that if the great cold be sent, as the legend teaches, as a chastisement, [55] the people seem to have had grace given them to turn it to good account. The Zemgrund, Zamsergrund, and the Schwarzensteingrund, are other pedestrian excursions much recommended from Mayrhof, but all equally require the aid of local guides, and have less to repay toil than those already described. Travellers who merely pass through Tirol by rail may catch a sight of the mountains which hem in the Duxerthal, just after passing the station of Steinach, on their left hand, when facing the south. CHAPTER IV. NORTH TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL (RIGHT INN-BANK). (ZILLERTHAL CUSTOMS.--THE WILDSCHÖNAU.) Deep secret springs lie buried in man's heart, Which Nature's varied aspect works at will; Whether bright hues or shadows she impart, Or fragrant odours from her breath distil, Or the clear air with sounds melodious fill; She speaks a language with instruction fraught, And Art from Nature steals her mimic skill, Whose birds, whose rills, whose sighing winds first taught That sound can charm the soul, and rouse each noble thought. Lady Charlotte Bury. We had parted from the Zillerthal, and had once more taken our places in the railway carriage at Jenbach for a short stage to reach Kundl, [56] as a base of operations for visiting the Wildschönau, as well as the country on the other side of the Inn. The entry was effected with the haste usual at small stations, where the advent of a traveller, much more of a party of tourists, is an exceptional event. The adjustment of our bags and rugs was greatly facilitated by the assistance of the only occupant of the compartment into which we were thrust; and when we had settled down and expressed our thanks for his urbanity, I observed that he eyed us with an amused but not unpleasant scrutiny. At last his curiosity overcame his reticence. 'I have frequent occasion to travel this way to Munich and Vienna,' he said, 'and I do not remember ever to have fallen in with any strangers starting from Jenbach.' The conversation so opened soon revealed that our new friend, though spending most of his time in the Bavarian and Austrian capitals, nevertheless retained all a mountaineer's fondness for the Tirolese land, which had given him birth some seventy years before. He was greatly interested in our exploration of the Zillerthal, but much annoyed that we were leaving instead of entering it; had it been the other way, he said, he would have afforded us an acquaintance with local customs such as, he was sure, no other part of Europe could outvie. I assured him I had been disappointed at not coming across them during our brief visit, but fully hoped on some future occasion to have better success. He warmly recommended me not to omit the attempt, and for my encouragement cited a local adage testifying to the attractions of the valley-- Wer da kommt in's Zillerthal Der kommt gewiss zum Zweitenmal. [57] He was interesting us much in his vividly-coloured sketches of peasant life, when the train came to a stand; the guard shouted 'Kundl,' and we were forced to part. He gave us an address in Munich, however, where we were afterwards fortunate enough to find him; and he then gave me some precious particulars, which I was not slow to garner. He seemed to know the people well, having lived much among them in his younger days, and claimed for them--perhaps with some little partiality--the character of being industrious, temperate, moral, and straightforward, even above the other dwellers in Tirol; and no less, of being physically the finest race. Their pure bracing mountain air, the severe struggle which nature wages with them in their cultivation of the fruits of the soil, and the hardy athletic pursuits with which they vary their round of agricultural labour, tend to maintain and ever invigorate this original stock of healthfulness. Their athletic games are indeed an institution to which they owe much, and which they keep up with a devotion only second to that with which they cultivate their religious observances. Every national and social festival is celebrated with these games. The favourite is the scheibenschiessen, or shooting at a mark, for accuracy in which they are celebrated in common with the inhabitants of all other districts of the country, but are beaten by none; their stutze (short-barrelled rifle) they regard more in the light of a friend and companion than a weapon, and dignify it with the household name of the bread-winner. Wrestling is another favourite sport; to be the champion wrestler of the hamlet is a distinction which no inhabitant of the Zillerthal would barter for gold. The best 'Haggler,' 'Mairraffer,' and 'Roblar'--three denominations of wrestlers--are regarded somewhat in the light of a superior order of persons, and command universal respect. In wilder times, it is true, this ran into abuse; and some who had attained excellence in an art so dangerous when misapplied betook themselves to a life of violence and freebooting; but this has entirely passed away now, and anything like a highway robbery is unheard of. The most chivalrous rules guard the decorum of the game, which every bystander feels it a point of honour to maintain; the use even of the stossring, a stout metal ring for the little finger, by which a telling and sometimes disfiguring blow may be given by a dexterous hand, is discouraged. It is still worn, however, and prized more than as a mere ornament--as a challenge of the wearer's power to wield it if he choose, or if provoked to show his prowess. Running in races--which, I know not why, they call springen--obtains favour at some seasons of the year. At bowls and skittles, too, they are famous hands; and in their passion for the games have originated a number of fantastic stories of how the fairies and wild men of the woods indulge in them too. Many a herdsman, on his long and solitary watch upon the distant heights, gives to the noises of nature which he has heard, but could not account for, an origin which lives in the imagination of those to whom he recounts it on his return home; and his fancies are recorded as actual events. But that the spirits play at skittles, and with gold and silver balls, is further confirmed by peasants who have lost their way in mists and snow-storms, and whose troubled dreams have made pleasant stories. One of these, travelling with his pedlar's pack, sought refuge from the night air in the ruined castle of Starkenberg, the proud stronghold of a feudal family, second only in importance to the Rottenburgers, and equally brought low by Friedrich mit der leeren Tasche. The pedlar was a bold wrestler, and felt no fear of the airy haunters of ruined castles. He made a pillow of his pack, and laid him down to sleep as cosily as if at home, in the long dank grass; nevertheless, when the clock of the distant village church--to whose striking he had been listening hour by hour with joy, as an earnest that by the morning light he would know how to follow its guiding to the inhabited locality it denoted--sang out the hour of midnight, twelve figures in ancient armour stalked into the hall, and set themselves to play at bowls, for which they were served with skulls. The pedlar was a famous player, and nothing daunted, took up a skull, and set himself to play against them, and beat them all; then there was a shout of joy, such as mortal ears had never heard, and the twelve spirits declared they were released. Scarcely had they disappeared, when ten more spirits, whom the pedlar concluded like the last to be retainers of the mighty Starkenberger of old, entered by different doors, which they carefully locked behind them, and then bringing our hero the keys, begged him to open the doors each with the right one. The pedlar was a shrewd fellow; and though doors, keys, and spirits were each alike of their kind, his observation had been so accurate that he opened each with the right key without hesitation, whereupon the ten spirits declared themselves released too. Then came in the Evil One, furious with the pedlar, who was setting free all his captives, and swore he would have him in their stead. But the pedlar demanded fair play, and offered to stake his freedom on a game with his Arch-Impiety. The pedlar won, and the demon withdrew in ignominy; but the released spirits came round their deliverer, and loaded him with as much gold and valuable spoil as he could carry. This story seemed to me to belong to a class not unfrequently met with, but yet differing from the ordinary run of legends on this subject, inasmuch as the spirits, who were generally believed to be bound to earth in penance, were released by no act of Christian virtue, and without any appeal to faith; and I could not help asking my old friend if he did not think this very active clever pedlar might have been one of those who according to his own version had indulged in freebooting tendencies, and that having with a true Zillerthaler's tendencies pined to return to his native valley, he had invented the tale to account for his accession of fortune, and the nature of his possessions. I think my friend was a little piqued at my unmasking his hero, but he allowed it was not an improbable solution for the origin of some similar tales. Prizes, he went on to tell me, are often set up for excellence in these games, which are cherished as marks of honour, without any reference to their intrinsic value. And so jealously is every distinction guarded, that a youth may not wear a feather or the sprig of rosemary, bestowed by a beloved hand, in his jaunty hat, unless he is capable of proving his right to it by his pluck and muscular development. Dancing is another favourite recreation, and is pursued with a zest which makes it a healthful and useful exercise too. The Schnodahüpfl and the Hosennagler are as dear to the Zillerthaler as the Bolera to the Andalusian or the Jota to the Aragonese; like the Spanish Seguidillas, too, the Zillerthalers accompany their dance with sprightly songs, which are often directed to inciting each other not to flag. Another amusement, in which they have a certain similarity with Spaniards, is cow-fighting. But it is not a mere sport, and cruelty is as much avoided as possible, for the beasts are made to fight only with each other, and only their natural weapons--each other's horns--are brought against them. The victorious cow is not only the glory and darling of her owner, who loads her with garlands and caresses; but the fight serves to ascertain the hardy capacity of the animals as leaders of the herd, an office which is no sinecure, when they have to make their way to and from steep pastures difficult of access. [58] Ram and goat fights are also held in the same way, and with the same object. The chief occasions for exercising these pastimes are the village festivals, the Kirchtag, or anniversary of the Church consecration, the Carnival season, weddings and baptisms, and the opening of the season for the Scheibenschiessen; also the days of pilgrimages to various popular shrines; and the Primizen and Sekundizen--the first Mass of their pastors, and its fiftieth anniversary--general festivals all over Tirol. A season of great enjoyment is the Carnival, which with them begins at the Epiphany. Their great delight then is to go out in the dusk of evening, when work is over, disguised in various fantastic dresses, and making their way round from house to house, set the inmates guessing who they can be. As they are very clever in arranging all the accessories of their assumed character, changing their voice and mien, each visit is the occasion of the most laughable mistakes. In the towns, the Carnival procession is generally got up with no little taste and artistic skill. The arch-buffoon goes on ahead, a loud and merry jingle of bells announcing his advent at every movement of the horse he bestrides, collects the people out of every house. Then follow, also mounted, a train of maskers, Turks, soldiers, gipsies, pirates; and if there happen to be among them anyone representing a judge or authority of any sort, he is always placed at the head of the tribe. In the evening, their perambulations over, they assemble in the inn, where the acknowledged wag of the locality reads a humorous diatribe, which touches on all the follies and events, that can be anyhow made to wear a ridiculous aspect, of the past year. Christmas--here called Christnacht as well as Weihnacht--is observed (as all over the country, but especially here) by dispensing the Kloubabrod, a kind of dough cake, stuffed with sliced pears, almonds, nuts, and preserved fruits. The making of this is a particular item in the education of a Zillerthaler maiden, who has a special interest in it, inasmuch as the one she prepares for the household must have the first cut in it made by her betrothed, who at the same time gives her some little token of his affection in return. Speaking of Christmas customs reminded my informant of an olden custom in Brixen, that the Bishop should make presents of fish to his retainers. This fish was brought from the Garda-see, and the Graf of Tirol and the Prince-bishop of Trent were wont to let it pass toll-free through their dominions. A curious letter is extant, written by Bishop Rötel, 'an sambstag nach Stæ. Barbaræ, 1444,' courteously enforcing this privilege. The Sternsingen is a favourite way of keeping the Epiphany in many parts of the country. Three youths, one of them with his face blackened, and all dressed to represent the three kings, go about singing from homestead to homestead; and in some places there is a Herod ready to greet them from the window with riming answers to their verses, of which the following is a specimen: it is the address of the first king-- König Kaspar bin ich gennant Komm daher aus Morgenland Komm daher in grosser Eil Vierzehn Tag, fünftausend Meil. Melchores tritt du herein. [59] Melchior, thus appealed to, stands forward and sings his lay; and then Balthazar; and then the three join in a chorus, in which certain hints are given that as they come from so far some refreshment would be acceptable; upon which the friendly peasant-wife calls them in, and regales them with cakes she has prepared ready for the purpose, and sends them on their mountain-way rejoicing. Possibly some such custom may have given rise to the institution of our 'Twelfth-cake.' In the OEtzthal they go about with the greeting, 'Gelobt sei Jesus Christus zur Gömacht.' [60] Another Tirolean custom connected with Epiphany was the blessing of the stalls of the cattle on the eve, in memory of the stable in which the Wise Men found the Holy Family. Their wedding fêtes seem to be among the most curious of all their customs. My friend gave me a detailed account of one, between two families of the better class of peasants, which he had attended some years back; and he believed they were little changed since. It is regarded as an occasion of great importance; and as soon as the banns had been asked in church, the bridegroom went round with a chosen friend styled a Hochzeitsbitter, to invite friends and relations to the marriage. The night before the wedding (for which throughout Tirol a Thursday is chosen, except in the Iselthal, where a preference for Monday prevails), there was a great dance at the house of the bride, who from the moment the banns have been asked is popularly called the Kanzel-Braut. 'Rather, I should say,' he pursued, 'it was in the barn; for though a large cottage, there was no room that would contain the numbers of merry couples who flocked in, and even the barn was so crowded, that the dancers could but make their way with difficulty, and were continually tumbling over one another; but it was a merry night, for all were in their local costume, and the pine-wood torches shed a strange and festive glare over them. The next morning all were assembled betimes. It was a bitterly cold day, but the snow-storm was eagerly hailed, as it is reckoned a token that the newly-wedded pair will be rich; we met first at the bride's house for what they called the Morgensuppe, a rough sort of hearty breakfast of roast meat, white bread, and sausages; and while the elder guests were discussing it, many were hard at work again dancing, and the young girls of the village were dressing up the bride--one of the adornments de rigueur being a knot of streamers of scarlet leather trimmed with gold lace, and blue arm-bands and hat-ribbons; these streamers are thought by the simple people to be a cure for goitres, and are frequently bound round them with that idea. At ten o'clock the first church bell rang, when all the guests hastily assembled round the table, and drank the health of the happy pair in a bowl from which they had first drank. Then they ranged themselves into a procession, and marched towards the church, the musicians leading the way. The nearest friends of the bridal pair were styled "train-bearers," and formed a sort of guard of honour round the bride, walking bare-headed, their hats, tastily wreathed with flowers, in their hands. The priest of the village walked by the bride on one side, her parents on the other. She wore a wreath of rosemary--a plant greatly prized here, as among the people of Spain and Italy, and considered typical of the Blessed Virgin's purity--in her hair; her holiday dress was confined by a girdle, and she held her rosary in her hand. The bridegroom was almost as showily dressed, and wore a crown of silver wire; beside him walked another priest, and behind them came the host of the village inn, a worthy who holds a kind of patriarchal position in our villages. He is always one of the most important men of the place, generally owns the largest holding of land, and drives one or two little trades besides attending to the welfare of his guests. But more than this, he is for the most part a man of upright character and pleasant disposition, and is often called to act as adviser and umpire in rural complications. 'The procession was closed by the friends and neighbours, walking two and two, husband and wife together; and the church bells rang merrily through the valley as it passed along. 'The ceremonial in the church was accompanied with the best music the locality could afford, the best singers from the neighbouring choirs lending their voices. To add to the solemnity of the occasion, lighted tapers were held by the bridal party at the Elevation; and it was amusing to observe how the young people shunned a candle that did not burn brightly, as that is held to be an omen of not getting married within the year. At the close of the function, the priest handed round to them the Johannissegen, a cup of spiced wine mixed with water, which he had previously blessed, probably so called in memory of the miracle at the wedding-feast recorded in the Gospel of that Apostle. 'The band then struck up its most jocund air, and full of mirth the gladsome party wended their way to the inn. After a light repast and a short dance, and a blithesome Trutzlied, they passed on, according to custom, to the next, and so on to all the inns within a radius of a few miles. This absorbed about three or four hours; and then came the real wedding banquet, which was a very solid and long affair--in fact, I think fresh dishes were being brought in one after another for three or four hours more. Even in this there was a memory of the Gospel narrative, for in token of their joy they keep for the occasion a fatted calf, the whole of which is served up joint by joint, not omitting the head; this was preceded by soup, and followed by a second course of sweet dumplings, with fruit and the inevitable pickled cabbage, which on this day is dignified with the title of Ehrenkraut. After this came a pause; and the musicians, who had been playing their loudest hitherto, held in too. The "best man" rose, and went through the formula of asking the guests whether they were content with what had been set before them, which of course was drowned in a tumult of applause. In a form, which serves from generation to generation with slight change, he then went on to remark that the good gifts of meat and drink of which they had partaken came from the hand of God, and called forth the gratitude of the receiver, adding, "Let us thank Him for them, and still more in that He has made us reasonable beings, gifting us with faith, and not brutes or unbelievers. If we turn to Him in this spirit, He will abide with us as with them of Cana in Galilee. Therefore, let all anger and malice and evil speaking be put away from us, who have just been standing before the most holy Sacrament, and let us be united in the bonds of brotherly love, that His Blood may not have been poured out for us in vain. And to you, dear friends, who have this day been united with the grace-giving benediction of the Church, I commend this union of heart and soul most of all, that the new family thus founded in our midst may help to build up the living edifice of a people praising and serving God, and that you walk in His way, and bring up children to serve Him as our forefathers have ever done." There was a good deal more in the same strain; and this exhortation to holy living, from one of themselves, is just a type of the intimate way in which religion enters into the life of the people. His concluding wish for the well-being of the newly married was followed by a loud "Our Father" and "Hail Mary" from the assembled throng. 'After this came a great number more dishes of edibles, but this time of a lighter kind; among them liver and poultry, but chiefly fruits and sweets; and among these many confections of curious devices, mostly with some symbolical meaning. When these were nearly despatched, wine and brandy were brought out by the host; and by this name you must understand the master of the inn; for, true to the paternal character of which I have already spoken, it is always his business to cater for and preside over bridal banquets. At the same time the guests produced their presents, which go by the name of Waisat, and all were set down in a circumstantial catalogue. They are generally meted out with an open hand, and are a great help to the young people in beginning their housekeeping. 'The musicians, who only got hasty snatches of the good things passing round, now began yet livelier strains, and the party broke up that the younger members might give themselves to their favourite pastime, dancing; and well enough they looked, the lads in brilliant red double-breasted waistcoats, their short black leather breeches held up with embroidered belts, and their well-formed high-pointed hats with jaunty brim, going through the intricate evolutions, each beating the time heartily, first on his thighs and then on his feet--schuhplatteln they call it--and followed through the mazy figures by his diandl (damsel), in daintily fitting satin bodice, and short but ample skirt. 'The older people still lingered over the table, and looked on at the dance, which they follow with great interest; but there is not a great deal of drinking, and it is seldom enough, even in the midst of an occasion for such exceptional good cheer, that any excess is committed. A taste for brandy--the poor brandy of their own manufacture--is however, I confess, a weakness of the Zillerthalers. The necessity for occasionally having recourse to stimulants results from the severity of the climate during part of the year, and the frequently long exposure to the mountain air which their calling requires of them. At the same time, anything like a confirmed drunkard is scarcely known among them. Its manufacture affords to many an occupation; and its use to all, of both sexes, is a national habit. They make it out of barley, juniper, and numbers of other berries (which they wander collecting over all the neighbouring alps), as well as rye, potatoes, and other roots--in fact, almost anything. Every commercial bargain, every operation in the field, every neighbourly discussion, every declaration of affection even, is made under its afflatus. An offer of a glass of the cordial will often make up a long-harboured quarrel, a refusal to share one is taken to be a studied affront; in fact, this zutrinken, as they call it, comes into every act and relation of life. In the moderate bounds within which they keep its use, it is undeniably a great boon to them; and many a time it has been the saving of life in the mountains to the shepherd and the milk-maid, the snow-bound labourer or retarded pedlar.' I was curious to know what customs the other valley had to replace those of the Ziller. My friend informed me they were very similar, only the Zillerthalers were celebrated for their attachment to and punctual observance of them. He had once attended a wedding in the Grödnerthal which was very similar to the one he had already described, yet had some distinct peculiarities. Though a little out of place, I may as well bring in his account of it here. There, the betrothal is called der Handschlag (lit. the hand-clasp), and it is always performed on a Saturday. The fathers of the bride and bridegroom and other nearest relations are always present as witnesses; and if the bride does not cry at the projected parting, it is said she will have many tears to shed during her married life. The first time the banns are asked it is not considered 'the thing' for the betrothed to be present, and they usually go to church on that occasion in some neighbouring village; on the second Sunday they are expected to appear in state, the bridegroom wearing his holiday clothes and a nosegay in his hat or on his right breast. The bride always wears the local costume, a broadish brimmed green hat, a scarlet boddice and full black skirt, though this is now only worn on such occasions; on the day of the wedding, to this is added a broad black satin ribbon round her head, and round her waist a leather girdle with a number of useful articles in plated copper hanging from it. On each side are arranged red and green streamers with very great nicety, and no change of fashion is suffered in their position; she is expected to wear a grave mien and modest deportment; this is particularly enjoined. The guests are also expected to don the popular costume; the girls green, the married women black hats. On the way to the church the bridegroom's father and his nearest neighbour came forward, and with many ceremonies asked the bride of her friends, and she went crying coyly with them. After the church ceremony, which concludes as in Zillerthal with the cup of S. Johannessegen, the bridesmaids hand in a basket decked with knots of ribbon, containing offerings for the priests and servers, and a wreath, which is fastened round the priest's arm who leads the bride out of church. The visit to the neighbouring inn follows; but at the wedding feast guests come in in masquerading dresses bringing all manner of comical presents. The dance here lasts till midnight, when the happy pair are led home by their friends to an accompaniment of music, for which they have a special melody. The next day again there are games, and the newly married go in procession with their friends to bear home the trousseau and wedding gifts, among which is always a bed and bedding. On their way back beggars are allowed to bar the way at intervals, who must be bought off with alms. On the Sunday following the bride is expected again to appear at church in the local costume, and in the afternoon all the guests of the wedding day again gather in the inn to present their final offering of good wishes and blessings. Girls who are fond of cats, they say, are sure to marry early; perhaps an evidence that household virtues are appreciated in them by the men; but of men, the contrary is predicated, showing that the other sex is expected to display hardihood in the various mountaineering and other out-door occupations. [61] Kundl, whither we were bound before being tempted to make this digression, gives entrance to the Wildschönau according to modern orthography, the Witschnau, or Wiltschnau, according to local and more correct pronunciation (sometimes corrupted into Mitschnau), as the name is derived from wiltschen, to flow, and au, water, the particular water in this case being the Kundler-Ache, which here flows into the Inn. It is a little valley improving in beauty as you pursue it eastwards, not more than seven leagues in length, and seldom visited, for its roads are really only fit for pedestrians; hence its secluded inhabitants have acquired a character for being suspicious of strangers, though proverbially hospitable to one another. One of its points of greatest interest is the church of St. Leonhard, described in the last chapter. Overhanging the road leading from it to Kundl, stand the remains of the castle of Niederaich, now converted into a farm stable, and its moat serving as a conduit of water for the cattle. At the time it was built by Ambrose Blank in the sixteenth century, the silver mines then in work made this a most flourishing locality. At that time, too, there stood overlooking the town the Kundlburg, of which still slighter traces remain, the residence of the Kummerspruggers, who, in the various wars, always supported the house of Bavaria. The chief industry of Kundl at present is the construction of the boats which navigate the Inn, and carry the rich produce of the Tirolean pastures to Vienna. Oberau is situated on a commanding plateau, and its unpretending inn 'auf dem Keller,' offers a good resting-place. The church was burnt down in 1719, and the present one, remarkable for its size if for nothing else, was completed just a hundred years ago. It is, however, remarkable also for its altar-piece--the Blessed Virgin between S. Barbara and S. Margaret--by a local artist, and far above what might be expected in so sequestered a situation. At a distance of three or four miles, Niederau is reached, passing first a sulphur spring, esteemed by the peasants of the neighbourhood. The openest and most smiling--most friendly, to use the German expression--part of the valley is between Auffach and Kelchsau, where is situated Kobach, near which may be seen lateral shafts of the old mines extending to a distance of many hundred feet. From Kelchsau a foot-path leads in an hour more to Hörbrunn, where there is a brisk little establishment of glass-works, whose productions go all over Tirol. Then westwards over the Plaknerjoch to Altbach, passing Thierberg (not the same as that mentioned near Kufstein), once the chief seat of the silver-works, its only remaining attraction being the beautiful view to be obtained from its heights over the banks of the Inn, and the whole extent of country between it and Bavaria. From Altbach it is an hour more back to Brixlegg. The memory of the former metallic wealth of the valley is preserved in numerous tales of sudden riches overtaking the people in all manner of different ways, as in the specimens already given. Here is a similar one belonging to this spot. A peasant going out with his waggon found one day in the way a heap of fine white wheat. Shocked that God's precious gift should be trodden under foot, he stopped his team and gathered up the grain, of which there was more than enough to fill all his pockets; when he arrived at his destination, he found them full of glittering pieces of money. The origin of the story doubtless may be traced to some lucky take of ore which the finder was able to sell at the market town; and the price which he brought home was spoken of as the actual article discovered. Another relic of the mining works may perhaps be found in the following instance of another class of stories, though some very like it doubtless refer to an earlier belief in hobgoblins closely allied to our own Robin Goodfellow. I think a large number date from occasions when the Knappen or miners, who formed a tribe apart, may have come to the aid of the country people when in difficulty. The Unterhausberg family was once powerful in Wiltschnau. When their mighty house was building, the great foundation-stone was so ponderous that it defied all the efforts of the builders to put it in its place. At last they sat down to dinner; then there suddenly came out of the mountain side a number of Wiltschnau dwarfs, who, without any effort, lowered the great stone into its appointed place; the men offered them the best portion of their dinner, but they refused any reward. The dwarfs were not always so urbane, however, and there are many stories of their tricks: lying down in the pathways in the dark to make the people tumble over them; then hiding behind a tree, and with loud laughter mocking the disaster; [62] throwing handfuls of pebbles and ashes at the peasant girls as they passed; getting into the store-room, and mixing together the potatoes, carrots, grain, and flour, which the housewife had carefully assorted and arranged. It was particularly on women that their tricks were played off; and this to such an extent that it became the custom, even now prevailing, never to send women to the Hochalm with the herds, though they go out into other equally remote mountain districts without fear, for their Kasa (the hut for shelter at night, here so called, in other parts Sennhütte,) was sure to be beset with the dwarfs, and their milk-pails overturned. All these feats may, I think, be ascribed in their origin to the Knappen. The neighbourhood of Thierberg has a story which I think also has its source in mining memories. 'On the way between Altbach and Thierbach you pass two houses bearing the name of "beim Thaler." In olden time there lived here a peasant of moderate means, who owned several head of cattle; Moidl, the maid, whose duty it was to take them out to pasture on the sunny hill-side, always looked out anxiously for the first tokens of spring; for she loved better to watch the cows and goats browsing the fresh grass, or venturously climbing the heights, to sitting in the chimney-corner dozing over the spinning-wheel. One day as she was at her favourite occupation, she heard a noise behind her, and turning round saw a door open in the mountain side, and two or three little men with long beards peeping out. Within, all was dazzling with gold like the brightest sunshine. The walls were covered with plates of gold, placed one over the other like scales, and knobs of gold like pine-apples studded the vault. The little men beckoned to Moidl to come in, but she, like a modest maiden, ran home to her father; when he returned with her, however, to the spot, the door was no more to be found.' I think it may very well be imagined that Moidl came unawares upon the opening of a lateral shaft, and listened to the accounts which the Knappen may have amused themselves with giving her of the riches of their diggings; while she may very naturally have been afraid to explore these. The disappearance of the mysterious opening is but the ordinary refrain of marvellous tales. The Witschnauers cannot be accused of any dreamy longings after the recurrence of such prosperous times. They are among the most diligent tillers of the land to be found anywhere; the plough is carried over places where the uneven gradients make the guiding of horses or oxen a too great expenditure of time; in such places they do not disdain to harness themselves to the plough, and even the women take their turn in relieving them. Of one husbandman of olden time it is narrated that he was even too eager in his thrift, and carried his furrow a little way on to his neighbour's land year by year, so that by the time he came to die he had appropriated a good strip of land not his own. His penance was, that after death he should continually tread up and down the stolen soil, dragging after him a red-hot ploughshare, in performing which his wail was often overhead-- O weh! wie is der Pflug so heiss Und niemand mir zu helfen weiss! [63] until one of his successors in the farm, being a particularly honourable man, removed the boundary-stone back to its original position. He had no sooner done so than he had the satisfaction of hearing the spectre cry-- Erlöst, Gott sei Dank, bin ich jetzt Der Markstein ist auch rechtgesetzt. [64] Another class of legends has also a home in this locality. It is told that a peasant from Oberau was going home from Thierbach, one Epiphany Eve. It was a cold night; his feet crunched the crisp snow at every step; the air was clear, and the stars shone brightly. The peasant's head, however, was not so clear as the sky, for he came from the tavern, where he had been spending a merry evening with his boon companions. Thus it happened that instead of walking straight on, he gave one backward step for every three forward, like the Umgehende Schuster; [65] and thus he went staggering about till he came to the Rastbank, which is even yet sought as a point where to rest and overlook the view. It struck twelve as he seated himself on the bench; then suddenly behind him he heard a sound of many voices, which came on nearer and nearer, and then the Berchtl in her white clothing, her broken ploughshare in her hand, and all her train of little people [66] swept clattering and chattering close past him. The least was the last, and it wore a long shirt which got in the way of its little bare feet, and kept tripping it up. The peasant had sense enough left to feel compassion, so he took his garter off and bound it for a girdle round the infant, and then set it again on its way. When the Berchtl saw what he had done, she turned back and thanked him, and told him that in return for his compassion his children should never come to want. This story, I think there is little doubt, may be genuine; your Wiltschenauer is as fond of brandy as your Zillerthaler, and under its influence the peasant may very likely have passed a troubled night on the Rastbank. What more likely to cross his fancy on the Epiphany Eve than the thought of a visit from the Berchtl and her children (they always appear in Tirol at that season, and in rags and tatters [67]); his own temperament being compassionate, that he should help the stumbling little one, and that the Berchtl should give him promise of reward was all that might be expected from certain premises. But what are those premises? Who was the Berchtl? If you ask a Tirolean peasant the question, he will probably tell you that the Perchtl (as he will call her) is Pontius Pilate's wife, [68] to whom redemption was given by reason of her intervention in favour of the Man of Sorrows, but that it is her penance to wander over the earth till the last day as a restless spirit; and that as the Epiphany was the season of favour to the Gentiles, among whose first-fruits she was, it is at that season she is most often seen, and in her most favourable mood. It must be confessed that some of his stories of her will betray a certain amount of inconsistency, for he will represent her carrying off children, wounding belated passengers, and performing many acts inconsistent with the character of a penitent soul, and more in accordance with that of the more ancient 'Lamia.' If you address your question to Grimm, or Wolf, Simrock, Kuhn, Schwartz, or Mannhardt, or any who have made comparative mythology their study, he will tell you that the stories about her (and probably all the other marvellous tales of the people also) are to be traced back to the earliest mythological traditions of a primeval glimmering of religion spread abroad over the whole world; and to the poetical forms of expression of a primitive population describing the wonderful but constantly repeated operations of nature. [69] That the wilder Jäger was originally the god Wodin, the hunter of unerring aim, that his impetuous course typifies the journey of the sun-god through the heavens, [70] his mighty arm represents his powerful rays; and in even so late a tale as 'that of William Tell, he will see the last reflections of the sun-god, whether we call him Indra, or Apollo, or Ulysses.' [71] He will tell you that all 'the countless legends of princesses kept in dark prisons and invariably delivered by a young bright knight can all be traced back to mythological traditions about the spring being released from the bonds of winter; the sun being rescued from the darkness of night; the dawn being brought back from the far west; the waters being set free from the prison of clouds.' [72] And of the Berchtl herself, he will tell you that she is Perahta (the bright), daughter of Dagha (the day), whose name has successively been transformed into Perchtl and Bertha; brightness or whiteness has made her to be considered the goddess of winter; who particularly visited the earth for twelve winter nights, and spoilt all the flax of those idle maidens who left any unspun on the last day of the year; [73] who carries in her hand a broken plough in token that the ground is hardened against tillage; whose brightness has also made her to be reckoned the all-producing earth-mother, with golden hair like the waving corn; the Hertha of the Swabian; the Jörtha of Scandinavian; [74] the Berecynthia of the Phrygian; [75] and to other nations known as Cybele, Rhea, Isis, Diana. [76] Such ideas were too deeply rooted in the minds of the people to be easily superseded; as my friend, the Feldkirch postilion, said, they went on and on like the echoes of their own mountains. 'The missionaries were not afraid of the old heathen gods; ... their kindly feeling towards the traditions, customs, and prejudices of their converts must have been beneficial; ... they allowed them the use of the name Allfadir, whom they had invoked in the prayers of their childhood, when praying to Him who is "our Father in heaven."' And as with the greater, so with the less, the mighty powers they had personified and treated as heroes and examples lived on in their imagination, and their glorious deeds came to be ascribed to the new athletes of a brighter faith. Then, 'although originally popular tales were reproductions of more ancient legends, yet after a time a general taste was created for marvellous stories, and new ones were invented in large numbers. Even in these purely imaginative productions, analogies may be discovered with more genuine tales, because they were made after the original patterns, and in many cases were mere variations on an ancient air.' [77] More than this, there came the actual accession of marvels derived from the acts inspired by the new faith; but it cannot be denied that the two became strangely blended in the popular mind. Brixlegg presents some appearance of thriving, through the smelting and wire-drawing works for the copper ore brought from the neighbourhood of Schwatz. It also enjoys some celebrity as the birthplace of the Tirolean historian Burgleckner, whose family had been respected here for generations; and it is very possible to put up for the night at the Herrenhaus. It is not much above a mile hence to Rattenberg, of which I have already spoken. Rattenberg was, in 1651, the scene of a tragic event, sad as the denouement of many a fiction. The high-spirited consort of Archduke Leopold V., Claudia de' Medici, who, at his death, governed the country so well, and by her sagacity kept her dominions at peace, while the rest of Germany was immersed in the horrors of the Thirty Years' War, yet did not altogether escape the charge of occasional harshness in collecting the revenues which she knew so well how to administer. Her chancellor, Wilhelm Biener, a trusty and devoted servant and counsellor, drew on himself considerable odium for his zeal in these matters. On one occasion he got into a serious controversy with Crosini, Bishop of Brixen, concerning the payment of certain taxes from which the prelate claimed exemption, and in the course of it wrote him a letter couched in such very unguarded terms, that the bishop, unused to be so dealt with, could not forbear exclaiming, 'The man deserves to lose the fingers that could write such an intemperate effusion!' The exclamation was not thought of again till years after. Claudia died in 1648, and then the hatred against Biener, which was also in some measure a hatred of races, for Claudia had many southerners at her court, broke forth without hindrance. He was accused [78] of appropriating the State money he had been so earnest in collecting, and though tried by two Italian judges, he was ultimately condemned, in 1651, to lose his head. Biener sent a statement of his case to the Archduke Ferdinand Karl; and the young prince, believing the honesty of his mother's faithful adviser, immediately ordered a reprieve. The worst enemy and prime accuser of the fallen favourite was Schmaus, President of the Council, this time a German, and he contrived by detaining the messenger to make him arrive just too late in Rattenberg, then still a strong fortress, where he lay confined, and where the sentence was to be carried out. Biener had all along steadfastly maintained his innocence; and stepping on to the scaffold, he had again repeated the assertion, adding, 'So truly as I am innocent, I summon my accuser before the Judgment-seat above before another year is out.' [79] When the executioner stooped to lift up the head before the people, he found lying by its side three fingers of his right hand, without having had any knowledge that he had struck them off, though he might have done so by the unhappy man having raised his hand in the way of the sword in the last struggle. The people, however, saw in it the fulfillment of the words of the bishop, as well as a ghastly challenge accompanying his dying message to President Schmaus. Nor did they forget to note that the latter died of a terrible malady some months before the close of the year. Biener's wife lost her senses when she knew the terrible circumstances of his death; the consolations of her director and of her son, who lived to his ninetieth year in the Francescan convent at Innsbruck, were alike powerless to calm her. She escaped in the night, and wandered out into the mountains no one knows whither. But the people say she lives on to be a witness of her husband's innocence, and may be met on lonely ways proclaiming it, but never harming any. Only, when anyone is to die in Büchsenhausen, [80] where her married life passed so pleasantly, the 'Bienerweible' will appear and warn them. It is a remarkable instance of the easy way in which one myth passes into another, that though this event happened but a little over two hundred years ago, the Bienerweible and the Berchtl are already confounded in the popular mind. [81] Another name prized in Tirolese annals, which must not be forgotten in connexion with Rattenberg, is Alois Sandbichler, the Bible commentator, who was born there in 1751. He passed a brilliant career as Professor in the University of Salzburg, but died at the age of eighty in his native village. The neighbourhood of Brixlegg is very pretty, and the views from the bridge by no means to be overlooked. CHAPTER V. NORTH TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL. (LEFT INN-BANK.) The hilles, where dwelled holy saintes, I reverence and adore Not for themselfe but for the saincts Which han been dead of yore. And now they been to heaven forewent, Their good is with them goe; Their sample onely to us lent, That als we mought doe soe.--Spenser. We have hitherto been occupied almost exclusively with the right bank of the Inn. We will now return to Jenbach, as a starting-point for the beauties of the left bank. Near the station of Jenbach is a 'Restauration,' which bears the singular title of 'zum Tolerantz.' In the town, which is at some little distance on the Käsbach stream, the 'Post' affords very decent accommodation; The dining-room of the more primitive 'Brau' is a neat building in the Swiss style, and commands a prospect which might more than compensate for even worse fare than it affords. Jenbach had its name from being situated on the further side of the Inn from that on which the old post-road had been carried. There are extensive iron-foundries and breweries, which give the place a busy aspect, and an air of prosperity. The excursions from Jenbach are countless. Between the stations of Brixlegg and Jenbach lie only Münster and Wiesing, with nothing remarkable, except that the church of Wiesing, having been struck by lightning in 1782, was rebuilt with stones taken from the neighbouring Pulverthurm, built by the Emperor Maximilian, in 1504, but destroyed by lightning at the same time as the church. Count Tannenberg's park (Thiergarten), near here, is a most curious enclosure of natural rock, aided by masonry, and stocked with deer, fish, and fowl. Then Kramsach, and in the woods near it the Hilariusbergl, once inhabited by two hermits, and still held sacred: also the strangely wild Rettengschöss and its marbles; and several remarkable Alpine peaks, particularly the Zireinalpe and its little lake, bearing a memory of Seirens in its traditions as well as in its name. Here another river Ache runs into the Inn, distinguished from that on the opposite side, as the Brandenberger Ache. At its debouche stands Voldepp, whence the Mariathal and the Mooserthal may be visited, and 'the neighbourhood is rich in marbles used in the churches of Innsbruck.' [82] The Mooserthal is remarkable for three small lakes, which can be formed and let off at pleasure; they are the property of the Barons of Lichtenthurm, who fatten carp in them. The lowest of the three, the Rheinthalersee, has the prettiest surroundings. Weber says they are all fed by subterranean currents from the mountains. Ball ('Central Alps') treats them as overflowings of the Inn. The most flourishing town of the Mariathal is Achenrain, where there are extensive brass-works. Mass is said for the out-lying operatives in the Castle-chapel of Lichtenthurm. The village of Mariathal is very snugly situated, almost hidden by its woods from the road. Its chief feature is the deserted convent of Dominicanesses founded in the thirteenth century by Ulrich and Konrad v. Freundsberg; their descendant, Georg v. Freundsberg, celebrated in the Thirty Years' War, whom we learn more about when we come to Schwatz, also endowed the nuns liberally, bidding them pray for him; his effigy may still be seen in the church of Mariathal; and the convent, even in its present condition, is a favourite pilgrimage. Hence a rocky defile of wild and varied beauty, and many miles in length, leads into the Brandenbergerthal, which reaches to the Bavarian frontier. Its highest point is the Steinberg, to be recognized in the distance by its pyramidal form, which is situated within what the Germans graphically term a cauldron (Gebirgskessel) of mountains, and is shut off from all communication with the outer world by the snow during the winter months. The Brandenbergers have been famous for their patriotism and defence of their independence during all the various conflicts with Bavaria, and they love to call their native soil the Heimaththal and the Freiheitthal. The only tale of the supernatural I have met with as connected with this locality is the following; it has a certain wild grasp, but its moral is not easy to trace; it is analogous, however, to many traditions of other places. 'One of the Jochs surrounding the Brandenbergerthal was celebrated for its rich grasses; on its "alm" [83] the cattle often found pasturage even late in the winter. The Senner [84] here watching his flocks was visited one Christmas Eve by an old man in thick winter clothing, with a mighty pine-staff in his hand; he begged the Senner on the coming night to heat his hut as hot as ever he could, assuring him he would have no cause to regret his compliance. The Senner thought it was a strange adventure, but congratulated himself that it might be the means of propitiating the goblins, of whose pranks in the winter nights he was not without his fears. So he heaped log upon log all day, till the hut was so hot he could hardly bear it. Then he crept under a bench in the corner where a little chink gave a breath from the outer air, and waited to see what would come to pass. Towards midnight he heard steps approaching nearer and nearer, and then there was a sound of heavy boots stamping off the snow. Immediately after, seven men stepped into the room in silence. Their boots and clothes were all frozen as hard as if they had been carved out of ice, and their very presence served to cool down the air of the hut to such an extent that the Senner was now obliged to rub his hands. When they had stood a considerable space round the fire without uttering a word, they all seven left the hut as silently and solemnly as they had entered it. The Senner now crawled out of his hiding-place, and a loud cry of joy burst spontaneously from his lips, for his hat, which he had left on the table, was full of bright shining golden zwanzigers. These seven, the legend goes on to say, 'were never seen but this once. They were the seven Goldherds of the Reiche Spitze (on the Salzburg frontier); for up there there are exhaustless treasures, but whatever a mortal takes of them during life, he must suffer the Cold Torment and keep watch over it after death; and of such there have been seven in the course of the world's ages.' With regard to 'the Cold Torment,' [85] they have the following legend in the neighbourhood of Innsbruck:--There was once a peasant who had been very unlucky, and got so deep in debt that he saw no way of extricating himself. Unable to bear the sight of his starving family, he wandered out into the forest, until at last he met a strange-looking man in the old Frankish costume, who came up to him and said, 'You are poor indeed, and know no means of help.' 'Most true,' replied the peasant; 'of money and good counsel I can use more than you can have to bestow.' 'I will help you,' said the strange-looking man; 'I will give you as much money as you can use while you live, and all you have to do for it will be to bear the Cold Torment for me after you die; nothing but that, only just to feel rather too cold, and all that time hence--what does it matter?' The peasant retraced his steps, and as he drew near home his children came out to meet him with their pinafores full of gold, and all about the house there were heaps of gold, more than he could use; and he lived a merry life till the time came for him to die. Then he remembered what was before him; so he called his wife to him, and got her to make him a whole suit of the thickest rough woollen cloth, and stockings, hood, and gloves of the same. In the night, before they had buried him, his boys saw him, just as the De profundis bell rang, get up from the bed in all this warm clothing, and shut the gate behind him, and go out into the forest to deliver the spirit which had enriched him. [86] To the north-east of this valley, and still on the left bank of the Inn, is the favourite pilgrimage of Maria-Stein. I have not learnt its origin, but there is a tradition that, in 1587, Baron Schurff, to whom the neighbouring Castle of Stein then belonged, being desirous to take the precious likeness of the Blessed Virgin honoured there to his Bavarian dwelling, thrice attempted the removal, and on each occasion it was found by the next morning restored to its original sanctuary, which is in a chapel at the top of a high tower. The castle was a dependency of the Freundsbergers of Schwatz, till the family died out. It was subsequently bestowed by the Archduke Sigismund on one of his supporters, to whom he gave also the title of Baron Schurff. Afterwards it came into possession of Count Paris von Klotz, who gave it to form a presbytery and school for which it is still used. Among its treasures was a Slave codex of Homilies of the early fathers; Count Klotz had a reprint made from it at Vienna. A little lake (Maria Steinersee) at no great distance affords excellent fish called Nasen, whence the neighbouring dale is called Nasenthal; and from several points there are most enjoyable views of the höhe Salve and the little towns of Wörgl, Kirchbühel, and Häring across the river. Jenbach affords also numerous mountain walks through the Achenthal: a favourite one is over the Mauriz Alp, to Maurach, which has many points of interest to the geologist. For those who are not fond of pedestrianism, there is a splendid drive along the road--one of the old highways to Bavaria and the north of Europe. An accident is of very rare occurrence; but some parts of it are rather frightful. For those whose nerves are proof against the fears suggested here and there, there is immense enjoyment to be found, as it winds its way along the romantic woody Käsbachthal, round--indeed through--the wild and overhanging rocks, or, supported on piles, runs close along the edge of the intensely blue Achen lake, under the over-arching Spiel-joch, steep as a wall. The first place to halt at is Skolastica, where there is a pretty, much-frequented swimming-school; and whence even ladies have ascended the Unnutzjoch over the Kögl. It is often crowded in the season, as also are all the little towns round the lake--Achenthal, Pertisau, Buchau. Several excellent varieties of fish, which are the property of the Monastery of Viecht, and the pleasure-fares across the waters, afford means of subsistence to a little population of boatmen, who have made their nests on the rocks wherever there is a foot of level ground. Pertisau, however, is on a green smiling spot, and is a relief to the majestic wildness of the rest of the surrounding scenery. A very extraordinary effect may be observed at a short distance out from Buchau. The mountain outline on the right hand appears to be that of a regular fortress, with all professional accessories, bidding defiance to the neighbourhood: it is only as the boat approaches quite near, that you see it is only one of those tours de force with which nature often surprises us; as, for example, in the portrait of Louis XVI. in the outline of the Traunstein, seen from Baura. From the village of Achenthal the road runs, through the Bavarian frontier, to the well-known baths and Bavarian royal Lustschloss--until 1803 a Benedictine monastery--of Tegernsee, through Pass-Achen, celebrated in the patriotic struggles of 1809. The Achensee is the largest and one of the most beautiful lakes of Tirol. It is fed partly by mountain streams, and partly by subterranean springs. The people tell a warning tale of its first rising. They say that in olden times there was a stately and prosperous town on what is now the bed of the lake; but the inhabitants in their prosperity forgot God so far, that the young lads played at skittles along the aisles of the church, even while the sacred office was being sung, and the Word of God preached. A day came; it was a great feast, but they drove their profane sport as usual, and no one said them nay; [87] and so a great flood rose up through the floor; rose above their heads; above the church roof; above the church steeple; and they say that even now, on a bright calm day, you may see the gilt ball of the steeple shining under the waters, and in the still moonshine you may hear the bell ring out the midnight hour. There are many other tales of such swift and righteous judgments lingering in Tirol. The lower eastern ridge of the Harlesanger or Hornanger Alpe, is, on account of its stern and barren character, called the Wildenfeld. This is how it received its name. Ages ago, it was a very paradise of beauty and fruitfulness. All the choicest Alpine grasses grew there in abundance; but with these riches and plenty the pride of the Senners and milkers waxed great too; and as a token of their reckless wastefulness, it is recorded that they used rich cheeses for paving-stones and skittles. One ancient Senner, like another Lot, raised his feeble but indignant voice against them, but they heeded him not. One day, as he mused over the sins of his people, a bright bird, with a plumage such as he had never seen before, fluttered round him, warbling, 'Righteous man, get thee hence! righteous man, get thee hence!' The old man saw the finger of God, and immediately followed the guiding flight of the bird to a place of safety, while a great peak from the Harlesanger fell over the too prosperous Joch, buried its impious inhabitants, and spread desolation all around. There is now a pilgrimage chapel. Another excursion, which must not be omitted, from Jenbach, is that to Eben, which lies a little off the high road, at some elevation, but in the midst of a delightful table-land (hence its name) of most fruitful character. As the burial-place of St. Nothburga, it is still a spot of great resort. Unhappily, not all those buried here were so holy as the peasant saint. A tradition is preserved of one wicked above others, though he seemed all fair to the outward eye, and the Church consequently admitted him to lie in holy ground. But he felt the Eye of One above upon him, and he could not rest; and in his struggles to withdraw himself from that all-searching gaze, he bored and bored on through the consecrated earth, till he had worked his way out into the common soil beyond. A horse-shoe, deeply graven in the 'Friedhof' boundary, and which no one has ever been able to wall up, marks the spot by which he passed; and the people call it the 'Escape of the Vampire.' [88] The unpretending village of Stans, situated in the midst of a very forest of fruit-trees, at no great distance from Jenbach, is the birth-place of Joseph Arnold, one of the religious artists, of whom Tirol has produced so many. Without winning, of some it may be said without meriting perhaps, much fame for themselves in the world, without attaining the honour of founding a school, they have laboured painstakingly and successfully to adorn their village temples, and keep alive the faith and devotion of their countrymen. Almost where-ever you go in Tirol you find praiseworthy copies of paintings, whose titles are connected with the celebrated shrines of Italy, modestly reproduced by them, or some fervent attempt at an original rendering of a sacred subject, by men who never aspired that their names should reach beyond the echoes of their own beloved mountains. The prior of Viecht, Eberhard Zobel, discovered the merits of Joseph Arnold and drew him from obscurity, or rather from one degree of obscurity to another less profound, had him instructed according to the best means within his attainment, and gave him occupation in the monastery. His homely aspirations made him content with the sphere to which he was native, and he never went far from it. The altarpiece in the church of Stans, representing St. Lawrence and St. Ulric, is his work and his gift. From Stans there is a path through the grand scenery of the Stallenthal, leading to the shrine of St. Georgenberg. For a time the pretty villages of the Innthal are lost to sight, and you pass a country known only to the wild game, the hunter, and the pilgrim; the bare rocky precipices relieved only here and there with woods, while the Stallen torrents run noisily below. Who could pass through such a neighbourhood and not think of the crowds of pilgrims who, through ages past, have approached the sacred spot in a spirit of faith and submission, bearing their sins and their sorrows, the burden of their afflictions, moral and physical, and have gone down to their homes comforted? A wonderful shrine it is: a rock which might seem marked out 'from the beginning' to be a shrine; shut out by Nature from earthly communication; piercing the very sky. You stand beneath it and long for an eagle's wings to bear you aloft: there seems no other means of access. Then a weary winding path is shown you, up which, with many sloping returns upon your former level, and crossing the roaring stream at a giddy height, you at last reach an Absatzbrücke--a bridge or viaduct--over the chasm, uniting the height you have been climbing, with the cliff of S. George. It is a long bridge, and only made of wood; and you fancy it trembles beneath your anxious tread, as you span the seemingly unfathomable abyss. A modest cross, which you cannot fail to observe at its head, records the marvellous preservation of a girl of twenty-one, named Monica Ragel, a farm-servant, who one fine morning in April 1831, in her zeal to gather the fairest flowers for the wreath she was weaving for the Madonna's altar, attempted to climb the treacherous steep, and losing her footing slipped down the cliff, a distance of one hundred and forty feet. The neighbours crowded to the spot, with all the haste the dangerous footing would admit, and though they had no hope of finding her alive. She was so far uninjured, however, that she was able to resume work within the week. The buildings found perched at this height cannot fail to convey a striking impression; and this still more do the earnest penitents, who may nearly always be found kneeling within. First, you come upon the little chapel of the 'Schmerzhaften Mutter,' with a little garden of graves of those who have longed to lie in death as they dwelt in life--near the shrine; among them is that of the Benedictine Magnus Dagn, whose knowledge of music is referred to in the following simple epitaph, 'Magnus nomine, major arte, maximus virtute.' Opposite it is the principal church, containing in one of its chapels one of those most strange of relics, which here and there have come down to us with their legends from 'the ages of faith.' In the year 1310, when Rupert I. was the fourteenth abbot of St. Georgenberg, a priest of the order [89] was saying Mass in this very chapel. Just at the moment of the consecration of the chalice a doubt started in his mind, whether it were possible that at his unworthy bidding so great a mystery should be accomplished as the fulfillment of the high announcement, 'This is My Blood.' In this condition of mind he concluded the words of consecration; and behold, immediately, in place of the white wine mingled with water in the chalice, he saw it fill with red blood, overflowing upon the corporal; some portion of this was preserved in a vial, set into a reliquary on the altar. Round the church are the remains of the original monastery, in which the monks of Veicht generally leave some of their number to minister both to the spiritual and corporal needs of pilgrims. It seems difficult to fix a date for the origin of this pilgrimage, one of the most ancient of Tirol. There is a record that in 992 a chapel was consecrated here to our Lady of Sorrows, by Albuin, Bishop of Brizen; but it was long before this [90] that Rathold, a young nobleman of Aiblingen in Bavaria, 'having learnt the hollowness of the joys his position promised him, made up his mind to forsake all, and live in the wilderness to God alone.' He wandered on, shunning the smooth and verdant plains of his native lands, and the smiling fruitful amenities of the Innthal, till at last he found himself surrounded by wild solitudes in the valley of the Stallen; plunging into its depths, his eye alighted on the almost inaccessible Lampsenjock. Then choosing for his dwelling a peak, on which a few limes had found a ledge and sown themselves, he cut a little cave for his shelter in the rock beneath them, and there he lived and prayed. But after a time a desire came over him to visit the shrines of the mightiest saints; so he took up his pilgrim staff once more, and sped over the mountains and over the plains, till he had knelt at the limine Apostolorum, and pressed his lips upon the soil, fragrant with the martyr's blood. Nor was his zeal yet satisfied. There was another Apostle the fame of whose shrine was great; and 'a year and a day' brought our pilgrim to S. Iago de Compostella. Then, having thus graduated in the school of the saints, he came back to his solitude under the lime-trees on the rock, to practise the lessons of Divine contemplation he had thus imbibed in the perfume of the holy places. He did not come back alone. From the great storehouse of Rome he had brought a treasure of sacred art--a picture of the Madonna, for which his own hands wrought a little sanctuary. From far and near pious people came to venerate the sacred image; and 'Unsere liebe Frau zur Linde,' was the watch-word, at the sound of which the sick and the oppressed revived with hope. One day, it chanced that a young noble, whom ardent love of the chase had led into this secluded valley, turned aside from following the wild chamois, to inquire what strange power fascinated the peasants into attempting yon steep ascent. Curious himself to see the wonder-working shrine, he scaled the peak, and found to his astonishment, in the modest guardian of the picture, the elder brother who long ago had 'chosen the better part.' In token of his joy at the meeting, he made a vow to build on the spot a chapel, as well as a place of shelter for the weary pilgrim. His undertaking was no sooner known than all the people of the neighbouring valleys, nobles and peasants, applied to have their part in the work. Thus supported, it was begun in right earnest; but the workmen had no sooner got it fairly in hand than all the blessing, which for so long had been poured out on the spot, seemed suddenly to be quenched. Nothing would succeed, and every attempt was baffled; and one thing, which was more particularly remarked, was that the men were continually having accidents, and wounding themselves with their tools. More strange still, every day two white doves flew down from above, and carefully picking out every chip and shaving on which blood had fallen, gathered them in their beaks and flew away. Finding that no progress could be made with the work, and that this manoeuvre of the doves continued day by day, the pious Reinhold resolved to follow them; and when he at last succeeded in finding their hiding-place, there lay before him, neatly fashioned out of the chips which the doves had carried away, a tiny chapel of perfectly symmetrical form. [91] The hermit saw in the affair the guiding hand of God, demanding of him the sacrifice of seven years' attachment to his cell; and cheerfully yielding obedience to the token, requested his brother that the chapel should be erected on the spot thus pointed out. Theobald willingly complied, and dedicated it to the patron of chivalry, St. George. The fame of Reinhold's piety, and of his wonderful chapel, was bruited far and near; and now, not all who came to visit him went back to their homes. Many youths of high degree, fired by the example of the hermit sprung out of their order, applied to join him in his life of austerity; and soon a whole colony had established itself, Camaldolese-fashion, in little huts round his. There seems to have been no lack of zealous followers to sustain the odour of sanctity of St. Georgenberg; early in the twelfth century, the Bishop of Brixen put them under the rule of S. Benedict, to whose monks Tirol, and especially Unterinnthal, already owed so great a debt of gratitude, for keeping alive the faith. His followers endowed it with much of the surrounding land, which the brothers, by hard manual labour, brought into cultivation. They were overtaken by many heavy trials in the course of centuries: at one time it was a fire, driven by the fierce winds, which ravaged their homestead; at another time, avalanches annihilated the traces of their industry. At last, the spirit of prudence prevailing on their earlier energetic hardiness, it was resolved to remove the monastery to Viecht, where the brothers already had a nucleus in a little hospital for the sick among them, and where also was the depôt for their cattle-dealing--a Viehzuchthof, [92] whence by corruption it derived its name. The execution of this idea was commenced in 1705. The abbot, Celestin Böhmen, a native of Vienna, had formerly held a grade of officer in the Austrian artillery. Nothing could exceed the zeal with which he took the matter in hand; and plans were laid out for raising the building on the most extensive and costly scale. So grand an edifice required large funds; and these were not slow to flow in, for St. Georgenberg was beloved by all the country round. When he saw the vast sums in his hand, however, the old spirit of the world, and its covetousness, crept over him again, and a morning came when, to the astonishment of the brotherhood, the abbot was nowhere to be found--nor the gold! The progress of the work was effectually arrested for the moment; but zeal overcame even the obstacle presented by this loss, and by 1750 Abbot Lambert had brought to completion the present edifice, in late Renaissance style, which, though imposing and substantial, forms but one wing of Celestin Böhmen's plan. If the spirit of the world came over Abbot Celestin in the cloister, the spirit of the cloister came back upon him in the world; and it was not many years before he came back, full of shame and contrition, making open confession of his fault, and placing himself entirely in the hands of his former subjects. Though at this time the monks were yet in the midst of their anxieties for the means for carrying on the work, they suffered themselves to be ruled by a spirit of Christian charity, and refused to give him up to the rigour of the law; and he ended his days with edifying piety at Anras, in the Pusterthal. A great festival was kept at Viecht, in 1845, in memory of the consecration, which was attended by sixty thousand persons, from Bavaria as well as Tirol. The library contains an interesting collection of MSS. and early printed books in many languages, and is particularly rich in works illustrative of Tirolean history. In the church are some of Nissl the elder's wood-carvings, which are always worth attention. The confessionals are adorned with figures of celebrated penitents, by his hand; and other noteworthy works will be found in a series of nine tableaux, showing forth the Passion; also the crucifix over the high altar, and four life-sized carvings. In all these he was assisted by his pupils, Franz Thaler, of Jenbach, who afterwards came to have the charge of the Vienna cabinet of antiquities, and Antony Hüber, the most successful of his school. Perhaps the finest specimen of all is a dead Christ, under the altar, remarkable for the anatomical knowledge displayed. Like many another mountain sanctuary isolated and exposed to the wind, this monastery has more than once been ravaged by fire; in 1868 it was in great part burnt down, and the church-building zeal of Tirol is still being exercised with great energy and open-handedness in building it up again. A festival was held there in October 1870, when five bells from the foundry of Grassmayr of Wilten were set up to command the echoes of the neighbourhood; great pains are now being taken to make the building fireproof. Close opposite Viecht lies Schwatz; [93] a number of straggling houses, called 'die lange Gasse,' on the Viecht side belong to it also; between them there is a bridge, which we will not cross now, but continue a little further along the left bank; this, though less rich in smiling pastures than the right, has many points of interest. The next village to Viecht is Vomp, situated at the entrance of the Vomperthal, the sternest and most barren in scenery or settlements of any valley of Tirol, and characterized by a hardy pedestrian as 'frightfully solitary, and difficult of access: even the boldest Jägers,' he adds, 'seldom pursue their game into it.' The village church of Vomp once possessed a priceless work of Albert Dürer, an 'Ancona,' showing forth in its various compartments the history of the Passion; but it was destroyed in 1809, when the French, under Deroi, set fire to the church in revenge for the havoc the Tirolean sharp-shooters had committed among their ranks. Joseph Arnold (in 1814) did his best to repair the loss, by painting another altar-piece, in which we see a less painful than the usual treatment of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian: the artist has chosen the moment at which the young warrior is being bound to the tree where he is to suffer so bravely. Above the village stands the once splendid castle of Sigmundslust, one of the hunting-seats of Sigismund the Monied (der Münzreiche), [94] now the villa of a private family of Innsbruck, Riccabona by name. Vomp is also the birth-place of Joseph Hell, the wood-carver. Crossing the Vomperbach, and the fertile plain it waters, you reach Terfens, which earned some renown in the wars of 'the year nine.' Outside the village is a little pilgrimage chapel, called Maria-Larch, honoured in memory of a mysterious image of the blessed Virgin, found under a larch fir on the spot, similar to the legend of that at Waldrast. [95] Passing the ruin of Volandseck, the still inhabited castle of Thierberg (the third of the name we have passed since we entered Tirol) and the village of S. Michael, you come to S. Martin, the parish church of which owes its endowment to a hermit of modern times. There was in the village a convent, deserted, because partly destroyed by fire. In 1638, George Thaler, of Kitzbühel, a man of some means and position, came to live here a life of sanctity: he devoted six hours a-day to prayer, six to sleep, and the rest to manual labour. He maintained a chaplain, and an old servant who waited on him for fifty years. At his death, he left all he possessed to supply the spiritual needs of the hamlet. After leaving S. Martin's, the scenery grows more pleasing: you enter the Gnadenwald, so called, because its first inhabitants were servants of the earlier princes of Tirol, who pensioned them off with holdings of the surrounding territory. It occupies the lowland bordering the river, which here widens a little, and affords in its recesses a number of the most romantic strolls. Embowered on its border, near the river, stands the village of Baumkirchen, with its outlying offshoot of Fritzens now surpassing it in importance, as it has been chosen for the railway-station. The advance of the iron road has not stamped out the native love for putting prominently forward the external symbols of religion. I one day saw a countryman alight here from the railway, who had been but to Innsbruck to purchase a large and handsome metal cross, to be set up in some prominent point of the village and it was considered a sufficiently important occasion for several neighbours to go out to meet him on his return with it. Again, on the newer houses, probably called into existence by the increased traffic, the old custom of adorning the exterior with frescoes of sacred subjects is well kept up. This is indeed the case on many other parts of the line; but at Fritzens, I was particularly struck with one of unusual merit, both in its execution and its adaptation to the domestic scene it was to sanctify. I would call the attention of any traveller, who has time to stop at Fritzens to see it: the treatment suggests that I should give it the title of 'the Holy Family at home,' so completely has the artist realized the lowly life of the earthly parents of the Saviour, and may it not be a comfort to the peasant artizan to see before his eyes the very picture of his daily toil sanctified in its exercise by the hands of Him he so specially reveres? An analogous incident, which I observed on another occasion, comes back to my memory: it happened, I think, one day at Jenbach. The train stopped to set down a Sister of Charity, who had come to nurse some sick person in the village. The ticket-collector, who was also pointsman, was so much occupied with his deferential bowing to her as he took her ticket, that he had to rush to his points 'like mad,' or his reverent feelings might have had serious consequences for the train! So religious indeed is your whole entourage while in Tirol, that I have remarked when travelling through just this part in the winter season, that the very masses of frozen water, arrested by the frost as they rush down the railway cuttings and embankments, assumed in the half-light such forms as Doré might give to prostrate spectres doing penance. The foot-path on to Hall leads through a continuance of the same diversified and well-wooded scenery we have been traversing hitherto; but if time presses, it is well to take the railway for this stage, and make Hall or Innsbruck a starting-point for visiting the intervening places. Hall is the busiest and most business-like place we have come to yet, and the first whose smoky atmosphere reminds us of home. There is not much to choose between its two inns the 'Schwarzer Bär' and the 'Schwarzer Adler.' The industry and the smoke of Hall arises from the salt-works, from which Weber also derives its name (from halos, salt; though why it should have been derived from the Greek he does not explain). The first effect which strikes you on arriving, after the smokiness, is the sky-line of its bizarrely-picturesque steeples, among the most bizarre of which is the Münzthurm (the mint-tower), first raised to turn into money the over-flowing silver stores of Sigismund the Monied; and last used to coin the Sandwirthszwänziger, the pieces of honest old Hofer's brief but triumphant dictatorship. The town has in course of time suffered severely from various calamities: fire, war, pestilence, inundation, and, on one occasion, in 1670, even from earthquake; the church tower was so severely shaken, that the watchman on its parapet was thrown to the ground; the people fled from their houses into the fields, where the Jesuit fathers stood addressing them, in preparation for their last end, which seemed imminent. Loss of life was, however, small; nevertheless, the Offices of the Church were for a long time held in the open air. Notwithstanding all these reverses, the trade in salt, and the advantageous municipal rights granted them in earlier times, have always enabled the people to recover and maintain their prosperity. In the various wars, they have borne their part with signal honour. One of their greatest feats, perhaps, occurred on May 29, 1809. Speckbacher had led his men to a gallant attack on the Bavarians at Volders, blowing up the bridge behind him, and then marched to the relief of Hall; the Bavarians were in possession of the town and bridge, and as they had several pieces of artillery, it was not easy for the patriots to carry it; nevertheless, as their ammunition was failing, and Speckbacher having refused to agree to a truce, because he saw the advantage accruing to him through this deficiency, they destroyed the Hall bridge, as they thought, and retreated homewards under cover of the night. Speckbacher discovered their flight early in the morning, and lost no time in addressing his men on the importance of at once taking possession of their native town: the men were as usual at one with him, and not one shrank from the perilous enterprise of regaining the left bank by such means as the tottering remains of the bridge afforded! Joseph Speckbacher, who shares with Andreas Hofer the glories of 'the year nine,' was a native of Rinn, a village on the opposite bank; but he is honoured with a grave in the Pfarrkirche, at Hall, bearing the following inscription, with the date of his death, 1820: Im Kampfe wild, doch menschlich; In Frieden still und den Gesetzen treu; War er als Krieger, Unterthan und Mensch, Der Ehre wie der Liebe werth. [96] Another object of interest, in the same churchyard, is a wooden crucifix, carved by Joseph Stocker in 1691; as well as the monuments of the Fiegers, and other high families of the middle ages. In the church itself is a 'Salvator Mundi' of Albert Dürer, on panel; the altarpiece of the high altar is by Erasmus Quillinus, a pupil of Rubens. One of the chapels, the Waldaufische Kapelle, was built in 1493-5, by one Florian von Waldauf, to whom an eventful history attaches. He was a peasant boy, whom his father's severity drove away from home: for a long time he maintained himself by tending herds; after that he went for a soldier in the Imperial army, where his talents brought him under the special notice of the Emperor Frederick, and his son Maximilian I., who took him into their councils and companionship. Maximilian made him knight of Waldenstein, and gifted him with lands and revenues. His love of adventure took him into many countries. On one journey, being in a storm at sea, the memory of his early wilfulness overcame him, and he vowed that if he came safe to land, he would build a chapel in his Tirolean home. He subsequently fixed on the Pfarrkirche of Hall, as that in which to fulfil his vow, being the parish church of the castle of Rettenberg which Maximilian had bestowed on him, and enriched it with a wondrous store of relics, which he had collected in his journeyings. Above 40,000 pilgrims flocked from every part of Tirol, to assist at the consecration; and a goodly sight it must have been, when singing and bearing the relics aloft, they streamed down the mountain side and across the river, the last of the procession not having yet left the gates of Castle Rettenberg, while the foremost had already reached the chapel. There are other churches in Hall; where that of S. Saviour now stands was once a group of crazy cottages; but one day, in the year 1406, in one of them a poor man lay dying, and the priest bore him the holy Viaticum, which knows no distinction between the palace and the hovel: the furniture was as rickety as the tenements themselves; the only table, on which the priest had deposited the sacred vessels, propped against the wall for support, gave way by some accident, and the Santissimo was thrown upon the floor. Johann von Kripp, a wealthy burgher, hearing of what had befallen, bought the cottages, and in reparation for the desecration, built a church on the spot, with the dedication, zum Erlöser. The town is well provided with educational and charitable institutions; the latter comprising a mad-house worth seeing, under Professor Kaplan, and a deaf and dumb school. The Franciscan monastery is, I think, the only unsuppressed religious house. In the Rathhaus is preserved a quaint old picture, representing the Emperor Sigismund, in hunting costume, coming to ask the assistance of the men of Hall against a conspiracy he had discovered in Innsbruck, assistance which loyal Hall was not slow to supply. Its situation made it a place of some importance to the defences of the country; and the regulations for calling the inhabitants under arms were very complete, so that this service was promptly rendered. An amusing story is told in evidence of the ready gallantry of the men of Hall. There was a time when Hall was at feud with the neighbouring village of Taur: the watchman, stationed on the tower by night-time, rang the alarm, and announced that the enemy was advancing with lanterns in their hands; at the call to arms, every man jumped from his bed, and seized his weapon, eager to display his prowess against the foe. Prudent Salzmair [97] Zott, anxious to spare the shedding of neighbours' blood, hastily donned a shirt of mail over his more penetrable night-gear, and proposed to ride out alone with a flag of truce, to know what meant the unseasonable attack. The warlike burghers with difficulty yielded to his representations, and not having the consolations of the fragrant weed wherewith to wile away their time, set to sharpening their swords and axes, and outvieing each other with many a fierce boast during his absence. Meantime, Salzmair Zott proceeded on his way without meeting the ghost of a foe, or one ray from their lanterns, till he came to Taur itself, where everything lay buried in peaceful silence. Only as he came back he discovered what had given rise to the alarm: it was midsummer-tide, and a swarm of little worms of St. John [98] was soaring and fluttering over the fields like a troop provided with lanterns. So with a hearty laugh he despatched the townsmen, ready for the fight, back to their beds. And even now this humorous imitation of the Bauernkrieg [99] is a by-word for Quixotic enterprises. Of all the numerous excursions round Hall, the strangest and most interesting is that to Salzberg, the source of the salt, the crystallizing of which and despatching it all over Tirol, to Engadein and to Austria, forms the staple industry of Hall. It is a journey of about three hours, though not much over eight miles, but rugged and steep, and in some parts rather frightful, particularly in the returning descent, for the Salzberg lies 6,300 feet above the sea: but there is a road for an einspanner all the way; entrance is readily obtained, and the gratuities for guide, lighting up, and boat over the subterranean salt lake, exceedingly moderate. There are records extant which shew that there were salt-works in operation in the neighbourhood of Hall early in the eighth century, but these would appear to have been fed by a salt spring which flowed at the foot of the mountain. In the year 1275, however, Niklas von Rohrbach, who seems to be always styled der fromme Ritter (the pious knight), frequently when on his hunting expeditions in the Hallthal, observed how the cattle and wild game loved to lick certain cliffs of the valley; this led him to test the flavour, and finding it rich in salt, he followed up the track till he came to the Salzberg itself, where he prudently conjectured there was an endless supply to be obtained. [100] Ever since this time the salt has been worked pretty much in the same way, namely, by hewing, later by blasting, vast chambers in the rock, which are then filled with water and closed up: at the end of some ten or twelve months, when the water is supposed to be thoroughly impregnated, it is run off through a series of conduits to Hall, where it is evaporated, a hundred pounds of brine yielding about a third the weight of salt. A considerable number of these chambers, an acre or two in extent, have been excavated in the course of time, and you are told that it would take more than a week to walk through all the passages connecting them. 'Cars filled with rubbish pass you as you thread them,' says an observant writer, 'with frightful rapidity; you step aside into a niche, and the young miners seated in the front look like gnomes directing infernal chariots. The crystallizations in some of these chambers lighted up by the torches of a party of visitors have a magical effect, and recall the gilded fret-work of some Moorish palaces. There is a tradition that Hofer and Speckbacher, who never, before their illustrious campaigns, had wandered so far as these few miles from their respective homes, took advantage of the lull succeeding their first triumph at Berg Isel, to come over and visit the strange labyrinths of the Salzberg. It is hardly possible to exaggerate the effect which such a scene might produce on minds so imaginative, and at the same time so unsophisticated. It is not difficult to believe that they regarded such a journey like a visit to the abode of the departed great, or that in presence of the oppressive grandeurs of nature they should have matured their spirit for the defence of their country which was to confound the strategy of practised generals. Returning through the dark forests of pine and the steep cliffs of the Hallthal, otherwise called the Salzthal, you are arrested by the hamlet of Absam, which in your hurry to push forward you overlooked in the morning. Before reaching it you observe to the east, on an eminence rising out of the plain, Schloss Melans, now serving as a villa to a family of Innsbruck. The peasants have a curious story to account for the rudely sculptured dragons which adorn some of the eave-boards of their houses, though no singular mode of ornamentation, and by others accounted for differently. [101] They say that in olden time there was a wonderful old hen which laid her first egg when seven years old, and when the egg was hatched a dragon crept out of it, [102] which made itself a home in the neighbouring moor, and the people in memory of the prodigy carved its likeness on their houses. In Absam itself once lived a noble family of the name of Spaur, which had a toad for a bearing on their shield, accounted for in the following way:--'A certain Count Spaur had committed a crime by which he had incurred the penalty of death; his kinsmen having put every means in motion to get the sentence remitted, his pardon was at last accorded them on the condition that he should ride to Babylon the Accursed, and bring home with him a monstrous toad which infested the tower. So the knight rode forth to Babylon the Accursed, and when he drew near the tower the monstrous toad came out and seized the bridle of the knight's horse; the knight, nothing daunted at the horrid apparition, lifted his good sword and hewed the monster to the ground, bringing the corpse back with him as a trophy.' What audacious tales! Could anyone out of a dream put such ideas together? No writer of fiction, none but one who believed them possible of accomplishment! 'Who can tell what gives to these simple old stories their irresistible witchery?' says Max Müller. 'There is no plot to excite our curiosity, no gorgeous description to dazzle our eyes, no anatomy of human passion to rivet our attention. They are short and quaint, full of downright absurdities and sorry jokes. We know from the beginning how they will end. And yet we sit and read and almost cry, and we certainly chuckle, and are very sorry when Snip, snip, snout, This tale's told out. Do they remind us of a distant home--of a happy childhood? Do they recall fantastic dreams long vanished from our horizon, hopes that have set never to rise again?... Nor is it dreamland altogether. There is a kind of real life in these tales--life such as a child believes in--a life where good is always rewarded; wrong always punished; where everyone, not excepting the devil, gets his due; where all is possible that we truly want, and nothing seems so wonderful that it might not happen to-morrow. We may smile at those dreams of inexhaustible possibility, but in one sense the child's world is a real world too.' A singular event, or curious popular fancy, obtained for Absam the honour of becoming a place of pilgrimage at the end of the last century. It was on January 17, 1797; a peasant's daughter was looking idly out of window along the way her father would come home from the field; suddenly, in the firelight playing on one of the panes, she discerned a well-defined image of the Blessed Virgin, 'as plain as ever she had seen a painting.' Of course the neighbours flocked in to see the sight, and from them the news of the wonderful image spread through all the country round; at last it made so much noise, that the Dean of Innsbruck resolved to investigate the matter. A commission was appointed for this object, among their number being two professors of chemistry, and the painter, Joseph Schöpf. Their verdict was that the image had originally been painted on the glass; that the colours, faded by time, had been restored to the extent then apparent by the action of the particular atmosphere to which they had been exposed. The people could not appreciate their arguments, nor realize that any natural means could have produced so extraordinary a result. For them, it was a miraculous image still, and accordingly they put their faith in it as such; nor was their faith without its fruit. It was a season of terrible trouble, a pestilence was raging both among men and beasts; General Joubert had penetrated as far into the interior as Sterzing; everyone felt the impotence of 'the arm of flesh' in presence of such dire calamities. The image on the peasant's humble window-pane seemed to have come as a token of heavenly favour; nothing would satisfy them but that it should be placed on one of the altars of the church, and the 'Gnadenmutter [103] von Absam' drew all the fearful and sorrowing to put their trust in Heaven alone. Suddenly after this the enemy withdrew his troops, the pestilence ceased its havoc, and more firmly than ever the villagers believed in the supernatural nature of the image on the window-pane. Absam has another claim to eminence in its famous violin-maker, Jacob Stainer, born in 1649. He learnt his art in Venice and Cremona, and carried it to such perfection, that his instruments fetched as high prices as those made in Cremona itself. Archduke Ferdinand Karl, Landesfürst of Tirol, attached him to his court. Stainer was so particular about the wood he used, that he always went over to the Gletscher forest clearings to select it, being guided in the choice by the sound it returned when he struck it with a hammer. Towards the end of his life the excitement of the love of his calling overpowered his strength of mind, and the treatment of insanity not being then brought to perfection at Absam, one has yet to go through the melancholy exhibition of the stout oaken bench to which he had to be strapped or chained when violent. [104] Mils affords the object of another pleasant excursion from Hall, reached through the North, or so called Mils, gate, in an easy half-hour; around it are the old castles of Grünegg and Schneeburg, the former a hunting-seat of Ferdinand II., now in ruins; the latter well-preserved by the present noble family of the name. Those who have a mind to enjoy a longer walk, may hence also find a way into the peaceful shady haunts of the Gnadenwald. Some two hundred years ago there lived about half way between Hall and Mils a bell-founder, who enjoyed the reputation of being a very worthy upright man, as well as one given to unfeigned hospitality; so that not only the weather-bound traveller, but every wayfarer who loved an hour's pleasant chat, knocked, as he passed by, at the door of the Glockenhof. Among all the visitors who thus sat at his board, none were so jovial as a party of wild fellows, whose business he was never well able to make out. They always brought their own meat and drink with them, and it was always of the best; and money seemed to them a matter of no account, so abundant was it. At last he ventured one day to inquire whence they acquired their seemingly boundless wealth. 'Nothing easier, and you may be as rich as we, if you will!' was the answer; and then they detailed their exploits, which proved them knights of the road. Opportunity makes the thief. The proverb was realized to the letter; the Glockengiesser had been honest hitherto, because he had never been tempted before; now the glittering prize was exposed to him, he knew not how to resist. His character for hospitality made the Glockenhof serve as a very trap. The facility increased his greed, and his cellars were filled with spoil and with the skeletons of the spoiled. Travellers thus disappeared so frequently that consternation was raised again and again, but who could ever suspect the worthy hearty Glockengiesser! Though the new trade throve so well, there was one quality necessary to its success in which the Glockengiesser was wanting, and that was caution. Just as if there had been nothing to hide, he let a party of sewing-women come one day from the village to set his household goods in order; and when they retired to rest at night, one of them, who could not sleep in a strange house, heard the master and his gang counting their money in the cellar. Astonished, she crept nearer, and over-heard their talk. 'We should not have killed that fellow,' said one; 'he wasn't worth powder and shot.' 'Pooh!' replied another, 'you can't expect to have good luck out of every murder. Why, how often a cattle-dealer kills a beast and doesn't turn a penny out of it.' The seamstress did not want to hear any more; she laid her charge at the town-hall of Hall next morning; the officers of justice arrested the bell-founder and his associates, and ample proofs of their guilt were found on the premises. Sentenced to death, in the solitude of his cell, he yielded to the full force of the reproaches of his conscience; he made no defence, but hailed his execution as a satisfaction of which his penitent soul acknowledged the justice. However, he craved two favours before his end; the one, to be allowed to go home and found a bell for the lieb' Frau Kirche in Mils; the second, that this bell might be sounded for the first time at his execution, which by local custom must be on a Friday evening at nine o'clock. [105] Both requests were granted, and his bell continued to serve the church of Mils till the fire of August 1791. Another walk from Hall is the Loreto-Kirche, intended as an exact copy of 'the Holy House,' by Archduke Ferdinand and his wife, the pious Anna Katharina of Gonzaga, who endowed it with a foundation for perpetual Masses for the repose of the souls of the reigning House of Austria; it was at one time a much visited pilgrimage, so that though it had three chaplains attached to it, monks from Hall had often to be sent for to supplement their ministrations. Ferdinand and Anna often made the pilgrimage on foot from Innsbruck, saying the 'stations' as they went, at certain little chapels which marked them by the way, and of which remains are still standing. It would be an interesting spot to trace out: I regret that we neglected to do so, and I do not know whether it is now well kept up. Starting again by the North gate of Hall, and taking the way which runs in the opposite direction from that leading to Mils, you come, after half an hour's walk through the pleasant meadows, to Heiligen Kreuz; its name was originally Gumpass, but it had its present name from the circumstance of a cross having been carried down stream by the Inn, and recovered from its waters by some peasants from this place, by whom it was set up here. So great is the popular veneration for any even apparent act of homage of Nature to 'Nature's God,' that great crowds congregated to see the cross which had been brought to them by the river; and it was found necessary in the seventeenth century to erect the spot into a distinct parish. Heiligen Kreuz is much resorted to for its sulphur baths, also by people from Hall as a pleasing change from their smoky town, on holidays. Striking out towards the mountains, another half-hour brings you to Taur, a charming little village, standing in the shelter of the Taureralpe. Almost close above it is the Thürl, a peak covered to a considerable height with rich pasture; at its summit, a height of 6,546 ft., is a wooden pyramid recording that it was climbed by the Emperor Francis I., and called the Kaisersäule. There are many legends of S. Romedius connected with Taur, one of which is worth citing, in illustration of the confidence of the age which conceived or adapted it, in the efficacy of faith and obedience. S. Romedius was a rich Bavarian, who in the fourth century owned considerable property in the Innthal, including Taur. On his return from a pilgrimage to Rome, he put himself at the disposal of S. Vigilius, the apostle of South Tirol, who despatched him to the conversion of the Nonsthal, where he lived and died in the odour of sanctity. He was not unmindful of his own Taur, but frequently visited it to pour out his spiritual benedictions. He was once there on such a visit, when he received a call from S. Vigilius. Regardless of his age and infirmities, he immediately prepared for the journey over the mountains to Trent. His nag, old and worn out like his master, he had left to graze on the pastures at the foot of the Taureralpe, so he called his disciple David, and bid him bring him in and saddle him. Great was the consternation of the disciple on making the discovery that the horse had been devoured by a bear. Saddened and cast down, he came to his master with the news. Nothing daunted, S. Romedius bid him go back and saddle the bear in its stead. The neophyte durst not gainsay his master, but went out trusting in his word; the bear meekly submitted to the bidding of the holy man, who bestrode him, and rode on this singular mount into Trent. It is only a fitting sequel that the legend adds, that at his approach all the bells of Trent rang out a gladsome peal of welcome, without being moved by human hands. The lords of Taur gave the name to the place by setting up their castle on the ruins of an old Roman tower (turris; altromanisch, tour). S. Romedius is not the only hero from among them; the chronicles of their race are full of the most romantic achievements; perhaps not the least of these was the construction of the fortress, the rambling ruins of which still attest its former greatness. Overhanging the bank of the Wildbach is the chapel of S. Romedius, inhabited by a hermit as lately as the seventeenth century, though the country-people are apt to confuse him with S. Romedius himself! [106] One dark night, as he was watching in prayer, he heard the sound of tapping against his cell window. Used to the exercise of hospitality, he immediately opened to the presumed wayfarer: great was his astonishment to see standing before him the spirit of the lately deceased parish priest, who had been his very good friend. 'Have compassion on me, Frater Joshue!' he exclaimed; 'for when in the flesh I forgot to say three Masses, for which the stipend had been duly provided and received by me, and now my penance is fearful;' as he spoke he laid his hand upon a wooden tile of the hermit's lowly porch, who afterwards found that the impression of his burning hand was branded into the wood. 'Now do you, my friend, say these Masses in my stead; pray and fast for me, and help me through this dreadful pain.' The hermit promised all he wished, and kept his promise; and when a year and a day had passed, the spirit tapped again at the window, and told him he had gained his release. The tile, with the brand-mark on it, may be seen hanging in the chapel, with an inscription under it attesting the above facts, and bearing date 7th February, 1660. [107] At a very short distance further is another interesting little village, Rum by name. It is situated close under the mountains, the soil of which is very friable. A terrible landslip occurred in 1770; the noise was heard as far as Innsbruck, where it was attributed to an earthquake. Whole fields were covered with the débris, some of which were said to be carried to a distance of a mile and a half; the village just escaped destruction, only an outlying smithy, which was buried, showed how near the danger had come. If time presses, this excursion may be combined with the last, and the Loreto-Kirche taken on the way back to Hall. CHAPTER VI. NORTH TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL (RIGHT INN-BANK). SCHWATZ. The world is full of poetry unwrit; Dew-woven nets that virgin hearts enthrall, Darts of glad thought through infant brains that flit, Hope and pursuit, loved bounds and fancies free-- Poor were our earth of these bereft.... Aubrey de Vere. It is time now to return to speak of Schwatz, of which we caught a glimpse across the river as we left Viecht; [108] and it is one of the most interesting towns, and centres of excursions, in Tirol. It was a morning of bright promise which first brought us there by the early hour of 8.15. To achieve this we had had to rise betimes; it was near the end of August, when the mid-day sun is overpowering; yet the early mornings were very cool, and the brisk breezes came charged with a memory of snow from the beautiful chains of mountains whose base we were hugging. The railway station, as if it dared not with its modern innovation invade the rural retreat of primitive institutions, was at a considerable distance from the village, and we had a walk of some fifteen or twenty minutes before we came within reach of even a chance of breakfast. My own strong desire to be brought quite within the influence of Tirolean traditions perhaps deadened my sensations of hunger and weariness, but it was not so with all of our party; and it was with some dismay we began to apprehend that the research of the primitive is not to be made without some serious sacrifice of 'le comfortable.' Our walk across the fields at last brought us to the rapid smiling river; and crowning the bridge, stood as usual S. John Nepomuk, his patient martyr's face gazing on the effigy of the crucified Saviour he is always portrayed as bearing so lovingly, seeming so sweetly all-enduring, that no light feeling of discontent could pass him unrestrained. Still the call for breakfast is an urgent one with the early traveller, and there seemed small chance of appeasing it. Near the station indeed had stood a deserted building, with the word 'Restauration' just traceable on its mouldy walls, but we had felt no inclination to try our luck within them; and though we had now reached the village, we seemed no nearer a more appetising supply. No one had got out of the train besides ourselves; not a soul appeared by the way. A large house stood prominently on our right, which for a moment raised our hopes, but its too close proximity to a little church forbad us to expect it to be a hostelry, and a scout of our party brought the intelligence that it was a hospital; another building further on, on the left, gave promise again, because painted all over with frescoes, which might be the mode in Schwatz of displaying a hotel-sign; but no, it proved to be a forge, and like the lintels marked by Morgiana's chalk, all the houses of Schwatz--as indeed most of the houses of Tirol--were found to be covered with sacred frescoes. At last a veritable inn appeared, and right glad we were to enter its lowly portal and find rest, even though the air was scented by the mouldering furniture and neighbouring cattle-shed; though the stiff upright worm-eaten chairs made a discordant grating on the tiled floor, and a mildewed canvas, intended to keep out flies, completed the gloom which the smallness of the single window began. A repeated knocking at last brought a buxom maid out of the cow-shed, who seemed not a little amazed at our apparition. 'Had she any coffee! coffee, at that time of day--of course not!' True, the unpunctuality of the train, the delivery of superfluous luggage to the care of the station-master, and our lingering by the way, had brought us to past nine o'clock--an unprecedented hour for breakfast in Schwatz. 'Couldn't we be content with wine? in a couple of hours meat would be ready, as the carters came in to dine then.' Meat and coffee at the same repast, and either at that hour, were ideas she could not at first take in. Nevertheless, when we detailed our needs, astonishment gave way to compassion, and she consented to drop her incongruous propositions, and to make us happy in our own way. Accordingly, she was soon busied in lighting a fire, running to fetch coffee and rolls--though she did not, as happened to me in Spain, ask us to advance the money for the commission--and very soon appeared with a tray full of tumblers and queer old crockery. The black beverage she at last provided consisted of a decoction of nothing nearer coffee than roasted corn, figs, [109] or acorns; and the rolls had the strangest resemblance to leather; but the milk and eggs were fine samples of dairy produce, for which Schwatz is famous, and these and the luscious fruit made up for the rest. I remember that the poet-author of one of the most charming books of travel, in one of the most charming countries of Europe, [110] deprecates the habit travel-writers have of speaking too much about their fare; and in one sense his remarks are very just. Where this is done without purpose or art, it becomes a bore; but 'love itself can't live on flowers;' and as, however humiliating the fact, it is decreed that the only absolutely necessary business of man's life is the catering for his daily bread, it becomes interesting to the observant to study the various means by which this decree is complied with by different races, in different localities. It is especially noteworthy that it is just in countries made supercilious by their culture that these matters of a lower order engross the most attention, and just those who consider themselves the most civilized who are the most dependent on what have been termed mere 'creature comforts.' These poor country folks, whom the educated traveller often passes by as unworthy of notice in their benighted ignorance and superstition--while they would not forego their salutation of the sacred symbol by the way-side, which marks their intimate appreciation of truths of the highest order--put us to shame, by their indifference to sublunary indulgences. We had come to Tirol to study their ways, and I hope we took our lesson on this occasion, well. We were not feasted with a sumptuous repast, such as might be found in any of the monster hotels, now so contrived, that you may pass through all the larger towns of Europe with such similarity to home-life everywhere, that you might as well never have left your fireside; but we were presented with an experience of the struggle with want; of that hardy face-to-face meeting with the great original law of labour, which our modern artificial life puts so completely out of sight, that it grows to regard it as an antiquated fable, and which can only be met amid such scenes. The matutinal peasants were packing up their wares--which when spread out had made a picturesque market of the main street--by the time we again sallied forth, and we were nearly losing what is always one of the prettiest sights in a foreign town. At the end rose the parish church, with a stateliness for which the smallness of the village had not prepared us; but Schwatz has a sad and eventful history to account for the disparity. Schwatz was once a flourishing Roman station, and even now remains are dug out which attest its ancient prosperity; but it had fallen away to the condition of a neglected Häusergruppe by the fourteenth century, when suddenly came the discovery of silver veins in the surrounding heights. A lively bull, [111] one day tearing up the soil with his horns in a frolic, laid bare a shining vein of ore. The name of Gertraud Kandlerin, the farm-servant who had charge of the herd to which he belonged, and brought the joyful tidings home to Schwatz, has been jealously preserved. From that moment Schwatz grew in importance and prosperity; and at one time there was a population of thirty thousand miners employed in the immediate neighbourhood. The Fuggers and Hochstetters of Augsburg were induced to come and employ their vast resources in working the riches of the mountains; and native families of note, laying aside the pursuit of arms, joined in the productive industry. Among these were the Fiegers, one of whom was the counsellor and intimate friend of the Emperor Maximilian, who followed his remains to their last resting-place, at Schwatz, when he died in ripe old age, leaving fifty-seven children and grandchildren, and money enough to enrich them all. His son Hanns married a daughter of the Bavarian house of Pienzenau; and when he brought her home, tradition says it was in a carriage drawn by four thousand horses. Many names, famous in the subsequent history of the country, such as the Tänzls, Jöchls, Tannenbergs, and Sternbachs, were thus first raised to importance. This outpouring of riches stimulated the people throughout the country to search for mineral treasures, and everywhere the miners of Schwatz were in request as the most expert, both at excavating and engineering. Nor this only within the limits of Tirol; they had acquired such a reputation by the middle of the sixteenth century, that many distant undertakings were committed to them too. They were continually applied to, to direct mining operations in the wars against the Turks in Hungary. Their countermines performed an effective part in driving them from before Vienna in 1529; and again, in 1739, they assisted in destroying the fortifications of Belgrade. Clement VII. called them to search the mountains of the Papal State in 1542; and the Dukes of Florence and Piedmont also had recourse to their assistance about the same time. In the same way, many knotty disputes about mining rights were sent from all parts to be decided by the experience of Schwatz; and its abundance attracted to it every kind of merchandise, and every new invention. One of the earliest printing-presses was in this way set up here. But a similarity of pursuit had established a community of interest between the miners of Schwatz and their brethren of Saxony; and when the Reformation broke out, its doctrines spread by this means among the miners of Schwatz, and led at one time to a complete revolution among them. Twice they banded together, and marched to attack the capital, with somewhat communistic demands. Ferdinand I., and Sebastian, Bishop of Brixen, went out to meet them on each occasion at Hall, and on each occasion succeeded in allaying the strife by their moderate discourse. Within the town of Schwatz, however, the innovators carried matters with a high hand, and at one time obtained possession of half the parish church, where they set up a Lutheran pulpit. Driven out of this by the rest of the population, they met in a neighbouring wood, where Joham Strauss and Christof Söll, both unfrocked monks, used to hold forth to them. A Franciscan, Christof von München, now came to Schwatz, to strengthen the faith of the Catholics, and the controversy waged high between the partisans of both sides; so high, that one day two excited disputants carried their quarrels so far before a crowd of admiring supporters, that at last the Lutheran exclaimed, 'If Preacher Söll does not teach the true doctrine, may Satan take me up into the Steinjoch at Stans!' and as he spoke, so, says the story, it befell: the astonished people saw him carried through the air and disappear from sight! The credit of the Lutherans fell very sensibly on the instant, and still more some days after, when the adventurous victim came back lame and bruised, and himself but too well convinced of his error. Nevertheless the strife was not cured. Somewhat later, there was an inroad of Anabaptists, under whose auspices another insurrection arose, and for the time the flourishing mining works were brought to a stand-still. At last the Government was obliged to interfere. The most noisy and perverse were made to leave the country, and the Jesuits from Hall were sent over to hold a mission, and rekindle the Catholic teaching. Peace and order were restored: four thousand persons were brought back to the frequentation of the sacraments; but the Bergsegen, [112] add the traditions, which had been the occasion of so much disunion, was never recovered. From that time forth the mining treasures of Schwatz began to fail; and after a long and steadily continued diminution of produce, silver ceased altogether to be found. Copper, and the best iron of Tirol, are still got out, and their working constitutes one of the chief industries of the place; the copper produced is particularly fit for wire-drawing, for which there is an establishment here. Another industry of Schwatz is a government cigar manufactory, [113] which employs between four and five hundred hands, chiefly women and children, who get very poorly paid--ten or twelve francs a-week, working from five in the morning till six in the evening, with two hours' interval in the middle of the day. There are pottery works, which also employ many hands; and many of the women occupy themselves in knitting woollen clothing for the miners. The pastures of the neighbourhood are likewise a source of rich in-comings to the town; but with all these industries together, Schwatz is far below the level of its early prosperity. Instead of its former crowded buildings, it now consists almost entirely of one street; and instead of being the cynosure of foreigners from all parts, is so little visited, that the people came to the windows to look at the unusual sight of a party of strangers as we passed by. In place of its early printing-press, its literary requirements are supplied by one little humble shop, where twine, toys, and traps, form the staple, and stationery and a small number of books are sold over and above; and where, because we spent a couple of francs, the master thereof seemed to think he had driven for that one day a roaring trade. Other misfortunes, besides the declension of its 'Bergsegen,' have broken over Schwatz. In 1611 it was visited by the plague, in 1670 by an earthquake; but its worst disaster was in the campaign of 1809, when the Bavarians, under the Duke of Dantzic, and the French, under Deroi, determined to strike terror into the hearts of the country-people by burning down the town. The most incredible cruelties are reported to have been perpetrated on this occasion, many being such as one cannot bear to repeat; so determined was their fury, that when the still air refused to fan the flames, they again and again set fire to the place at different points; and the people were shot down when they attempted to put out the conflagration. General Wiede was quartered in the palace of Count Tannenberg, a blind old man, with four blind children; his misfortunes, and the laws of hospitality, might have protected him at least from participation in the general calamity; but no, not even the hall where the hospitable board was spread in confidence for the unscrupulous guest, was spared. Once and again, as the inimical hordes poured into, or were driven out of, Tirol, Schwatz had to bear the brunt of their devastations, so that there is little left to show what Schwatz was. The stately parish church, however, suffered less than might have been expected: in the height of the conflagration, when all was noise and excitement, a young Bavarian officer, over whom sweet home lessons of piety exercised a stronger charm than the wild instincts of the military career which were effecting such havoc around, collected a handful of trusty followers, and, unobserved by the general herd, succeeded in rescuing it before great damage had been done. The building was commenced about 1470, [114] and consecrated in 1502. What remains of the original work is in the best style of the period; the west front is particularly noteworthy. The plan of the building is very remarkable, consisting of a double nave, each having its aisles, choir, and high-altar; this peculiar construction originated in the importance of the Knappen, or miners, at the time it was designed, and their contribution to the building fund entitling them to this distinct division of the church between them and the towns-people; one of the high-altars still goes by the name of the Knappenhochaltar. The roof, like those of most churches of Tirol and Bavaria, is of copper, and is said to consist of fifteen thousand tiles of that metal--an offering from the neighbouring mines. The emblem of two crossed pick-axes frequently introduced, further denotes the connexion of the mining trade with the building. Whitewash and stucco have done a good deal to hide its original beauties, but some fine monuments remain. One in brass, to Hanns Dreyling the metal-founder, date 1578, near the side ('south') door, should not be overlooked: the design embodies a Renaissance use of Ionic columns and entablature in connexion with mediæval symbols. Below, are seen Hanns Dreyling himself in the dress of his craft, his three wives, and his three sons habited as knights (showing the rise of his fortunes), all under the protection of S. John the Baptist. Above, is portrayed the vision of the Apocalypse, God the Father seated on His Throne, surrounded by a rainbow, with the Book of Seven Seals, and the Lamb; at His Feet the four Evangelists; around, the four-and-twenty elders, with their harps, some wearing their crowns, and some stretching them out as a humble offering before the Throne; in front kneels the Apostolic Seer himself, gazing, and with his right hand pointing, upwards, yet smiting his breast with the left hand, and weeping that no one was found worthy to open the seals of the book. Below the epitaph, the monument bears the following lines: Mir gab Alexander Colin den Possen Hanns Löffler hat mich gegossen. Alexander Colin, of Malines, and Hans Löffler, were, like Hans Dreyling, Schmelzherrn of eminence, and connected with him by marriage, thus they naturally devoted their best talent to honour their friend and master. We learnt to appreciate it better when we came to see their works at Innsbruck. The nine altar-pieces are mostly by Tirolean painters. The Assumption, on one high-altar, is by Schöpf; the Last Supper on the other--the Knappenhochaltar--by Bauer of Augsburg. The 'north' side door opens on to a narrow strip of grass, across which is a Michaels-kapelle, as the chapel we so often find in German churchyards--and where the people love to gather, and pray for their loved and lost--is here called. It is a most beautiful little specimen of middle-pointed, with high-pitched roof and traceried window. A picturesque stone-arched covered exterior staircase, the banister cornice of which represents a narrow water-trough, with efts chasing each other in and out of it, leads to the upper chapel, which was in some little confusion at the time of our visit, as it was under restoration; two or three artists were in the lower chapel, painting the images of the saints in the fresh colours the people love. After some searching, I found out a figure of a dead Christ, which I was curious to see; because, before coming to Schwatz, I had been told there was one which had been dearly prized for centuries by the people; that once on a time there had come night by night a large toad, and had stood before the image, resting on its hinder feet, the two front ones joined as if in token of prayer; and no one durst disturb it, because they said it must be a suffering soul which they saw under its form. I spoke to one of the artists about it, to see if this was the right image, and if the legend was still acknowledged. He answered as one who had little sympathy with the mysteries he was employed to delineate; he evidently cared nothing for legends, though willing to paint them for money. It was the first time I had met with this sort of spirit in the neighbourhood, and was not surprised to learn he was not of Tirol, but from Munich. A door opposite the last named opens into the churchyard, filled with the usual black and gold cast-iron crosses, and the usual sprinkling of some of a brighter colour; each with its stoup of holy water and weihwedel, [115] and its simple epitaph, 'Hier ruhet in Frieden....' Besides the large crucifix, which always stands in the centre promising redemption to the faithful departed, is a stout round pillar of large rough stones, surmounted by a lantern cap with five sharp points, each face glazed, and a lamp within before some relic, always kept alight, for the people think [116] that the holy souls come and anoint their burning wounds with the oil which piously feeds a churchyard lamp. Twinkling fitfully amid the evening shadows, over the graves, and over the human skulls and bones, of which there happened fortuitously to be a heap waiting re-sepulture after some late arrangement of the burying-ground, it disposed one to listen to the strange tales which are told of it. There was once a Robler of Schwatz, well-limbed, deep-chested, full of confidence and energy, who had won the right to wear the champion feather [117] against the whole neighbourhood. But not content to be the darling of his home, and the pride of his valley, he must needs prove himself the best against all comers. In fear of the shame of a reverse after all his boasts, he resolved to ensure himself against one, by having recourse to an act, originally designed probably as a test of possessing, but commonly believed by the people to be a means of winning, invincible strength of nerve, and which is described in the following narrative. Opportunity was not lacking. Death is ever busy, and one day laid low an old gossip, who was duly buried with all honour by her children and children's children to the third generation. Now was the time for our brave Robler. That first night that she rested in the 'field of peace,' he rose in the dead of the night--a dark starless night, just as it was when we stood there--and the lamp of the shrine resting its calm pale rays upon the graves. The great clock struck out twelve, with a rattling of its cumbersome machinery, which sounded like skeletons walking by in procession; our Robler quailed not, however, but approached the new grave, scattered the earth from over it with his spade, raised up the coffin, opened it, took out the corpse, dressed himself in its shroud, and lifted the ghastly burden on to his strong shoulders. Never had burden felt so heavy; it seemed to him as though he bore the Freundsberg on his back; though sinking and quailing, he bore it three times round the whole circuit of the enclosure, laid it back in the coffin, and lowered the coffin into the grave; triumphantly he showered the earth over it, and took quite a pleasure in shaping the hillock smoothly and well. Then suddenly, to his horror, with a click like the gripe of a skeleton, he heard the clapper of the old clock raised to mark the completion of the hour within which his task, to be effectual, must be accomplished. Meantime, it had come on to rain violently, and the big drops pattered on the stones, like dead men tramping all around him; it happened to fall heavily round us, and the simile was so striking, I could not forbear a grim smile. It seemed to him as if he never could dash through their midst in time; still he made the attempt boldly, and actually succeeded in swinging himself over the churchyard wall before the hammer had fallen, and, what was most important, still bearing round his shoulders the shroud of the dead. Nevertheless his heart was full of anxiety with the thought that he had disturbed the peace of the departed; it seemed to him as if the old gossip had run after him to claim her own, and with her burning hand had seized the fluttering garment, and torn a piece out of it, just as he cleared the wall. For days after, the sexton saw the piece, torn and burnt, fluttering over her grave, but never could make out how it got there. The Robler, however, was now proof against every attack; no one could wear a feather in his presence, for he was sure to overcome him, and make him renounce the prize. What did he gain, however, by his uncannily-earned prowess? A little temporary renown and honour, and the fear of his kind; but all through the rest of his life, at the Wandlung [118] of the Holy Mass, the pure white wafer, as the priest raised it aloft, seemed black to his eyes, and when he came to die, there was no father-confessor near to whisper absolution and peace. A most singular legend, also attached to this spot, dates from the time when the Jesuit Fathers held their missions after the expulsion of the Lutherans. With the fervour of new conversion, the people ascribed to their word the most wonderful powers; and their simple unwavering faith seems to have been a loan of that which removes mountains. Among those whom a spirit of penance moved to come and make a general confession of their past lives was a lady no longer young, of blameless character, but unmarried. The fathers, as I have already implied, enjoyed the most unbounded confidence of the people; and the most unusual penance was accepted in the simplest way. To this person the penance enjoined was, that she should for three nights watch through the hour of midnight in the church, and then come and give an account of what she had seen. Being apparently a person of a strong mind, she was satisfied with the assurance of the father that no harm would happen to her, and she fulfilled her task bravely. "When she came to narrate what had passed, she said that each night the church had been traversed by a countless train of men, women, and children, of every age and degree, dressed in a manner unlike anything she had seen or read of in the past; the features of all quite unknown to her, and yet exhibiting a certain likeness, which might lead her to believe they might be of her own family, and all wearing an expression indescribably sad; she was all anxiety to know what she could do for their relief, for she felt sure it was to move her to this that they had been revealed to her. The father told her, however, this was not at all the object of the vision: that the train of people she had seen was an appearance of the generations of unborn souls, who might have lived to the eternal honour and praise of God if she had not preferred her ease and freedom and independence to the trammels of the married state; 'for,' said he, 'your choice of condition was based on this, not on the higher love of God, and the desire of greater perfection. Now, therefore, reflect what profit your past life has borne to the glory of God, and strive to make it glorify Him in some way in the future.' The Franciscan church was built about the same time as the other, and has some remains of the beautiful architecture of its date. Over the credence table is a remarkable and very early painting on panel, of the genealogy of our Lord. Within the precincts of the monastery are some early frescoes, which I did not see; but they ought not to be overlooked. One subject, said to be very boldly and strikingly handled, is the commission to the Apostles to go out and preach the Gospel to the nations. The day was wearing on, and we had our night's lodging to provide; the inn where we had breakfasted did not invite our confidence, despite of the pretty Kranach's Madonna which smiled over the parlour, and the good-natured maid who deemed it her business to wait behind our chairs while we sipped our coffee; so we walked down the long street, and tried our luck at one and another. There were plenty of them: and they were easily recognized now we knew their token, for each has a forbidden-fruit-tree painted on the wall with some subject out of the New Testament surmounting it, to show the triumph of the Gospel over the Fall; while the good gifts of Providence, which mine host within is so ready to dispense, are typified by festoons of grape-vines, surrounding the picture. Those which let out horses have also a team cut out in a thin plate of copper, and painted proper, as heralds say, fixed at right angles to the doorpost. Nevertheless, the interiors were not inviting, and at more than one the bedding was all on the roof, airing; and the solitary maid, left in charge of the house while all the rest of the household were in the fields harvesting, declared the impossibility of getting so many beds as we wanted ready by the evening. Dinner at the Post having somehow indisposed us for it, we at last put up at the Krone, which was very much like a counterpart of our first experience. Nothing could exceed the pleasant willingness of the people of the house; but both their accommodation and their cleanliness was limited; and besides a repulsive look, there was an unaccountable odour, about the beds, which made sleeping in them impossible. My astonishment may be imagined, when on proceeding to examine whether there were any articles of bedding that would do to roll oneself up in on the floor, I found that the smell proceeded from layers of apples between the mattresses, which it seems to be the habit thus to preserve for winter use! The rooms were large and rambling, and filled with cumbersome furniture, some of which must, I think, have been made before the great fire of 1809. As in all the other houses, a guitar hung on the wall of the sitting-room; and after many coy refusals, the daughter of the house consented to sing to it one or two melodies very modestly and well. You do not sleep very soundly on the floor, and by six next morning the tingling of the Blessed Sacrament bell sufficed to rouse me in time to see how the Schwatzers honour 'das hochwürdigste Gut,' [119] as it passed them on its way to the sick. Two little boys in red cassocks went first, bearing red banners and holy-water; two followed in red and yellow, bearing a canopy over the priest, and four men carried lanterns on long poles. The rain of the previous night had filled the road with puddles, but along the whole way the peasants were on their knees. To all who are afflicted with long illnesses, it is thus carried at least every month. The morning was bright and hot, but the ruined castle on the neighbouring Freundsberg looked temptingly near; and we easily found a rough but not difficult path, past a number of crazy cottages, the inhabitants of which, however poor and hard worked, yet gave us the cheerful Christian greeting, 'Gelobt sei Jesus Christus!' as we passed. Near the summit the cottages cease; and after a short stretch in the burning sun, you appreciate the shade afforded by a tiny chapel, at the side of a crystal spring, welling up out of the ground, its waters cleverly guided into a conduit, formed of a hollowed tree, which supplies all the houses of the hill-side, and perhaps accounts for their being so thickly clustered there. The last wind of the ascent is the steepest and most slippery. The sun beat down relentlessly, but seemed to give unfailing delight to myriads of lizards, adders, and grasshoppers, who were darting and whirring over the crumbling stones in the maddest way. Historians, poets, or painters, have made some ruins so familiarly a part of the world's life, and their grand memories of departed glories have been so often recounted, that they seem stereotyped upon them. Time has shattered and dismantled them, but has robbed them of nothing, for their glories of all ages are concrete around them still. But poor Freundsberg! who thinks of it? or of the thousand and one ruined castles which mark the 'sky-line' of Tirol with melancholy beauty? Each has, however, had its throb of hope and daring, and its day of triumph and mastery, often noble, sometimes--not so often as elsewhere--base. Freundsberg is no exception. For two hundred years before the Christian era it was a fortress, we know: for how long before that we know not; and then again, we know little of what befell it, till many hundred years after, in the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries, its lords were known as mighty men of war. It reached its highest glory under Captain Georg, son of Ulrich and a Swabian heiress whose vast dowry tended to raise the lustre of the house. Georg von Freundsberg entered the career of arms in early youth, and rose to be a general at an age when other men are making their premières armes. At four-and-twenty he was reckoned by Charles Quint his most efficient leader. Over the Swiss, over the Venetians, wherever he led, he was victorious. The victory at Pavia was in great measure due to his prowess. His personal strength is recorded in fabulous terms; his foresight in providing for his men, and his art of governing and attaching them, were so remarkable, that they called him their father, and he could do with them whatever he would. They recorded his deeds in the terms in which men speak of a hero: they said that the strongest man might stand up against him with all his energy, and yet with the little finger of his left hand he could throw him down; that no matter at what fiery pace a horse might be running away, if he but stretched his hand across the path he brought it to a stand; that in all the Emperor's stores there was no field-piece so heavy but he could move it with ease with one hand. They sang of him: Georg von Freundsberg, von grosser Sterk, ein theurer Held; behielt das Feld in Streit und Krieg. den Feind niederslieg in aller Schlacht. er legt Got zu die Er und Macht.' [120] The last line would show that to a certain extent he was not untrue to the traditions of his country; nevertheless, his success in war, and his love for the Emperor, carried him so far away from them, that when the siege of Rome was propounded, he not only accepted a command in the attack on the 'Eternal City,' but raised twelve thousand men in his Swabian and Tirolean possessions to support the charge. None who have pondered the havoc and the horrors of that wanton and sacrilegious siege will care to extenuate the guilt of any participator in it. It is the blot on Georg von Freundsberg's character, and it was likewise his last feat. He died suddenly within the twelvemonth, aged only fifty-two, leaving his affairs in inextricable confusion, and his estate encumbered with debts incurred in raising the troops who were to assist in the desolation of the 'Holy City.' His brothers--Ulrich, Bishop of Trent, and Thomas, who like himself followed the military calling--earned a certain share of respect also; but no subsequent member of the family was distinguished, and the race came to an end in 1580. The castle fell into ruin; and as if a curse rested on it, when it was used again, it was to afford cover to the Bavarians in firing upon the people in 1809! I do not know by what local tradition, but some motive of affection still renders the chapel a place of pious resort; and a copy of Kranach's 'Mariähilf' adorns the altar. The remaining tower affords a pleasing outline. I returned to the chapel by the brook, and sat down to sketch it, though rather too closely placed under it to view it properly; there is always an indefinable satisfaction in making use of these places of pious rest, which brotherly charity has provided for the unknown wayfarer. When, after a time, I looked up from my paper, I saw sitting outside in the sun a strange old woman, the stealthy approach of whose shoeless feet I had not noticed. I advised her to come in and rest; and then I asked her how she came to walk unshod over the stones of the path, which were sharp and loose, as well as burning hot, while she carried a pair of stout shoes in her hand. 'That doesn't hurt,' she replied indignantly; 'it's the shoes that hurt. When you put your foot down you know where you put it, and you take hold of the ground; but when you have those things on, you don't know where your foot goes, and down you go yourself. That's what happened to me on this very path, and see what came of it.' And she bared her right arm, and showed that it had been broken, and badly set, and now was withered and useless--she could do no more work to support herself. I asked her how she lived, and she did not like the question, for begging, it seems, is forbidden. But I said it was a very hard law, and then she grew more confidential; and after a little more talk, her wild weird style, and her strong desire to tell my fortune, showed me she was one of those dangerous devotees who may be considered the camp-followers of the Christian army, whose chance of ingratiating themselves seems greatest where the faith is brightest, and who there work all manner of mischief, overlaying simple belief with pagan superstition; but at the same time, such an one is generally a very mine for the comparative mythologist, and in this individual instance not without some excuse in her misfortunes. For, besides the unlucky disablement already named, she had lost not only her house, home, and belongings, but all her relations also, in a fire. It is not surprising if so much misery had unhinged her mind. Her best means of occupation seemed to be, when good people gave her alms, to go to a favourite shrine, and pray for them; and I fully believe, from her manner, that she conscientiously fulfilled such commissions, for I did not discover anything of the hypocrite about her. Only once, when I had been explaining what a long way I had come on purpose to see the shrines of her country, she amused me by answering, in the most inflated style, that however far it might be, it could not be so far as she had come--she came from beyond mountains and seas, far, far, ever so far--till I looked at her again, and wondered if she were a gipsy, and was appropriating to her personal experience some of the traditional wanderings of her race. Presently she acknowledged that her birth-place was Seefeld, which I knew to be at no great distance from Innsbruck, perhaps ten miles from where we stood. Yet this tone of exaggeration may have arisen from an incapacity to take in the idea of a greater distance than she knew of previously, rather than from any intention to deceive; and her 'seas' were of course lakes, which when spoken of in the German plural have not even the gender to distinguish them. When she had once mentioned Seefeld, she grew quite excited, and told me no place I had come from could boast of such a marvellous favour as God had manifested to her Seefeld. I asked her to tell me about it. 'What! don't you know about Oswald Milser?' and I saw my want of recognition consigned me to the regions of her profoundest contempt. 'Don't you know about Oswald Milser, who by his pride quenched all the benefit of his piety and his liberality to the Church? who, when he went to make his Easter Communion one grüne Donnerstag, [121] insisted that it should be given him in one of the large Hosts, which the priest uses, and so distinguish him from the people. And when the priest, afraid to offend the great man, complied, how the weight bore him down, down into the earth;' and she described a circle with her finger on the ground, and bowed herself together to represent the action; 'and he clung to the altar steps, but they gave way like wax; and he sank lower and lower, [122] till he called to the priest to take the fearful Host back from him.' 'And what became of him?' I asked. 'He went into the monastery of Stamms, and lived a life of penance. But his lady was worse than he: when they told her what had taken place, she swore she would not believe it; "As well might you tell me," she said, and stamped her foot, "that that withered stalk could produce a rose;" and even as she spoke, three sweet roses burst forth from the dry branch, which had been dead all the winter. Then the proud lady, refusing to yield to the prodigy, rushed out of the house raving mad, and was never seen there again; but by night you may yet hear her wailing over the mountains, for there is no rest for her.' Her declamation and action accompanying every detail was consummate. I asked her if she knew no such stories of the neighbourhood of Schwatz. She thought for a moment, and then assuming her excited manner once more, she pointed to a neighbouring eminence. 'There was a bird-catcher,' she said, 'who used to go out on the Goaslahn there, following his birds; but he was quite mad about his sport, and could not let it alone, feast day or working day. One Sunday came, and he could not wait to hear the holy Mass. "I'll go out for an hour or two," he said; "there'll be time for that yet." So he went wandering through the woods, following his sport, and the hours flew away as fast as the birds; hour by hour the church bell rang, but he always said to himself he should be in time to catch the Mass of the next hour. The nine o'clock Mass was past, and the clock had warned him that it was a quarter to ten, and he had little more than time to reach the last Mass of the day. Just as he was hesitating to pack up his tackle, a beautiful bird, such as he had never seen before, with a gay red head, came hopping close to his decoy birds. It was not to be resisted. The bird-catcher could not take his eye off the bird. "Dong!" went the bell; hop! went the bird. Which should he follow? The bird was so very near the lime now; there must be time to secure him, and yet reach the church, at least before the Gospel. At last, the final stroke of the bell sounded; and at the same instant the beautiful bird hopped on to the snare. Who could throw away so fair a chance? Then the glorious plumage must be carefully cleansed of the bird-lime, which had assisted the capture, and the prize secured, and carefully stowed away at home. It would be too late for Mass then; and the bird-catcher felt the full reproach of the course he was tempted to pursue, nevertheless he could not resist it. On he went, homewards; now full of buoyant joy over his luck, now cast down with shame and sorrow over his neglected duty. He had thus proceeded a good part of his way, before he perceived that his burden was getting heavier and heavier; at last he could hardly get along under it. So he set it down, and began to examine into the cause. He found that the strange bird had swelled out so big, that it was near bursting the bars of its cage, while from its wings issued furious sulphurous fumes. Then he saw how he had been deceived; that the delusive form had been sent by the Evil One, to induce him to disobey the command of the Church. Without hesitation he flung the cursed thing from him, and watched it, by its trail of lurid flame, rolling down the side of the Goaslahn. But never, from that day forward, did he again venture to ply his trade on a holy day. 'Such things had happened to others also,' she said. 'Hunters had been similarly led astray after strange chamois; for the power of evil had many a snare for the weak. Birds too, though we deemed them so pretty and innocent, were, more often than we thought, the instruments of malice.' And it struck me as she spoke, that there were more crabbed stories of evil boding in her repertory than gentle and holy ones. 'There is the swallow,' she instanced: 'why do swallows always hover over nasty dirty marshy places? Don't you know that when the Saviour was hanging on the Cross, and the earth trembled, and the sun grew dark with horror, and all the beasts of the field went and hid themselves for shame, only the frivolous [123] swallows flitted about under the very shadow of the holy rood, and twittered their love songs as on any ordinary day. Then the Saviour turned His head and reproached the thoughtless birds; and mark my words, never will you see a swallow perched upon anything green and fresh.' I was sorry to part from her and her legendary store; but I was already due at the station, to meet friends by the train. She took my alms with glee, and then pursued her upward way barefooted, to make some promised orisons at the Freundsberg shrine. It was a glowing afternoon; and after crossing the unshaded bridge and meadows, to and from the railway, I was glad to stop and rest in a little church which stood open, near the river. It was a plain whitewashed edifice, ornamented with more devotion than taste. When I turned to come away, I found that the west wall was perforated with a screen of open iron-work, on the other side of which was an airy hospital ward. The patients could by this means beguile their weary hours with thoughts congenial to them suggested by the Tabernacle and the Crucifix. A curtain hung by the side, which could be drawn across the screen at pleasure. There were not more than four or five patients in the ward at the time, and in most instances decay of nature was the cause of disease. There is not much illness at Schwatz; but admittance to the simple accommodation of the hospital is easily conceded. Schwatz formerly had two, but the larger was burnt down in 1809. The remaining one seems amply sufficient for the needs of the place. There was 'Benediction' in the church in the evening, for it was, I forget what, saint's day. The church was very full, and the people said the Rosary in common before the Office began. A great number of the girls from the tobacco factory came in as they left work, and the singing was unusually sweet, which surprised me, as the Schwatzers are noted for their nasal twang and drawling accent in speaking. I learnt that there are several Italians from Wälsch-Tirol settled here, and they lead the choir. It is edifying to see the work-people, after their day's toil, coming into the church as if it was more familiar to them even than home; but one does not get used to seeing the uncovered heads of the women, though indeed with the rich and luxuriant braids of hair with which Nature endows them, they might be deemed 'covered' enough. A more familiar sight to an English eye is the seat-filled area of the German churches. Confessedly it is one of the home associations which one least cares to see reproduced, but the pews of the German churches are less objectionable than our own; they are lower, and not so crowded, and ample space is always left for processions, so they interfere far less with the architectural design. CHAPTER VII. NORTH TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL (RIGHT INN-BANK). EXCURSIONS FROM SCHWATZ. 'Partout où touche votre regard vous rencontrez au fond sous la forme qui passe, un mystère qui demeure ... chacun des mystères de ce monde est la figure, l'image de celui du monde supérieur; de sorte que tout ce que nous pouvons connaître dans l'ordre de la nature est la révélation même de l'ordre divin.'--Chevé, Visions de l'Avenir. Falkenstein, which may be reached by a short walk from Schwatz, is worth visiting on account of the information it affords as to the mode of working adopted in the old mines both of silver and copper. This was the locality where the greatest quantity of silver was got; it was particularly noted also for the abundance and beauty of the malachite, found in great variety and richness of tints; the turquoise was found also, but more rarely. The old shaft runs first horizontally for some two miles, and then sinks in two shafts to a depth of some two hundred and thirty fathoms. The engineering and hydraulic works seem to have been very ingenious, but the description of them does not come within the sphere of my present undertaking. It does, however, to observe that over this, as over everything else in Tirol, religion shed its halo. The miners had ejaculatory prayers, which it was their custom to utter as they passed in and out of their place of subterranean toil; and an appropriate petition for every danger, whether from fire-damp, land-slips, defective machinery, or other cause. Their greeting to each other, and to those they met by the way, in place of the national 'Gelobt sei Jesus Christus,' was 'Gott gebe euch Glück und Segen!' [124] For their particular patron they selected the Prophet Daniel, whose preservation in the rocky den of the lions, as they had seen it portrayed, seemed to bear some analogy with their own condition. Of their liberality in church-building I have already spoken; but many are the churches and chapels that bear the token--a crossed chisel and hammer on a red field--of their contribution to its expense. There are many other walks to be made from Schwatz. First there is Buch, so called from the number of beech-trees in the neighbourhood, which afford pleasant shade, and diversify the scenery, in which the castle of Tratzberg across the Inn [125] also holds an important part. Further on is Margareth, surrounded by rich pastures, which are watered by the foaming Margarethenbach. Then to the south-east is Galzein, with a number of dependent 'groups of houses,' particularly Kugelmoos, the view from which sweeps the Inn from Kufstein to Innsbruck. Beyond, again, but further south, is the Schwaderalpe, whence the iron worked and taken in depôt at Schwatz is got; and the Kellerspitze, with the little village of Troi, its twelve houses perched as if by supernatural handiwork on the spur of a rock, and once nearly as prolific as Falkenstein in its yield of silver. The exhausted--deaf (taub) as it is expressively qualified in German--borings of S. Anthony and S. Blaze are still sometimes explored by pedestrians. Arzburg also is within an hour's walk. It was once rich in copper ore, but is now comparatively little worked. Above it is the Heiligenkreuzkapelle, about which it is told, that when, on occasion of the baierische-Rumpel [126] in 1703, the bridge of Zirl was destroyed, the cross which surmounted it being carried away by the current, was here rescued and set up by the country-people, who still honour it by frequent pilgrimages. Starting again from Schwatz by the high-road, which follows pretty nearly the course of the Inn, you pass a succession of small towns, each of which heads a valley, to which it gives its name, receiving it first from the torrent which through each pours the aggregate of the mountain streams into the river, all affording a foot-way through the Duxerthal into the further extremity of the Zillerthal--Pill, Weer, Kolsass, Wattens, and Volders. First, there is Pill, a frequent name in Tirol, and derived by Weber from Bühl or Büchl, a knoll; it is the wildest and most enclosed of any of these lateral valleys, and exposed to the ravages of the torrent, which often in winter carries away both bridges and paths, and makes its recesses inaccessible even to the hardy herdsmen. The following story may serve to show how hardy they are:--Three sons of a peasant, whose wealth consisted in his grazing rights over a certain tract of the neighbouring slopes, were engaged one day in gathering herbage along the steep bank for the kids of their father's flock. The steep must have been difficult indeed on which they were afraid to trust mountain kids to cater for themselves; and the youngest of the boys was but six, the eldest only fifteen. The eldest lost his balance, and was precipitated into the roaring torrent, just then swollen to unusual proportions; he managed to cling fast behind one of the rocky projections which mark its bed, but his strength was utterly unable to bear him out of the stream. The second brother, aged ten, without hesitating, embraced the risk of almost certain death, let himself down the side of the precipice by clinging to the scanty roots which garnished its almost perpendicular side. Arrived at the bottom, he sprang with the lightness of a chamois across the foaming waters on to the rock where the boy was now slackening his exhausted hold, and succeeded in dragging him up on to the surface; but even there there seemed no chance of help, far out of sound as they were of all human ears. But the youngest, meantime, with a thoughtfulness beyond his years, had made his way home alone, and apprised the father, who readily found the means of rescuing his offspring. The break into the Weerthal is at some little distance from the high road; its church, situated on a little high-level plain, is surrounded with fir-trees. A little lake is pointed out, of which a similar legend is told to 'the judgment of Achensee,' which is indeed one not infrequently met with; it is said that it covers a spot where stood a mighty castle, once submerged for the haughtiness of its inhabitants, and the waters placed there that no one might again build on the site for ever. The greatest ornament of the valley is the rambling ruin of Schloss Rettenberg, on its woody height, once a fortress of the Rottenburgers; afterwards it passed to Florian Waldauf, whose history I have already given when speaking of Hall. [127] It was bought by the commune in 1810, and the present church built up out of the materials it afforded, the former church having been burnt down that year. The old site and its remains are looked upon by the people as haunted by a steward of the castle and his wife, who in the days of its prosperity dealt hardly with the widow and the orphan, and must now wander sighing and breathing death on all who come within their baleful influence. A shepherd once fell asleep in the noontide heat, while his sheep were browsing on the grass-grown eminence. When he woke, they were no longer in sight; at last he found them dead within the castle keep. 'Guard thy flock better,' shouted a hoarse voice, 'for this enclosure is mine, and none who come hither escape me.' None ventured within the precincts after this; but many a time those who were bold enough to peep through a fissure in the crazy walls reported that they had seen the hard-hearted steward as a pale, weary, grey-bearded man, sit sighing on the crumbling stones. The Kolsassthal merges into the Weerthal and is hardly distinguished from it, and affords a sort of counterpart, though on more broken ground, to the Gnadenwald on the opposite side of the river. It is from this abundance of shady woods that its name is derived, through the old German kuol, cool, and sazz, a settlement. In the church, the altar-piece of the Assumption is by Zoller. The church of Wattens has an altar-piece by a more esteemed Tirolean artist, Schöpf; it represents S. Laurence, to whom the church is dedicated. The many forges busily at work making implements of agriculture, nails, &c., keep you well aware of the thrift and industry of the place; its prosperity is further supported by a paper manufactory, which has always remained in the hands of the family which started it in 1559, and supplies the greater part of Tirol. A self-taught villager, Joseph Schwaighofer, enjoyed some reputation here a few years ago as a guitar maker. The Wattenserthal, like the Kolsassthal, is also very woody, and contains some little settlements of charcoal-burners; but it is also diversified by a great many fertile glades, which are diligently sought out for pasture. At Walchen, where a few shepherds' huts are clustered at the confluence of two mountain streams, the valley is broken into two branches--one, Möls, running nearly due south into the Navisthal, by paths increasing in difficulty as you proceed; the other, Lizumthal, by the south-east to Hinterdux, passing at the Innerlahn the so-called 'Blue Lake,' of considerable depth. [128] Following the road again, Volders is reached at about a mile from Wattens. As at the latter place, your ears are liberally greeted with the sounds of the smithy. Volders has quite a celebrity for its production of scythes; some ten or twelve thousand are said to be exported annually. The Post Inn affords tolerable quarters for a night or two while exploring the neighbourhood. The prolific pencil of Schöpf has provided the church with an altar-piece of the Holy Family; though an ancient foundation, it does not present any object of special interest. The Voldererthal runs beneath some peaks dear to Alpine climbers, the Grafmarterspitz, the Glunggeser, the Kreuzjoch, and the Pfunerjoch. Its entrance is commanded by the castles of Hanzenheim, sometimes called Starkelberg, from having belonged to a family of that name, and used as a hospital during the campaign of 1809; and Friedberg, which is still inhabited, having been carefully restored by the present owner, Count Albert von Cristalnigg. It was originally built in the ninth or tenth century, as a tower to guard the bridge; it gave its name to a powerful family, who are often mentioned in the history of Tirol. At the end of the thirteenth and beginning of the fourteenth centuries, it was one of the castles annexed by Friedrich mit der leeren Tasche. It contains also the Voldererbad, a mineral spring, which is much visited, but more conveniently reached by way of Windegg than through the valley itself. In the Voldererwald is a group of houses, Aschbach by name, which belongs ecclesiastically to the parish of Mils, on the opposite side; and the following story is given to account for the anomaly:--At the time when the territory of Volders belonged parochially to Kolsass (it must have been before the year 1630, as it was that year formed into an independent parish), the neighbourhood was once ravaged by the plague. A farmer of Aschbach being stricken by it, sent to beg the spiritual assistance of the priest of Kolsass. The priest attended to the summons; but when he reached the threshold of the infected dwelling, and saw what a pitiable sight the sick man presented, his fears got the better of his resolution, and he could not prevail on himself to enter the room. Not to leave his penitent entirely without comfort, however, he exhorted him to repentance, heard his confession, and absolved him from where he stood; and then uncovering the sacred Host, bid him gaze on it in a spirit of faith, and assured him he should thereby receive all the benefit of actual Communion. The visit thus completed, he hurried back to Kolsass in all speed. Meantime the sick man, not satisfied with the office thus performed, sent for the priest of Mils, who, supported by apostolic charity, approached him without hesitation, and administered the sacred mysteries. Contrary to all expectation, the farmer recovered, resumed his usual labours, and in due course garnered his harvest. In due course also came round the season for paying his tithe. With commendable punctuality the farmer loaded his waggon with the sacred tribute, and started alacritously on the way to Kolsass. Any one who watched him might have observed a twinkle of his eye, which portended some unusual dénouement to the yearly journey. As he approached Kolsass the twinkle kindled more humorously, and the oxen felt the goad applied more vigorously. The pastor of Kolsass turned out to see the waggon approaching at the unusual pace, and was already counting the tempting sheaves of golden corn. To his surprise, however, his frolicsome parishioner wheeled round his team before he brought it to a stand, and then cried aloud, 'Gaze, Father! yes, gaze in faith on the goodly sight, and believe me, your faith shall stand you in stead of the actual fruition!' With that he drove his waggon at the same pace at which he had come, straight off to the pastor of Mils, at whose worthy feet he laid the tithe. And this act of 'poetical justice' was ratified by ecclesiastical authority as a censure on the pusillanimity of the priest of Kolsass, by the transfer of the tithing of Aschbach to the parish of Mils. I have met a counterpart of this story both in England and in Spain; so true is it, as Carlyle has prettily said, that though many traditions have but one root they grow, like the banyan, into a whole overarching labyrinth. The stately Serviten-kloster outside Volders suggests another adaptation of this metaphor. From the root of one saint's maxims and example, what an 'over-arching labyrinth' of good works will grow up and spread over and adorn the face of the earth, even in the most distant parts. In the year 1590 there was born at Trent a boy named Hyppolitus Guarinoni, who was destined to graft upon Tirol the singular virtues of St. Charles Borromeo. Attached early to the household of the saintly Archbishop of Milan, Guarinoni grew up to embody in action his spirit of devotion and charity. By St. Charles's advice and assistance he followed the study of medicine, and took his degree in his twenty-fifth year. Shortly after, he was appointed physician in ordinary to the then ruler of Tirol, Archduke Ferdinand II. His fervent piety marked him as specially fit to be further entrusted with the sanitary care of the convent founded some years before by the Princesses Magdalen, Margaret, and Helena, Ferdinand's sisters, at Hall, and called the Königliche Damenstift. [129] All the time that was left free by these public engagements he spent by the bedsides of the poor of the neighbourhood. The care of the soul ever accompanied his care for their bodies, and many a wanderer owed his reconciliation with heaven to his timely exhortations. Just about this time the incursions of the new doctrines were making themselves felt in this part of Tirol, and some localities, which from their remoteness were out of the way of regular parochial ministrations, were beginning to listen to them. Guarinoni discovered this in the course of his charitable labours, for which no outlying Sennerhütte was inaccessible. In 1628 he obtained special leave, though a layman, from the Bishop of Brixen, to preach in localities which had no resident pastor; he further published a little work which he used to distribute among the people, designed to show them how many corporal infirmities are induced by neglect of the whole-some maxims of religion. Besides the restored unity of the faith in his country, two other monuments of his piety remain: the Church of St. Charles by the bridge of Volders, and the Sanctuary of Judenstein. In his moments of leisure it was his favourite occupation to commit to writing for the instruction of posterity the traditional details of the life of St. Nothburga, and of the holy child Andreas of Rinn, which were at his date even more rife in the mouths of the peasantry of the neighbourhood than at present. He only died in 1654, having devoted himself to these good works for nearly half a century. The church by which he endeavoured to bring under observation and imitation the distinguishing qualities of St. Charles, was erected on a spot famous in the Middle Ages as a bandit's den; the building occupied thirty-four years, and was consecrated but a short time before his death. Baron Karl von Fieger, from whom he bought the site, a few years later added to it the Servite monastery, which, though it exhibits all the vices of the architecture of its date, yet bears tokens that its imperfections are not due to any stint of means. Its three cupolas and other structural arrangements are designed in commemoration of the Holy Trinity--a mystery which is held in very special honour throughout Austria. In the decorations, later benefactors have carried on Guarinoni's intention, the acts of St. Charles being portrayed in the frescoes, completed in 1764, by which Knoller has earned some celebrity in the world of art for himself and for the church: they display his conversion from the stiffer German style of his master, Paul Trogger, to the Italian manner. That over the entrance conveys a tradition of St. Charles, predicting to Guarinoni, while his page, that he would one day erect a church in his honour; that of the larger cupola is an apotheosis of the saint. The picture of the high-altar sets forth the saint ministering to the plague-stricken; it is Knoller's boldest attempt at colouring. Near the entrance door may be observed a considerable piece of rock built into the wall, entitled by the people 'Stein des Gehorsams,' [130] its history being that at the time when the church was building it was detached from the rock above by a landslip, and threatened the workmen with destruction. Its course was arrested at the behest of a pious monk, who was overseeing the works. [131] After passing the Servitenkloster a footpath may easily be found which leads to Judenstein and Rinn, the seat of one of the much-contested mediæval beliefs accusing the Jews of the sacrifice of Christian children. It may be better, in describing this stem of this banyan, to visit Rinn the further place first, and take Judenstein on our way back. The country traversed is well wooded, and further diversified by the bizarre outlines of the steeples of Hall seen across the river, while the mighty Glunggeser-Spitz rises 7,500 feet above you. It invites a visit for its amenity and its associations, though the relics of the infant Saint 'Anderle' are no longer there. His father died, it would seem, while he was a child in arms; his mother earned her living in the fields, and while she was absent used to leave her boy at Pentzenhof in charge of his godfather, Mayr. One day, when he was about three years old--it was the 12th July 1462--she was cutting corn, when suddenly she saw three drops of blood upon her hand without any apparent means of accounting for the token, one with which many superstitions were connected. [132] Her motherly instincts were alarmed, and, without an instant's consideration, she threw down her sickle and hurried home. A little field-chapel to St. Isidor the husbandman, St. Nothburga, and St. Andrew of Rinn, was subsequently built upon this spot. Arrived at Mayr's house, the forebodings of her anxious heart were redoubled at not finding her darling playing about as he was wont. The faithless godfather, taken by surprise at her unexpected return, only stammered broken excuses in answer to her reiterated inquiries. At last he exclaimed, thinking to calm her frenzy, 'If he is not here, here is something better--a hat full of golden pieces, which we will share between us.' He took down his hat, but to his consternation instead of finding it heavy with its golden contents, there was nothing in it but withered leaves! At this sight he was overcome with fear and horror; his speech forsook him, and his senses together, and he ended his days raving mad. The distracted mother, meantime, pursued her inquiries and perquisitions; but all she could learn was that certain Jews, [133] returning from their harvesting at Botzen, had over-tempted Mayr by their offers and persuaded him to sell the child to them, but with the assurance that he should come to no harm. Little reassured by the announcement, she ran madly into the neighbouring birchwood, whither she had learned they had bent their steps, and there came upon the lifeless body of her treasure, hanging bloodless and mangled from a tree. A large stone near bore traces of having been used as a sacrificial stone, and the clothes, which had been rudely torn off, lay scattered about; the many wounds of his tender form showed by how cruel a martyrdom he had been called to share in the massacre of the Innocents. His remains were tenderly gathered and laid to rest, and his memory held in affection by all the neighbourhood; nevertheless, though there were many signs of the supernatural connected with the event, it did not receive all the veneration it might have been expected to call forth. About ten years later a similar event occurred at Trent, and the remains of the infant S. Simeon were treated with so great honour that the people of Rinn were awakened to an appreciation of the treasure they had suffered to lie in their churchyard almost unheeded. [134] The Emperor Maximilian I. contemplated building a church over the spot where the martyrdom occurred, hence call Judenstein. His intentions were frustrated by the knavery of the builder, and only a small chapel was built at this time; and though on occasion of its consecration the relics of the child martyr were carried thither in solemn procession, they were still for some time after preserved at Rinn. It was Hippolitus Gruarinoni to whom the honour is due of saving the spot from oblivion. The chisel of the Tirolese sculptor Nissl has set forth in grotesque design a group of Jews fulfilling their fearful deed. A portrait of Gruarinoni was likewise hung up there. The relics were translated thither with due solemnity in 1678. An afflux of pilgrims was immediately attracted, and the numerous tablets which crowd the walls attest the estimation in which it has been held. Then the people began to remember the wonders that had surrounded it. The ghost of Godfather Mayr, which for two centuries had been frequently met howling through the woods, now seemed to have found its rest, for it was never more seen or heard. And they recalled how a beautiful white lily, with strange letters on its petals, had bloomed spontaneously on the holy infant's grave; [135] that when a wilful boy, Pögler by name, snapped the stem while they were still pondering what the unknown letters might mean, he had his arm withered; and further that for generations after, every Pögler had died an untimely or a violent death. How in like manner, for seven consecutive winters, the birch-tree, on which the innocent child's body was hung by his persecutors, put forth fresh green sprouts as if in spring, and how when a thoughtless woodman one day hewed it down for a common tree, it happened that he met with a terrible accident on his homeward way, whereof he died. It may well be imagined that where such legends prevailed Jews obtained little favour; so that to the present day it is said there is but few Jew families settled among them, though they are numerous and influential in other parts of the Austrian dominion. [136] Another memory yet of Hippolitus Guarinoni lingers in the neighbourhood. By a path which branches off near Judenstein to the left (going from Volders and following the stream), the Volderbad is reached; a sulphur spring discovered and brought into notice by him, and now much frequented in summer, perhaps as much for its pleasant mountain breezes as for the medicinal properties of the waters. There is another interesting excursion which should be followed before reaching Innsbruck, but it is more easily made from Hall than from Volders, though still on the right bank of the Inn. The first village on it is Ampass, a walk of about four miles from Hall through the most charming scenery; it is so called simply as being situated on a pass between the hills traversed on the road to Hall. Then you pass the remains of the former seat of the house of Brandhausen; and following the road cut by Maria Theresa through the Wippthal to facilitate the commerce in wine and salt between Matrei and Hall, you pass Altrans and Lans, having always the green heights of the Patscherkofl smiling before you, an easy ascent for those who desire to practise climbing, from Lans, where the Wilder Mann affords possible quarters for a night. [137] A path branching off from the Mattrei road leads hence to Sistrans, a village whose church boasts of having been embellished by Claudia de' Medici. Its situation is delightful; the green plain is strewed with fifteen towns and villages, including Hall and Innsbruck, and behind these rise the great range of alps, while on the immediate foreground is the tiny Lansersee which will afford excellent Forellen for luncheon. The bed of this same Lansersee, it is said, was once covered with a flourishing though not extensive forest, its wood the only substance of a humble peasant, who had received it from his fathers. A nobleman living near took a fancy to the bit of forest ground, but instead of offering to purchase it, he endeavoured to set up some obsolete claim in a court of law. The judge, afraid to offend the powerful lord, decided in his favour. The poor man heard the sentence with as much grief at the dishonour done to his forefathers' honour as distress at his own ruin. 'There is no help for me on earth, I know,' said the poor man. 'I have no money to make an appeal. I may not contend in arms with one of noble blood. But surely He who sitteth in heaven, and who avenged Naboth, will not suffer this injustice. As for me, my needs are few; I refuse not to work; the sweat of my brow will bring me bread enough; but the inheritance of my fathers which I have preserved faithfully as I received it from them, shall it pass to another?' and in the bitterness of his soul he wept and fell asleep; but as he slept in peace a mighty roaring sound disturbed the slumbers of the unjust noble; it seemed to him in his dream as though the foundations of his castle were shattered and the floods passing over them. When they awoke in the morning the forest was no more to be seen--a clear calm lake mirrored the justice of heaven, and registered its decree that the trees of the poor man should never enrich the store of his unscrupulous neighbour. Sistrans was once famous for a champion wrestler who had long carried off the palm from all the country round; but like him of Schwatz, he was not content with his great natural strength; he was always afraid a stronger than he might arise and conquer him in turn; and so he determined to put himself beyond the reach of another's challenge. To effect this he arranged with great seeming devotion to serve the Mass on Christmas night; and while the priest's eye was averted, laid a second wafer upon the one that he had had laid ready. The priest, suspecting nothing, consecrated as usual; and then at the moment of the Wandlung, when the priest was absorbed in the solemnity of his act, as he approached to lift the chasuble he stealthily abstracted the Host he had surreptitiously laid on the altar. The precious talisman carefully concealed, he bound it on his arm the instant Mass was over; and from that day forth no one could stand against him. And not only this, but he had power too in a multitude of other ways. Had anyone committed a theft, it needed but to consult our wrestler; if he began saying certain words and walking solemnly along, immediately, step by step, were he far or near, the thief, wherever he was, was bound by secret and resistless impulse to tread as he trod, and bring back the booty to the place whence he had taken it. Was anyone's cattle stricken with sickness, it needed but to call our wrestler; a few words solemnly pronounced, and the touch of his potent arm, sufficed to restore the beast to perfect health. Moreover, no bird could escape his snare, no fox or hare or chamois outrun him for swiftness. Thus all went well; he had played a bold stake, and had won his game. But at last the time came for him to die. Weary of his struggles, and even of his successes, our wrestler would fain have laid his head to rest under the soft green turf of the field of peace, by the wayside of those who pass in to pray, and lulled by the sound of the holy bells. But in vain he lay in his bed; death came not. True, there were all his symptoms in due force--the glazed eye and palsied tongue and wringing agony; but for all that he could not die. At last, the priest, astonished at what he saw, asked him if he had not on his conscience some sin weighty above the wont, and so moved him to a sense of penance that he confessed his impiety with tears of contrition; and it was not till he had told all, and the priest had received the sacred particle he had misused, that, shriven and blessed, his soul could depart in peace. There is a spot outside Sistrans called the Todsünden-marterle, but whether it has any connection with this tradition, or whether it has one of its own, I have not been able to learn. A couple of hours further is the pilgrimage chapel of Heiligenwasser, which is much visited both by the pious and the valetudinarian. Its history is that in 1606 two shepherd boys keeping their father's herd upon the mountains lost two young kine. In vain they sought them through the toilful path and beneath the burning sun; the kine were nowhere to be found. At last in despair of any further labour proving successful, they fell on their knees and prayed with tears for help from above. Then a bright light fell upon them, and the Gnadenmutter appeared beside them, and bid them be of good cheer, for the cattle were gone home to their stall; moreover she added, 'Drink, children, for the day is hot, and ye are weary with wandering.' 'Drink!' exclaimed the famished children, 'where shall we find water? there is no water near!' but even as they spoke the Gnadenmutter was taken from their sight, but in the place where the light surrounding her had shone there welled up a clear and bubbling stream between the rocks, which has never ceased to flow since. The boys went home, but had not the courage to tell how great a favour had been bestowed on them; yet they never went by that way without turning to give glory to God, and say a prayer beneath the holy spring. Fifty years passed. One of them was an infirm old man, and no longer went abroad so far, the other was attended in his labours by the son of a neighbour, a lad who had been dumb from his birth. When the lad saw the herdsman kneel down by the spring and drink and pray, he knelt and drank and prayed too; when lo! no sooner had the water passed his lips than he found he had the power of speech like any other. The narration of the one wonder led to that of the other. The people readily believed, and before the year was out a chapel had been raised upon the spot. CHAPTER VIII. NORTH TIROL--THE INNTHAL. INNSBRUCK. Many centuries have been numbered, Since in death the monarch slumbered By the convent's sculptured portal, Mingling with the common dust; But his good deeds, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grow and gleam immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust. Longfellow. I shall not easily forget my first greeting at Innsbruck. We had come many days' journey from the north to a rendezvous with friends who had travelled many days' journey from the south; they were to arrive a week earlier than we, and were accordingly to meet us at the station and do the hosts' part. But it happened that the station was being rebuilt, and the order of 'No admittance except on business' was strictly enforced. The post-office was closed, being 'after hours,' and though the man left in charge, with true Tirolean urbanity, suffered us to come in and turn over the letters for ourselves, we failed to find the one conveying the directions we sought. So with no fixed advices to guide us, we wandered through the mountain capital in search of a chance meeting. We had nearly given up this attempt in its turn in despair of success, when 'Albina,' a little white Roman lupetto dog, belonging to the friends of whom we were in search, came bounding upon me. It was more than two years since I had taken leave of her in the Eternal City, but her affectionate sympathy was stronger than time or distance; and here, far from all aid in the associations of home, and while the rest of her party were yet a great way off--almost out of sight--she had spied me out, and came to give her true and hearty greeting. It is a pleasant association with Innsbruck, a revelation of that pure and lasting love which dog-nature seems to have been specially created to convey; but it was not of Innsbruck. Innsbruck--Schpruck, as the indigenous call it--though the chief, is the least Tirolean town of Tirol. It apes the airs and vices of a capital, without having the magnificence and convenience by which they are engendered. There is a page of Tirol's history blotted by a deed which Innsbruck alone, of all Tirol, could have committed, and which it indeed requires its long and otherwise uniformly high character for both exceeding hospitality and exceeding loyalty to cancel. The subject of it was its own Kaiser Max, whose prudence in governmental details and gallantry in the field and in the chase had raised him in the popular mind to the position of a hero. When he had come to them before, in his youth, in his might, and in his imperial pomp, he had been sung and fêted. The people had acclaimed him with joy, and his deeds were a very household epic; while he in turn had extended their borders by conquest, and their privileges by concessions. But now he had come back to them, worn out with war and cares and age. He felt that his end was near, and it was to Tirol, with which he had always stood in bonds of so much love, that he turned to spend his few declining years. But Innsbruck, when it saw him thus, seems to have forgotten his prowess and his benefits, and to have remembered only a pitiful squabble about payment of the score for the maintenance of his household at his last visit. A ruler who had spent himself in bettering the condition of his people might well, in the days of his weariness and sadness of heart, have expected to meet with more liberality at their hands; but from Innsbruck, where--little obscure provincial town as it was--he had so often held his court, which had been raised in importance and singularly enriched by royal marriages and receptions and other costly ceremonies celebrated there at his desire, and which by his example and instigation had become the residence of many nobles who had learnt under his administration to value peaceful study above the pursuit of war--from Innsbruck he had most of all to expect. And yet on this occasion, as he lay ailing and restless on his couch, the neighing and tramping of his horses disturbed his fitful slumbers; and rising in the early dawn to ascertain the cause, he beheld the team which had brought him from the Diet at Augsburg, left out unfed and untended in the streets, because the people said he should not run up another score with them. With a moderation he would not perhaps have practised in his younger days, he quietly went on his way, to die at Wels on the Trann. I have often pictured the pale sad face of the old Emperor as he turned from that sight, and thought of the sickness of his heart as one of history's most touching lessons of the world's inconstancy. Perhaps it predisposed me against Innsbruck; perhaps I was inclined to be a little unjust; but, at all events, it prepared me not to be surprised if its people should prove more sophisticated than their fellow-countrymen. It was quite what I expected, therefore, when I was told that in the older inns of the class wherein one generally finds a refreshing hospitality and primitiveness, the absence of comfort was not compensated by corresponding simplicity of manners. In the Oesterreichischer Hof, one of those provincial pieces of pretentiousness which those who travel to learn the characteristics of a country should, under ordinary circumstances, avoid, we found the pleasantness of its situation sufficient to make us forget all else; and indeed, considered as a copy of a Vienna hotel, it is not a bad attempt. There is a room which on Sundays is set apart for an English service. On a subsequent visit we found a large new hotel (Europa), rather near the railway station, preferable to it in some respects, and there are many others besides. I have spoken of the pleasant situation, and our apartment was situated so as fully to enjoy it; we had to ourselves a whole suite of little rooms, with a separate corridor running along the back of them, from the windows of which we could make acquaintance, under the alternating play of sunshine, moonbeam, or lightning, with the range of mountains which wall in Tirol. The Martinswand and Frauhütt, with their romantic memories; the Seegruben-spitze and the Kreuz-spitze, rugged and wild; the grand masses of the Brandjoch and the lesser Solstein, and the greater Solstein already wearing a lace-like veil of snow; while the quaint copper cupolaed towers of Innsbruck conceal the Rumerjoch and the Kaisersäule; and in the front of the picture, the roofs with their wooden tiles afford a view of the mysteries of apple-drying, and a thousand other local arts of domestic economy. If our furniture was not of the most elegant or abundant, it was all the more in keeping with such wild surroundings. The character of the town itself partakes of the same mixture of quaint picturesqueness with modern pretension which I have already observed in that of the people and the hotel. The Neustadt, as the chief street is called, remarkable for its width, tidiness, and good paving, is no less so for its old arcades in one part, and the steep gables in another, and the monuments of faith which adorn its centre line. At one end it is closed in by the stern gaunt mountain, at the other by Maria Theresa's triumphal arch. There are other streets again, straight, modern, and uniform; the Museum Strasse, and the Karl Strasse, and the Landhaus Gasse, [138] but you soon come to an end of them; and then you find yourself in a suburb of most primitive quality; your progress arrested, now by the advance of the iron road, now by the placid gentle Sill, now by the proudly flowing Inn. The mediæval history of Innsbruck is signalized by a number of fires which destroyed many of its antiquities. To the first of these it owes the suggestion that the town needed a water supply, acted upon by Meinhard II., and the monks of Wilten, in the formation of the Kleine Sill, which continues still as useful as ever; but other fires again and again laid it in ashes, so that very little of really old work survives, though there are many foundations of early date, the buildings of which have been again and again rebuilt. The very oldest of these is the monastery of Wilten, now a suburb a little way outside the Triumphpforte, originally the seat of the suzerains who created the town. The history of its origin is one of the most remarkable myths of the country, and is a very epitome of the history of the conflict of Heathendom with Christendom. The Romans had found here a flourishing town even in their time, and they made of it an important station, calling it Valdidena, whence its present name; coins and other relics of their sojourn are continually dug out of the soil. Tradition has it, however, that Etzel (Attila) laid the city in ruins on his way back from the terrible battle of Chalons. It continued, nevertheless, to be a convenient and consequently frequented station of the intercourse between the banks of the Po and the Rhine. When Dietrich von Bern (Theodoric of Verona) announced his expedition against Chriemhilde's Garden of Roses at Worms, one of the mightiest who responded to his appeal, and who did him the most signal service in taking the Rose-garden, was Heime, popularly called Haymon, a giant 'taller and more powerful than Goliath.' Returning in Theodoric's victorious train, he came through Tirol. As he approached Valdidena he found his passage barred by another giant named Thyrsus, living near Zirl, who has left his name to the little neighbouring hamlet of Tirschenbach. Thyrsus had heard of Haymon's prowess, and as his own had been unchallenged hitherto, he determined to provoke him to combat. Haymon was no less fierce than himself, and scarcely waited for his challenge to rush to the attack. But anyone who had looked on would have guessed from the first moment on which side the advantage would fall. Thyrsus was indeed terrible of aspect; higher in stature than Haymon, his shaggy hair covered a determined brow; his hardy skin was bronzed by exposure to weather and lying on the rocks; his sinews were developed by constant use, and their power attested by the tree torn up by the roots which he bore in his hand for a club; at each footfall the ground shook, for he planted his feet with a sound of thunder, and his stride was from hill to hill. But Haymon's every movement displayed him practised in each art of attack and defence. Less fierce of expression than Thyrsus, his eyes were ever on the watch to follow every moment of his antagonist, and like a wall of adamant he stood receiving all his thrusts with a studied patience, giving back none till his attacker's strength was well-nigh exhausted. Then he fell upon him and slew him. An effigy of the two giants yet adorns the wall of the wayside chapel at Tirschendorf. Haymon was still in the prime of manhood, being about thirty-five, and this was but one of his many successful combats. Nevertheless, it was destined to be his last, for a Benedictine monk of Tegernsee coming by while he was yet in the first flush of victory, succeeded so well in reasoning with him on the worthlessness of all on which he had hitherto set his heart, and on the superior attractions of a higher life, that he then and there determined to give up his sanguinary career, and henceforth devote his strength to the service of Christ. In pursuance of this design he determined to build with his own hands a church and monastery on the site of the ruined town of Valdidena, by the banks of the Sill. With his own hands he quarried the stone and felled the timber; but in the meantime the Evil One in the form of a huge dragon had taken possession of the place. Never did he let himself be seen; but when he came to lay the foundation, Haymon found every morning that whatever work he had done by day, the dragon had destroyed by night. Then he saw that he must watch by night as well as work by day, and by this means he discovered with what manner of adversary he had to deal. The dragon lashed the ground with his tail in fury, just as the wild wind stirs up the sea, and filled the air with the smoke and sparks he breathed out of his mouth. Haymon saw that with all his strength and science he could not overcome so terrible an enemy; nevertheless, he did not lose heart, but commended himself to God. Meantime, the streaks of morn began to appear over the sky, and at sight of them the dragon turned and fled. Haymon perceived his advantage, and pursued him; by-and-by the rocks bounding the path contracted, and at last they came to the narrow opening of a cave. As soon as the dragon had got his head in and could not turn, Haymon raised his sword with a powerful swing, and calling on God to aid his stroke, with one blow severed the monster's head from the trunk. As a trophy of his feat, he cut out the creature's sting, which was full two feet long, and subsequently hung it up in the Sanctuary, and something to represent it is still shown in the church of Wilten. After this, the building went on apace; and when it was completed, he took up a huge stone which had been left over from the foundation of the building, and flung it with the whole power of his arm. It sped over the plain for the space of nearly two miles, till it struck against the hill of Ambras, and rolled thence down again upon the plain, 'where it may yet be seen;' and with all the land between he endowed the monastery. Then he called thither a colony of Benedictines to inhabit it, and himself lived a life of penance as the lowest among them for eighteen years; and here he died in the year 878. Another benefit which he conferred on the neighbourhood was rebuilding the bridge of Innsbruck. [139] Tradition says he was buried on the right hand side of the high altar, and even preserves the following rough lines as his epitaph:-- Als Tag und Jahr verloffen war Achthundert schon verstrichen Zu siebzig acht hats auch schon g'macht Da Heymons Tod verblichen. Der tapfere Held hat sich erwählt En Kloster aufzuführen Gab alles hinein, gieng selbst auch drein, Wollts doch nicht selbst regieren. Hat löblich gelebt, nach Tugent gstrebt Ein Spiegel war er allen; Riss hin riss her, ist nicht mehr er, Ins Grab ist er hier g'fallen. Many fruitless searches have been made for his body; the last, in the year 1644, undermined great part of the wall of the church, and caused its fall. The popular belief in the existence of the giants Haymon and Thyrsis has found a forcible expression nevertheless in two huge wooden figures, placed at the entrance of the Minster Church. The parish church of Wilten has a more ancient and curious relic in the Mutter Gottes unter den vier Säulen, [140] of which it is said, that the Thundering Legion having been stationed at Valdidena about the year 137, had this image with them; that on one occasion of being ordered on a distant expedition they buried it under four trees, and never had the opportunity of recovering it. That when Rathold von Aiblingen made his pilgrimage to Rome, he brought back with him the secret of its place of concealment, exhumed it, set it up on the altar under a baldachino with four pillars, where it has never ceased to be an object of special veneration. This received a notable encouragement when Friedrich mit der leeren Tasche, wandering in secret through the country with his trusty Hans von Müllinen after the ban of the empire had been pronounced against him, knelt before this shrine, and prayed a blessing on his unchanging devotion to it. The sequel made him believe that his prayer was heard; and when he was once more established in his possessions, he caused himself and his friend to be portrayed kneeling at the shrine to seek protection under the fostering mantle of the Virgin, and had the picture hung on the wall of the church opposite. The name of Innsbruck first occurs in a record of the year 1027, on occasion of a concession granted to the chapel of S. Jakob in der Au--S. James's in the Field--probably the spot on which the stately Pfarrkirche now stands. Prior to this, the little settlement of inhabitants, whom the commerce between Germany and Italy had gathered round the Inn-bridge, could only satisfy the obligation of the Sunday and Holy-day mass by attendance in the church of Wilten; now, the faculty was granted to their own little chapel. Its situation made it a convenient entrepôt for many articles of heavy merchandise, and, as years went by, a dwelling-place of various merchants also. All this time it was a dependency of the monks of Wilten. In 1180, Berthold II. von Andechs, acquired from them by treaty certain rights over the prospering town. His successor, Otho I., surrounded it with walls and fortifications, and built himself a residence, on the entrance of which was chiselled the date of 1234, and the inscription,-- Dies Haus stehet in Gottes Hand Ottoburg ist es genannt. And on the same spot, in an old house overlooking the river Inn, some remains of this foundation may be traced, to which the name of Ottoburg still attaches. In 1239 it was treated to the privilege of being the only dépôt for goods between the Ziller and the Melach; other concessions followed, maintaining its ever-rising importance. In 1279 Bruno, Bishop of Brixen, consecrated a second church, the Morizkapelle, in the Ottoburg. But though both its temporal and spiritual lords appear to have encouraged its growth by every means in their power, and though there are records of occasional noble gatherings within its precincts, it was not till after the cession of Tirol to Austria by Margaretha Maultasch that the convenience of its central situation, and its water communication by the Inn and Danube with other towns of the empire, suggested its adoption as the seat of government of the country. The fidelity of the towns-people to Duke Rudolf IV. of Austria at the time of a Bavarian invasion, elicited a further outpouring of privileges from their ruler, putting beyond all dispute in a short time the priority of Innsbruck over all the towns of Tirol. Friederich mit der leeren Tasche made it his residence, and his base of operations for reducing the Rottenburgers and other powerful nobles, who during the late unsettled condition of the government had set at naught his power and oppressed the people. In this he received the warmest support of the Innsbruckers, which he in turn repaid by granting all their wishes. The singular loyalty of the Tirolese, and their good fortune in having been generally blessed with upright and noble-minded rulers, make their annals read like a continuous heroic romance. The deeds of their princes have for centuries been household words in every mountain home of Tirol. None have had a deeper place in their hearts than the fortunes of Friedl, and never was any man more fortunate in his misfortunes. Before they yet knew what manner of prince he was, the ban of the empire had made him a penniless wanderer. Reduced to a condition lower than their own, the peasants wherever he passed gathered round him, and swore to stand by him, and concealed his hiding-places with the closest fidelity. One night he came weary and wayworn to Bludenz in Vorarlberg, seeking shelter before the impending storm. The night-watch had the closest orders to beware of strangers, for an incursion of the imperial army was expected, and every stranger might be a spy; no entreaty of Friedl on his friend Hans could shake his obedience to orders. When the Prince declared who he was, the man said, 'Would it were Friedl indeed!' but added that he would not be taken in by the pretence, however well devised. At last the outcast obtained from him that he would send for an innkeeper to whom he was known. Mine host at once recognised his sovereign, and received him with joy. The Thorwächter trembled when he found what he had done, but Frederick commended his steadfastness heartily, and invited him to dine at his table next day. While he was here, the Emperor summoned the burghers to give up his prisoner; but the Bludenzers sent answer that 'they had sworn fealty to Duke Frederick and the House of Austria, and they would not break their oath.' This spirited reply would probably have brought an army to their gates had Frederick remained among them; but in order to save them from an attack, for which they were little prepared, he took his departure,--by stealth, or they would not have suffered him to depart, even for their own safety's sake. At other times he would earn his day's food by manual labour before he disclosed to his entertainers who he was, and then he would only partake of the same frugal fare, and the same hard lodging, as the peasants who received him. By these means he became deeply endeared to the people, who thus knew he was one who felt for their privations, and shared their feelings and opinions, and did not treat them with supercilious contempt like one of the nobles. When by these wanderings Frederick had discovered how deeply the people loved him, he arranged with the owner of the Rofnerhof in the Oetztal a plan by which, on occasion of a great fair at Landeck, always crowded by people from all the country round, he appeared in the character of principal actor in a peasant-comedy, which set forth the sufferings of a prince driven from his throne by cruel enemies, wandering homeless among his people, then calling them to arms, and leading them to victory. The excitement of the people at the representation exceeded his highest expectations. Loud sobs and cries accompanied his description of the Prince's woes; but when he came to sing of the people following their prince's call to arms, their ardour became quite irresistible. The enthusiasm was contagious; Frederick could no longer contain himself; he threw off his disguise, and declared himself their Friedl. It needed no more; unbidden they proffered their allegiance and their vows to defend his rights to the last drop of their blood. The enthusiasm of the Landeckers soon spread over the whole country; and when the Emperor Sigismund and Ernst der Eiserne and Frederick's other foes found his people were as firm as their own mountains in his defence, they gave up the attempt at further persecution, and concluded a truce with him. In his prosperity he did not forget the peasants who had stood by him so loyally. While he tamed the power of their oppressors, he did all he could to lighten their burdens; and to many, who had rendered him special service, he marked his gratitude by special favours. Thus, to Ruzo of the Rofnerhof he granted among other privileges the right of asylum on his demesne, which was put in use down to the year 1783. We have already seen his conflict with Henry of Rottenburg, [141] and in the same way he tamed the overgrown power of other nobles. In the course of our wanderings we shall often find the popular hero's name stored up in the people's lore. In connection with Innsbruck, he is well known to the most superficial tourist as the builder of the Goldene Dachl-gebäude. And what is the goldene Dachl-Gebäude?--It is a most picturesque addition to, and almost all remaining of, what in his time was the Fürstenburg, or princely palace, having a roof of shining gilt copper tiles, sufficiently low to be in sight of the passer-by; but the account the best English guide-book gives the tourist of its origin is so wanting in the true appreciation of Friedl's character, that I am fain to supply the Tirolese version of it. The above account says that it was built in 1425 'by Frederick, called in ridicule "Empty Purse," who, in order to show how ill-founded was the nickname, spent thirty thousand ducats on this piece of extravagance, which probably rendered the nickname more appropriate than before.' Now, to say that he was called 'Empty Purse' thus vaguely would imply that it was a name given by common consent, and generally adopted. To say that he built the Golden Roof only to show that such a nickname was ill-founded, is simply to accuse him of arrogance. To treat it as an extravagance which justified the accusation, is to convict him of folly. But the government of Frederick [142]--which is felt even yet in the present independent spirit of Tirol, which consolidated the country and made it respected, which set up the dignity of the Freihof and the Schildhof the foundation of a middle class as a dam against the encroachments of the nobility on the peasantry, which yet lives on in the hearts of the people, was an eminently prudent administration, and the story does not fit it. If, instead of resting satisfied with this compendious but flippant account, you ask the first true Tirolese you meet to expound it, he will tell you that Friedl had grown so familiar with peasant life that he despoiled himself to better the condition of his poorer subjects, not only by direct means, but by his expeditions in their defence, and also in forbearing to exact burdensome taxes. The nickname was not given him by general consent; nor at all, by the people; it was the cowardly revenge of those selfish nobles who could not appreciate the abnegation of his character. Frederick saw in it a reproach, offered not so much to himself as to his people; it seemed to say that the people who loved him so well withheld the subsidies which should make him as grand as other monarchs. To disprove the calumny, and to show that his people enabled him to command riches too, he made this elegant little piece of display, which served also to adorn his good town of Innsbruck; but he did not on that account alter his frugal management of his finances; so that when he came to die, though he had made none cry out that he had laid burdens on them, he yet left a replenished treasury. [143] This is still one of the notable ornaments of Innsbruck. The house is let to private families, but the 'gold-roofed' Erker, or oriel, is kept up as a beloved relic almost in its original condition. There is a curious old fresco within, the subject of which is disputed; and on the second floor there is a sculptured bas-relief, representing Maximilian and his two wives, Mary of Burgundy and Maria Bianca of Milan, and the seven coats of arms of the seven provinces under Maximilian's government. Sigismund 'the Monied,' Frederick's son and successor (1430-93), is more chargeable with extravagance, [144] but his extravagance was all for the advantage of Innsbruck. The reception he gave to Christian I., King of Denmark, when on his way to Rome, is a striking illustration of the resources of the country in his time. Sigismund went out to meet him at some miles' distance from the capital, with a train of three hundred horses, all richly caparisoned; his consort (Eleanor of Scotland) followed with her suite in two gilt carriages, and surrounded by fifty ladies and maidens on their palfreys. The King of Denmark stayed three days; every day was a festival, and the magnificent dresses of the court were worthy of being specially chronicled. There seems to have been no lack of satin and velvet and ermine, embroidery, and fringes of gold-work. Nor was mental culture neglected; for we find mention, at the same date, of public schools governed by 'a rector,' which would seem to imply that they had something beyond an elementary character. The impulse given to commerce by the working of the silver-mines also had the effect of causing some of the chief roads of the country to be made and improved. The most lasting traces of Sigismund's reign, however, are the ruined towers which adorn the mountain landscapes. Wherever we go in Tirol, we come upon some memory of his expensive fancy for building isolated castles as a pied à terre for his hunting and fishing excursions, still distinguished by such names as Sigmundskron, Sigmundsfried, Sigmundslust, Sigmundsburg, Sigmundsegg, and which we shall have occasion to notice as we go along. His wars were of no great benefit to the country, but his command of money enabled him to include Vorarlberg within his frontier. Sigismund was, however, entirely wanting in administrative qualities. This deficiency helped out his extravagance in dissipating the whole benefit which might have resulted to the public exchequer from the silver-works of his reign; and at last he yielded to the wholesome counsel of abdicating in favour of his cousin Maximilian. Maximilian (1493-1519) is another of the household heroes of Tirol. Even after he was raised to the throne of empire he still loved his Tirolean home, and his residence there further increased the importance of the town of Innsbruck. He built the new palace in the Rennplatz, called the Burg, which was completed for his marriage with Maria Bianca, daughter of Galeazzo Maria Sforza, of Milan. Splendid was the assemblage gathered in Innsbruck for this ceremonial. Three years later it was further astonished by the magnificence of the Turkish Embassy; and the discussion of various treaties of peace were also frequently the means of adding brilliancy to the court, and prosperity to the town. His other benefits to the city, and Innsbruck's unworthy return to him, I have already mentioned in the beginning of this chapter. Many a fantastic Sage is told of Maximilian in the neighbourhood, which we shall find in their due places. The fine hunting-ground Tirol affords was one of its greatest attractions for him; it led him, however, to introduce certain game-laws, and this was one principal element in bringing about the decline of his popularity in the last years of his life. At his death this disaffection broke out, and caused one of the most serious insurrectionary movements which have disturbed the even tenour of Tirolese loyalty. To this was added the influence of Lutheran teaching, the effects of which we have seen in the Zillerthal. This spirit of discontent had time to gain ground during the first years of Maximilian's grandson and successor, Charles Quint, whose immensely extended duties drew his attention off from Tirol. Very shortly after his accession, however, he made over the German hereditary dominions, including Tirol, to his brother Ferdinand, who established his family in this country. His wise administration and prudent concessions soon conciliated the people; though severe measures were also needed, and the year 1529 was signalized in Innsbruck by some terrible executions. These were forgotten when, in the year 1531, Charles Quint, returning victorious from Pavia, on his way to Augsburg stayed and held court at Innsbruck; Ferdinand met him on the Brenner pass, and accompanied him to the capital. When Charles reached the Burg, Ferdinand's children received him at the entrance; and the tenderness with which he greeted and kissed them was remarked by the people, on whom this token of homely affection had a powerful effect. Electors and princes, spiritual and temporal, came to pay their homage to the Emperor; and Innsbruck was so filled with the titled throng, that the Landtag had to remove its session to Hall. Ferdinand's other dominions, and the question of the threatened war with Turkey, necessitated frequent absences from Innsbruck. During one of these (in 1534) the Burg was burnt down, and his children were only rescued from their beds with difficulty. The great Hall, called the goldene Saal, and the state bedroom, which was so beautifully ornamented that it bore the title of das Paradies, were all reduced to ashes. In 1541 Innsbruck was once more honoured by a visit of the magnificent Emperor; and again, ten years later, he took up his residence there, that he might be near the Session of the Council of Trent. It was while he was living here peacefully in all confidence, and almost unattended, that Maurice, Elector of Saxony, having suddenly joined the Smalkald League, treacherously attempted to surprise him, marching with a considerable armed force through pass Fernstein. Charles, who was laid up with illness at the time, was enabled by the loyal devotion of the Tirolese to escape in the night-time and in a storm of wind and rain, being borne in a litter over the Brenner, and by difficult mountain paths through Bruneck into Carinthia. Maurice, baffled in his scheme, exercised his vengeance in plundering the imperial possessions, while his followers devastated the peasants' homes, the monastery of Stams, and other religious houses that lay in their way. The sufferings of the Tirolese on this occasion doubtless tended to confirm them in their aversion for the Lutheran League. Maurice's end was characteristic, and the Tirolese, ever on the look-out for the supernatural, were not slow to see in it a worthy retribution for his treatment of their Emperor. Albert of Brandenburg refused to join in the famous Treaty of Passau, subsequently concluded by Maurice and the other Lutheran leaders with the Emperor. This and other differences led to a sanguinary struggle between them, in the course of which Maurice was killed in battle at Sieverhausen. Ferdinand the First's reign has many mementos in Innsbruck. He built the Franciscan church, otherwise called the heiligen Kreuzkirche and the Hofkirche, which, tradition says, had been projected by his grandfather, Kaiser Max, though there is no written record of the fact; and he raised within it a most grandiose and singular monument to him, which has alone sufficed to attract many travellers to Tirol. The original object of the foundation of the church seems to have been the establishment of a college of canons in this centre, to oppose the advance of Lutheran teaching. It was begun in 1543, the first design having been rejected by Ferdinand as not grand enough, and consecrated in 1563. He seems to have been at some pains to find a colony of religious willing to undertake, and competent to fulfil, his requirements; and not coming to an agreement with any in Germany or the Netherlands, ultimately called in a settlement of Franciscans from Trent and the Venetian provinces, consisting of twenty priests and thirteen lay-brothers. The chief ornaments of the building itself are the ten large--but too slender--red marble columns, which support the plateresque roof. The greater part of the nave is taken up with Maximilian's monument--cenotaph rather, for he lies buried at Wiener-Neustadt, the oft-contemplated translation of his remains never having been carried into effect. It was Innsbruck's fault, as we have seen, that they were not originally laid to rest there, and it is her retribution to have been denied the honour of housing them hitherto. The monument itself is a pile upwards of thirteen feet long and six high, of various coloured marbles, raised on three red marble steps; on the top is a colossal figure, representing the Kaiser dressed in full imperial costume, kneeling, his face being directed towards the altar--a very fine work, cast in bronze by Luigi del Duca, a Sicilian, in 1582. The sides and ends are divided by slender columns into twenty-four fine white marble compartments, [145] setting forth the story of his achievements in lace-like relief. If the treatment of the facts is sometimes somewhat legendary, the details and accessories are most painstakingly and delicately rendered, great attention having been paid to the faithfulness of the costumes and buildings introduced, and the most exquisite finish lavished on all. They were begun in 1561 by the brothers Bernhard and Arnold Abel, of Cologne, who went in person to Genoa to select the Carrara tablets for their work; but they both died in 1563, having only completed three. Then Alexander Collin of Mechlin took up the work, and with the aid of a large school of artists completed them in all their perfection in three years more. Around it stands a noble guard of ancestors historical and mythological, cast in bronze, of colossal proportions, twenty-eight in number. It is a solemn sight as you enter in the dusk of evening, to see these stern old heroes keeping eternal watch round the tomb of him who has been called 'the last of the Knights,' der letzte Ritter. They have not, perhaps, the surpassing merit of the Carrara reliefs, but they are nobly conceived nevertheless. For lightness of poise, combined with excellence of proportion and delicacy of finish, the figure of our own King Arthur commends itself most to my admiration; but that of Theodoric is generally reckoned to bear away the palm from all the rest. They stand in the following order. Starting on the right side of the nave on entering, we have: 1. Clovis, the first Christian King of France. 2. Philip 'the Handsome,' [146] of the Netherlands, Maximilian's son, reckoned as Philip I. of Spain, though he never reigned there. 3. Rudolf of Hapsburg. 4. Albert II. the Wise, Maximilian's great-grandfather. 5. Theodoric, King of the Ostrogoths. (455-526.) 6. Ernest der Eiserne, Duke of Austria and Styria. (1377-1424.) 7. Theodebert, Duke of Burgundy. (640.) 8. King Arthur of England. 9. Sigmund der Münzreiche, Count of Tirol. (1427-96.) 10. Maria Bianca Sforza, Maximilian's second wife. (Died 1510.) 11. The Archduchess Margaret, Maximilian's daughter. 12. Cymburgis of Massovica, wife of Ernest der Eiserne. (Died 1433.) 13. Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, father of Maximilian's first wife. 14. Philip the Good, father of Charles the Bold. Founder of the Order of the Golden Fleece. This completes the file on the right side; on our walk back down the other side we come to-- 15. Albert II., Duke of Austria, and Emperor of Germany. (1397-1439.) 16. Emperor Frederick I., Maximilian's father. (1415-95.) 17. St. Leopold, Margrave of Austria; since 1506 the patron saint of Austria. (1073-1136.) 18. Rudolf, Count of Hapsburg, grandfather or uncle of 'Rudolf of Hapsburg.' 19. Leopold III., 'the Pious,' Duke of Austria, Maximilian's great-grandfather; killed at Sempach, 1439. 20. Frederick IV. of Austria, Count of Tirol, surnamed 'mit der leeren Tasche.' 21. Albert I., D. of Austria, Emperor. (Born 1248; assassinated by his nephew John of Swabia, 1308.) 22. Godfrey de Bouillon, King of Jerusalem in 1099. 23. Elizabeth, wife of the Emperor Albert II., daughter of Sigismund, King of Hungary and Bohemia. (1396-1442.) 24. Mary of Burgundy, Maximilian's first wife. (1457-82.) 25. Eleonora of Portugal, wife of the Emperor Frederick III., Maximilian's mother. 26. Cunigunda, Maximilian's sister, wife of Duke Albert IV. of Bavaria. 27. Ferdinand 'the Catholic.' 28. Johanna, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, and wife of Maximilian's son, Philip I. of Spain. There is a vast difference in the quality both of the design and execution of these statues; the greater number and the more artistic were cast by Gregor Löffler, who established a foundry on purpose at Büchsenhausen; the rest by Stephen and Melchior Godl, and Hanns Lendenstreich, who worked at Mühlau, a suburb of Innsbruck. All honour is due to them for the production of some of the most remarkable works of their age; but it was some unknown mind, probably that of some humble nameless Franciscan, to whom is due the conception and arrangement of this piece of symbolism. It originally included, besides the statues already enumerated, twenty-three others, of saints, which were to have received a more elevated station, and it is for this reason that they are much smaller in size. They are now placed in the so-called 'Silver Chapel,' and are too frequently overlooked; but it is necessary to take them into account in order worthily to criticize this great monument. They are as follows:--1. St. Adelgunda, daughter of Walbert, Count of Haynault. 2. St. Adelbert, Count of Brabant. 3. St. Doda, wife of St. Arnulf, Duke of the Moselle. 4. St. Hermelinda, daughter of Witger, Count of Brabant. 5. St. Guy, Duke of Lotharingia. 6. St. Simpert, Bishop of Augsburg, son of Charlemagne's sister Symporiana, who rebuilt the monastery of St. Magnus at Füssen. 7. St. Jodok, son of a king of Great Britain; he wears a palmer's dress. 8. St. Landerich, Bishop of Metz, son of St. Vincent, Count of Haynault, and St. Waltruda. 9. St. Clovis. 10. St. Oda, wife of Duke Conrad. 11. St. Pharaild, daughter of Witger, Count of Brabant. 12. St. Reinbert, brother of the last. 13. St. Roland, brother of St. Simpert. 14. St. Stephen, King of Hungary. 15. St. Venantius, martyr, son of Theodoric, Duke of Lotharingia. 16. St. Waltruda, mother of St. Landerich (No. 8). 17. St. Arnulf, husband of St. Doda (No. 3), afterwards Bishop of Metz. 18. St. Chlodulf, son of St. Waltruda (No. 16), also Bishop of Metz. 19. St. Gudula, sister of St. Albert, Count of Brabant. 20. St. Pepin Teuto, Duke of Brabant. 21. St. Trudo, priest, son of St. Adela. 22. St. Vincent, monk. 23. Richard Coeur-de-Lion. A series of men and women, all more or less closely connected with the House of Hapsburg, selected for the alleged holiness of their lives or deeds under one aspect or another. It needs no laboured argument to show the appropriateness of thus representing to the life the solidarity of piety and worth in the great hero's earthly family, though a few words may not be out of place to distinguish the characters allied only or chiefly by the ties of the great family of chivalry. These are--1. King Arthur (No. 8), representative of the mythology of the Round Table. 2. Roland (No. 13 in the series of the saints), representing the myths of the Twelve Peers of France. 3. Theodobert (No. 7), who received a hero's death in the plain of Chalons at the hand of Attila, to be immortalized in the Western Nibelungen Myths. 4. Theodoric (No. 5), celebrated as 'Dietrich von Bern' in the Eastern. 5. Godfrey de Bouillon (No. 22), representing the legendary glory of the Crusades. [147] The two other statues, of a later date--St. Francis and St. Clare--are by Moll, a native of Innsbruck, who became a sculptor of some note at Vienna. The picture of St. Anthony over the altar of the Confraternity of St. Anthony, on the Epistle side of this church, has a great reputation among the people, because it remained uninjured in a fire which in 1661 burnt down the church of Zirl, where it was originally placed. [148] Five years later it was brought hither for greater honour, and was let into a larger painting by Jele of Vienna, representing a multitude of sick and suffering brought by their friends to pray for healing before it. There is not much else in this church that is noteworthy (besides 'the Silver Chapel,' which belongs to the notice of Ferdinand II.). What there is may be mentioned in a few lines, namely--the Fürstenchor, or tribune for the royal family, high up on the right side of the chancel, with the adjoining little chapel and its paintings, and cedar-wood organ, the gift of Julius II. to Ferdinand I.; the quaint old clock; and the memory that Queen Christina of Sweden made her abjuration here 28th October 1655. Her conduct on the occasion was, according to local tradition, most edifying. She was dressed plainly in black silk, with no other ornament than a large cross on her breast, with five sparkling diamonds to recall the glorious Wounds of the Redeemer. The emphasis with which she repeated the Latin profession of faith after the Papal nuncio did not pass unnoticed. The Ambrosian Hymn was sung at the close of the ceremony, and the church bells and town cannon spoke the congratulations of the Innsbruckers on this and the subsequent days of her stay among them. Among other tokens of gladness, several mystery plays (which are still greatly in vogue in Tirol) were represented. Another public ceremony of her stay was the translation of Kranach's Madonna, the favourite picture of Tirol, brought to it by Leopold V. The original altar-piece of the Hofkirche, by Paul Troger--the Invention of the Cross--was removed by Maria Theresa to Vienna, because the figure of the Empress Helena was counted a striking likeness of herself. The introduction of the Jesuits into Tirol, and the subsequent building of the Jesuitenkirche in Innsbruck, and the labours of B. Peter Canisius among the people, was also the work of Ferdinand I. The peaceful prosperity which his wise government procured for the country, while wars and religious divisions were distracting the rest of Europe, gave opportunity for the development of its literature and art-culture. [149] One melancholy event of his reign was the outbreak in its last year, of a terrible epidemic, which committed appalling ravages. All who could, including the royal family, escaped to a distance; and those who had been stricken with it were removed to the Siechenhaus, and isolated from the rest of the population. As has frequently happened on similar occasions, the dread of the malady operated to deprive the sick of the help of which they stood in need. It was when the plague raged highest, and the majority were most absorbed with the thought of securing their own safety, that a poor woman of the people, named Magaretha Hueber, rising superior to the vulgar terror, took upon herself cheerfully the management of the desolate Siechenhaus. The example of her courage was all that was needed to bring out the Christian confidence and charity of the masses; and to her devotion was owing not only the relief of the plague-stricken, but the moral effect of her spirit and energy was also not without its fruit in staying the havoc of the contagion; and she is still remembered by the name of die fromme Siechen. Shortly before his death (which happened in 1564), Ferdinand had his second son, Ferdinand II., publicly acknowledged in the Landtag of Innsbruck, Landesfürst of Tirol. His own affection for the country had prevented him from suffering its interests to be ever neglected by the pressure of his vast rule; and now when his great age warned him that he would be able to watch over it no longer, he determined to give it once more the benefit of an independent government. Ferdinand II. seems to have had all the excellent administrative qualities of his father in the degree necessary for his restricted sphere of dominion. His disposition for the culture of peaceful arts was promoted by the happiness of his family life. The story of his early love, and his marriage in accordance with the dictates of his heart, in an age when matrimonial alliances were too often dictated by political considerations alone, have made one of the romances dearest to the popular mind. The natural retribution of a disturbance of the regular succession to the throne followed, but with Tirol's usual good fortune the consequences did not prove disastrous, as we shall see later on. Situated at the distance of a pleasant hour's walk from Innsbruck, and forming an exceedingly picturesque object in the views from it, is Schloss Ambras, in ancient times one of the chief bulwarks of the Innthal. Ferdinand I. bought it of the noble family of Schurfen at the time when he nominated his son to the government of the country, and it always remained Ferdinand II.'s favourite residence. Hither he brought home the beautiful Philippine Welser, whose grace and modesty had won his heart at first sight, as she leant forward from her turret window to cast her flowery greeting at the feet of the Emperor Charles Quint when he came into Augsburg, and the young and handsome prince rode by his side. Philippine had been betrothed by her father to the heir of the Fugger family, the richest and most powerful of Augsburg; but her eyes had met Ferdinand's, and that one glance had revealed to both that their happiness lay in union with each other. Fortunately for Philippine she possessed in her mother a devoted confidant and ally. True, Ferdinand could not rest till he had obtained a stolen interview with her; but the true German woman had confidence in the honour and virtue of the reigning House, and the words Philippine, who was truth itself, reported were those of true love, which knows no shame. Nevertheless, the Fugger was urgent, and old Welser--a sturdy upholder of his family tradition for upright dealing--never, they knew, could be brought to be wanting to his word. The warm love of youth, however, is ever a match for the steady calculation of age. While the fathers Welser and Fugger were counting their money-bags, Ferdinand had devised a plan which easily received the assent of Philippine's affection for him, the rather that her mother, for whom a daughter's happiness stood dearer than any other consideration, gave it her countenance and aid. At an hour agreed, Ferdinand appeared beneath the turret where their happiness was first revealed to them; at a little distance his horses were in waiting. Not an instant had he to wait; Philippine, already fortified by her mother's farewell benediction, joined him ere a pang of misgiving had time to enter his mind, an old and trusted family servant accompanying her. Safely the fugitives reached the chapel, where a friendly priest--Ferdinand's confessor, Johann Cavallerüs--waited to bless the nuptials of the devoted pair, the old servant acting as witness. Old Franz Welser was subsequently induced to give his approval and paternal benediction; and if his burgher pride was wounded by his daughter marrying into a family which might look down upon her connexions, he had the consoling reflection that he was able to give her a dowry which many princes might envy; and also in the discovery of a friendly antiquary, that even his lineage, if not royal, was not either to be despised, for it could be traced up to the same stock which gave Belisarius to the Empire! Ferdinand's marriage was, I believe, never known to his father; though there are stories of his being won over to forgive it by Philippine's gentle beauty and worth, but these are probably referable to the succeeding Emperor. However this may be, the devoted pair certainly lived for some time in blissful retirement at Ambras; and after his brother, Maximilian II., had acknowledged the legality of Ferdinand's marriage--on the condition that the offspring of it should never claim the rank of Archdukes of Austria--Ambras, which had been their first retreat, was so endeared to them, that they always loved to live there better than anywhere else. There were born to them two sons--Karl, who afterwards became a Cardinal and Bishop of Brixen; and Andreas, Markgrave of Burgau, to whom Ferdinand willed Ambras, on condition that he should maintain its regal beauties, and preserve undiminished the rich stores of books and rare manuscripts, coins, armour, objects of vertù, and curiosities of every sort which it had been the delight of his and Philippine's leisure hours to collect. This testamentary disposition the son judged would be best carried out by selling the place to the Emperor Rudolf II. in 1606; and Ambras has accordingly ever since been reckoned a pleasure-seat of the imperial family. The unfortunate love of centralization, more than the fear of foreign invasion, which was the ostensible pretext, deprived Tirol of these treasures. They were removed to Vienna in 1806, where they may be visited in the Belvedere Palace, the promise of restoring them, often made, not having yet been fulfilled. Among the remnants that are left, are still some tokens of Ferdinand's taste and genius, and some touching memorials of thirty years of happiness purer and truer than had often before been combined with the enjoyment of power. There are some pieces of embroidery, with which Philippine occupied her lonely hours while Ferdinand's public duties obliged him to be away from her, among them a well-executed Crucifixion; and some natural curiosities in the shape of gnarled and twisted roots, needing little effort of the imagination to convert into naturally--perhaps supernaturally--formed crucifixes, and which they had doubtless found pleasure in unearthing in the woods round Ambras. At the time of my visit the private chapel was being very well restored, and some frescoes very fairly executed by Wienhold, a local artist who has studied in Rome. There is still a small collection of armour, and a suit of clothes worn by a giant in the suite of Charles Quint, which would appear to have belonged to a man near eight feet high; also some portraits of the Hapsburg family and other rulers of Tirol; among them Margareta Maultasch, which, if it be faithful, disproves the story deriving her name from the size of her mouth; but of this I shall have occasion to speak later. Inglis mentions that among the relics is a piece of the tree on which Judas hanged himself, but it was not shown to me. The people, whose own experience fixes the law of suffering in their minds, will have it that these years of tranquil joy were not unalloyed; but that Philippine's mother-in-law embittered them by her jealous bickerings and reproaches, and that these in the end led her to make a sacrifice of her life to the exigencies of her husband's glory. The bath is yet pointed out at Ambras where she is said to have bled herself to death to make way for a consort more conformable to her husband's birth. All, even local, historians, however, are agreed in rejecting this tradition. [150] It has served nevertheless to endear her to the popular mind, for whom she is still a model of domestic virtues no less than a type of beauty. Scarcely is there a house in Tirol that is not adorned by her image. Among other traditions of her personal perfections, it is fabled that her skin was so delicate that the colour of the red wine could be seen softly opalized as it passed her slender throat. [151] CHAPTER IX. NORTH TIROL--THE INNTHAL. INNSBRUCK (continued). Ora conosce come s'innamora Lo Ciel del giusto rege, et al sembiante Del suo fulgore il fa vedere ancora. Dante Paradiso, xx. 63. [152] Another local tradition of Ambras attaches to a spot where Wallenstein, while a page in the household of Ferdinand and Philippine, fell unharmed from the window of the corridor leading to the dining-hall, making in the terrible moment a secret vow to the Blessed Virgin of his conversion if he escaped with life, which hastened the work begun doubtless by Philippine's devout example and teaching. There is another, again, more marvellous still, and dated from an earlier period, and shortly before the purchase of the castle by the reigning family. It is said that Theophrastus Paracelsus, of whom many weird stories are told, was at one time sojourning at Innsbruck--where, another tradition has it, he died--and in the course of his wanderings in search of plants of strange healing powers, came to this outlying and then neglected castle. A peasant woman seeing him pass her cottage weary and footsore, asked him to come in and rest and taste her freshly-baked cakes, of which the homely odour scented the air. The man of strange science thanked her for her hospitality, and in return touched the tongs upon the hearth with his wonder-working book, and behold the iron was turned into pure gold. The origin of such a legend as this is easy to trace; the book of the touch of which such virtue is fabled, plainly represents the learning of the studious savant, which brought him, as well as fame, pecuniary advantage, enabling him to astonish the peasants with payment in the precious metal not often seen by them. But there are many others told of him, the details of which are more complicated, and wander much further from the outline of fact. The way in which he became possessed of his wonder-working power is thus accounted for. [153] One Sunday morning, when he was after his custom wandering in search of plants in a forest on the heights not far from Innsbruck, he heard a voice calling him out of a tree. 'Who are you?' cried Paracelsus. 'I am he whom men call the Evil One,' answered the voice; 'but how wrong they are you shall judge; if you but release me out of this tree you shall see I am not evil at all.' 'How am I to set about it?' asked the clever Doctor. 'Only look straight up the stem of the pine opposite you, and you will see a bung with three crosses on it; all you have to do is to pull it out, and I am free; if you do this I will show you how good I am by giving you the two things you most desire, an elixir which shall turn all to gold, and another which shall heal every malady.' Paracelsus, lured by the tempting promise, pulled out the bung, and straightway an ugly black spider crawled out of the hole, and quickly transformed itself into an old man wrapped in a scarlet mantle. The demon kept his word, and gave the Doctor the promised phials, but immediately began threatening the frightful vengeance he would wreak on the exorcist who had confined him in the tree. Paracelsus now blamed himself for his too ready confidence in the character the demon had given himself for goodness, and bethought him of a means of playing on the imp's vanity. 'What a knowing man that same exorcist must be,' said Paracelsus, 'to turn a tall powerful fellow like you into a spider, and then drive you into a tree.' 'Not a bit of it,' replied the imp, piqued, 'he couldn't have done anything of the sort, it was all my own doing.' 'Your own doing!' exclaimed Paracelsus, with a mocking laugh. 'Is that likely? I have heard of people being transformed by some one of greater power than themselves, never by their own.' 'You shall see, though,' said the provoked imp; and with that he quickly resumed the form of a spider, and crawled back into the hole. [154] Paracelsus, it may well be imagined, lost no time in replacing the bung, on which he cut three fresh crosses to renew the spell; and never can he again be released, for it was agreed never to cut down this forest on account of the protection it afforded to the country against the avalanches. But, it may be asked, the wonder-working phials once vouchsafed to men, would surely be taken good care of. There is a legend to provide for that too. [155] When the other doctors of Innsbruck found that Paracelsus so far exceeded them in skill, they determined to poison him. Paracelsus had knowledge of their plot by his arts, he knew too that there was only one remedy against the poison they had adopted, and he shut himself up, telling his servant not to disturb him for five days. At the end of the fourth day, however, the curious servant came into his room and broke the spell. Paracelsus had employed a wonder-working spider to draw out the poison, which it would have done in the course of five days. Disturbed on the fourth, Paracelsus knew he must die. Determined that the jealous members of his profession should not profit by their crime, he sent his servant with the two phials and bid him stand in the middle of the Inn-bridge and throw them into the river. Where they fell into the river the water was streaked with molten gold. It remains to call attention to the splendid and truly Tirolean panoramic view from the pretty terrace of Ambras, with its luxuriant trellis of passion-flower and 'virgin vine.' Overhanging the village of Ambras is the so-called Tummelplatz, where in the lifetime of Ferdinand and Philippine, many a gay tournament was held, but since used as a burying-place; first for the military hospital, to which the castle was at one time devoted--and some seven or eight thousand patriots were interred here between 1796 and 1810--and afterwards for those who fell successfully resisting the Italian invasion of 1859. Whatever was the manner of Philippine's death, it was bitterly lamented by Ferdinand, who found the usual refuge of human grief in raising a splendid monument to her memory, in the so-called Silberne Kapelle in the Hofkirche. The chapel had been built by him to satisfy her devotion to the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception; and in her lifetime was so called from the solid silver image of the Blessed Virgin, and the bas-reliefs of the mysteries of the rosary in the same metal over the altar, itself a valuable ebony carving. She had loved to pray there, and it accordingly formed a fitting resting-place for her mortal remains. Her effigy in marble over her altar-shaped tomb is a figure of exceeding beauty, and is ascribed to Alexander Collin; it stands under a marble canopy. The upright slab is of white marble, carved in three compartments; the centre one bearing a modest inscription, and the other two, subjects recording her charity to the living and the dead; the outline of the town of Innsbruck, as it appeared in her day, forms the background. By his desire Ferdinand was buried near her; his monument is similarly sunk in the thickness of the wall, which is adorned with shields carved in relief, bearing the arms of his house painted with their respective tinctures; and on the tomb are marble reliefs, setting forth (after the manner of those on Maximilian's cenotaph) the public acts of his life. This chapel came to be used afterwards for Italian sermons by the consorts of subsequent rulers of Tirol, many of whom were Italians. In 1572 Innsbruck was visited by a severe shock of earthquake, which overthrew many buildings, and so filled the people with alarm, that temporary wooden huts were built in the open field where they took refuge. Ferdinand and Philippine had recourse to the same means of safety; and while living thus, their only daughter, Anna Eleonora, was born. In thanksgiving for this favour, and for the cessation of the panic, the royal pair vowed a pilgrimage to Seefeld, [156] which they accomplished on foot, accompanied by their sons; above two thousand Innsbruckers following them. The general sentiment of gratitude was further testified by the enactment on the part of Ferdinand, and the glad acceptance on the part of the people, of various rules of devotion, which have gone to form the subsequent habits of the people. Three years of dearth succeeded the earthquake, and were accepted by the pious ruler and people as a heavenly warning to lead them to increased faith and devotion. Many Lutheran books which had escaped earlier measures against them were spontaneously brought forward and burnt; special devotion to the Blessed Sacrament was promoted, Ferdinand himself setting the example; for whenever he met the Viaticum on the way to the sick, whether he was in a carriage or on horseback, he never failed to alight and kneel upon the ground, whatever might be its condition. This was indeed a special tradition of his house; it is told of Rudolf of Hapsburg, that one day as he was out hunting, a furious storm came on, soon swelling the mountain torrents and sweeping away paths and bridges. On the brink of a raging stream, which there was no means of crossing, stood a priest, weather-bound on his way to carry the last sacrament to a dying parishioner. Rudolf recognised the sound of the bell, and directed his steps by its leading to pay his homage to the 'hochwürdigste Gut.' He no sooner learned the priest's difficulty than he dismounted, and offered him his own horse. When the priest brought the animal back next day, the pious prince told him he could not think of himself again crossing a horse which had been honoured by having borne his Lord and Redeemer, and begged him to keep it for the future service of religion. While Philippine's relations never sought to overstep the limits which imperial etiquette had set them, Ferdinand seems to have treated them with kind cordiality. An instance of this was the magnificence with which he celebrated the marriage of her nephew, Johann von Kolourat, with her maid-of-honour, Katarina von Boimont, in 1580: the 'Neustadt' or principal street afforded space for tournaments and races which lasted many days, and attracted the remaining votaries of chivalry from all parts of Europe. The festivities were closed by a splendid pageant, in which Ferdinand took part as 'Olympian Jove.' In 1582 Ferdinand married Anna Katharina Gonzaga, daughter of the Duke of Mantua, who was no less pious than Philippine. The marriage was celebrated at Innsbruck with great pomp. She was the first to introduce the Capuchin Order into Germany. Some discussion in the general chapter of the Order preceded the decision which allowed the monks to accept the consequences of being exposed to a colder climate than that to which they had been used. The first stone of their monastery was laid by Ferdinand and Anna Katharina in August 1593, at the intersection of the Universitäts-gasse and the Sill-gasse. Ferdinand died the following year, regretted by all the people, but by none more than by Anna Katharina, who passed the remainder of her days in a convent she had founded at Innsbruck. She died in 1621, and desired the following inscription to be put on her tomb:--'Miserere mei Domine dum veneris in novissimo die.' The warning of the disastrous years 1572-4 was further turned to practical account by Ferdinand in his desire to relieve the distress of the peasants. In the first months of threatening famine he bought with his own means large stores of grain in Hungary and Italy, and opened depôts in various parts of Tirol, where it was sold at a reasonable price. To provide a means of earning money for those who were shut out of their ordinary labour, he laid out or improved some of the most important high roads; he likewise exerted himself in every way to promote the commerce of the country. His reign conferred many other benefits on the people. Many laws were amended and brought in conformity with the altered circumstances of the age; the principle of self-taxation was established, and other measures enacted which it does not belong to my present province to particularise. He introduced also the use of the Gregorian Calendar, and gave great encouragement to the cultivation of letters. It was by his care that the most authentic MSS. of the Nibelungen poems and other examples of early literature were preserved to us. As Ferdinand had no children by Anna Katharina, and those of Philippine were not allowed to succeed, [157] the rule over Tirol went back at his death to the Emperor Rudolf II., Maximilian's eldest son. In 1602, however, he gave over the government to his brother Maximilian, who is distinguished by the name of the Deutschmeister. Tirol was again fortunate in her ruler; Maximilian was as pious and prudent a prince as his predecessors. He promoted the educational establishments of the town, and was a zealous opponent of religious differences; he brought in the Order of Servites to oppose the remaining germs of Lutheran teaching; the church and monastery at the end of the Neustadt being built for them by Katharina Maria. There are some pictures in the church by Theophilus Polak, Martin Knoller, Grasmair, and other native artists; and the frescoes on the roof by Schöpf are worth attention. A fanatic named Paul Lederer, one of the very few Tirol has produced, rose in this reign, and carried away about thirty persons to join a kind of sect which he attempted to form; in accordance with the laws of the age, he was tried and executed, after which his followers were no more heard of. Maximilian was much attached to the Capuchins, and built himself a little hermitage within their precincts, which is still shown, where he spent all the time he could spare in prayer and meditation; following the rule of the monks, rising with them to their night Offices, and employing himself at manual labour in the field and in the workshop like one of them. His cell is paneled with plain wood, the bed and chair are of the most ordinary make, as are the ink-stand and other necessary articles, mostly his own handiwork; it has a window high up in the chancel, whence he could assist at the Offices in the church. The Empress Maria Theresa visited it in 1765, and seating herself in the stiff wooden chair, exclaimed, 'What men our forefathers were!' Another illustrious pilgrim, whose visit is treasured in the memories of the house, was St. Lorenzo of Brindisi, when on his way to found a house of the Order in Austria. The monks begged of him his Hebrew Bible, his walking-stick, and breviary, which are still treasured as relics. All the churches of Innsbruck and many throughout Tirol felt the benefit of Maximilian's devotion to the Church. His spirit was emulated by the townspeople, and when the fatal epidemic of 1611 ceased its ravages, the burghers of Innsbruck built the Dreiheiligkeitskirche [158] for the Jesuits, as a thank-offering that the plague was stayed. The temporal affairs of Tirol received no less attention from Archduke Maximilian than the spiritual. With the foresight of a true statesman, he discovered the coming troubles of the Thirty Years' War, and resolved that the defences of his country should be in a state to keep the danger at a distance from her borders. The fortified towers, especially those commanding the passes into the country, were all overlooked, and plans of them carefully prepared, all the fortifications being put in repair. The Landwehr, the living bulwarks, the ready defenders of their beloved mountain Vaterland, attracted his still more special attention, and he furnished them with a regulation suited to the needs of the times. He settled also several outstanding disputes with the Venetians, with Count Arco, and with neighbours over the north and west frontiers; and an internal boundary quarrel between the Bishops of Brixen and Trent. The death of Rudolf II., in 1612, had invested him with supreme authority over the country, and simplified his action in all these matters for the benefit of the commonwealth. Another outburst of pestilence occurred in 1611; the old Siechen-haus was not big enough for all the sick, and had no church attached to it. Two Jesuits--the professor of theology at their university, and Kaspar von Köstlan, a native of Brixen--assisted by a lay-brother, devoted themselves to the service of the sick; their example so edified the Innsbruckers, that in their admiration they readily provided the means, at their exhortation, to build a church. Hanns Zimmermann, Dean of the Burgomasters, bound himself by a vow to see to the erection of the building, and from that time it was observed the fury of the pestilence began to diminish. Maximilian bought the neighbouring house and appointed it for the residence of the chaplain of the Siechen-haus and the doctors. He gave also the altarpiece by Stötzl, representing the three Pestschutzheiligen, [159] and another quaint and curious picture of the plague-genius. Maximilian died in 1618, and a religious vow having kept him unmarried, the government was transferred to Leopold V., Archduke of Styria, again a most exemplary man. His father was Charles II., son of the Emperor Ferdinand I.; he had originally been devoted to the ecclesiastical state, and nominated Bishop of Strasburg and Passau; but out of regard for the exigencies of the country a dispensation, of which I think history affords only two or three other examples, was granted him from Rome. He married the celebrated Claudia de' Medici, Duchess of Urbino. Though also Governor of the Low Countries, he by no means neglected the affairs of Tirol. Some fresh attempts of Lutherans to interfere with its religious unity, as well as to foment political dissensions, were put down with a resolute hand. Friedrich von Tiefenbach, sometime notorious as a politico-religious leader in Moravia, was discovered in a hiding-place he had selected, in the wild caves at Pfäffers [160] below Chur, and tried and beheaded at Innsbruck in 1621. The selection of Innsbruck for the marriage of the Emperor Ferdinand II. with his second wife Eleonora, daughter of the Duke of Mantua, in 1622, revived the splendours of Maximilian's reign, for the Emperor stayed there some weeks with all his court; the Landwehr turned out three thousand strong to form his guard of honour. It was the depth of winter, but the bride braved the snow; the Count of Harrach was sent out to meet her on the Brenner Pass with six gilt sledges, and a vast concourse of people. It is recorded that the Emperor wore on the occasion an entirely white suit embroidered with gold and pearls, on his shoulders a short sky-blue cloak lined with cloth of gold, and a diamond chain round his neck. Eleonora, more in accordance with the season, wore a tight-fitting dress of carnation satin embroidered in gold, over it a sable jacket, and a hat with a plume of eagles' feathers. The banquet was entirely served by young Tirolean nobles. The Emperor's present to his bride was a pearl parure, costing thirty thousand ducats; and that of the town of Innsbruck a purse of eighteen thousand ducats. Leopold was confirmed by his imperial brother in the government on this occasion. His own marriage was celebrated with scarcely less state than the Emperor's in April 1626, an array of handsome tents being pitched in the meadows of Wilten, where the Landesschützen performed many marksmen's feats for the diversion of the company assembled for the ceremonial. This included the Archbishop of Salzburg, who officiated in the Church function, one hundred and fifty counts and barons, and three hundred of noble blood. The visit of the Grand Duke of Tuscany in 1628, and of Ferdinand, King of Hungary and Bohemia, in 1629, were other notable occasions of rejoicing for Innsbruck. Leopold benefited and adorned the town by the enclosure and planting of the Hofgarten, and the bronze equestrian statue of himself, still one of its chief ornaments; but his memory has been more deeply endeared to the people by the present of Kranach's Madonna, which they have copied in almost every church, household, and highway of the country. It is a little picture on panel, very like many of its date, in which the tenderness of devotion beams through and redeems all the stiffness of mannerism; but which we are apt to pass, I had almost said by the dozen, in the various galleries of Europe, with no more than a casual glance. With the Tirolese it was otherwise. Their faith-inspired eyes saw in it a whole revelation of Divine mercy and love; they gazed on the outpouring of maternal fondness and filial confidence in the unutterable communion of the Mother and the Son there portrayed; and deeming that where so much love reigned no petition could be rejected, they believed that answers to the frequent prayers of faith sent up before it were reaped an hundredfold, [161] and the fame of the benefits so derived was symbolized in the title universally given to the picture, of Mariähülfsbild. [162] Leopold being in the early part of his reign on a visit to the Elector of Saxony, on occasion of one of his journeys between Tirol and the Low Countries, and being lost in admiration of his collection of pictures at Dresden, received from him the offer of any painting he liked to select. There were many choice specimens, but the devotional conception of this picture carried him away from all the rest, and it became the object of his selection. He never parted from it afterwards, and it accompanied him in all his journeyings. When in Innsbruck, it formed the altar-piece of the Hofkapelle, whither the people crowded to kindle their devotion at its focus. After the withdrawal of the allied French, Swedish, and Hessian troops in 1647, the Innsbruckers, in thanksgiving for the success of their prayers before it, built the elegant little circular temple [163] on the left bank of the Inn, still called the Mariähülfskirche, thinking to enshrine it there; but Ferdinand Karl, who had then succeeded to his father Leopold, could not bear to part with it, and gave them a copy instead, by Paul Schor, inserted in a larger picture representing it borne by angels, and the notabilities of Innsbruck kneeling beneath it, the Mariähülfskirche being introduced into the background landscape. However, the number of people who pressed to approach it was so great that he was in a manner constrained to bestow it on the Pfarrkirche only two or three years later, where it now remains; it was translated thither during Queen Christina's visit, as I have mentioned above. It was borne on a car by six white horses, the crowded streets being strewn with flowers. It is a small picture, and has been let into a large canvas painted in Schöpf's best manner, with angels which appear to support it, and beneath St. James, patron of the church, and St. Alexius. A centenary festival was observed in memory of the translation by Maria Theresa in 1750, when all the precious ex votos, the thank-offerings for many granted prayers, were exposed to view under the light streaming from a hundred silver candelabra, the air around being perfumed by the flowers of a hundred silver vases. The procession was a splendid pageant, in which no expense seems to have been spared, the great Empress herself, accompanied by her son, afterwards Joseph II., heading it. This was repeated--in a manner corresponding with the diminished magnificence of the age--in 1850, the Emperor Ferdinand I., the Empress Anna, and other members of the Imperial family, taking their part in it. [164] The only remaining act of Leopold's reign which calls for mention in connexion with Innsbruck, was the erection of the monument to Maximilian the Deutschmeister, in the Pfarrkirche, almost the only one that was spared when the church was rebuilt after the earthquakes of 1667 and 1689, the others having been ruthlessly used--the headstones in building up the walls, the bronze ones in the bell-castings. Leopold's son, Ferdinand Karl, being under age at the time of his death, in 1632, he was succeeded by his widow, Claudia de' Medici, as regent. The troubles of the Thirty Years' War, in which Leopold like other German princes had had his chequered share, were yet raging. Claudia was equal to the exigencies of her time and country. She continued the measures of Maximilian the Deutschmeister for perfecting the defences of the country, and particularly all its inlets; and she encouraged the patriotic instincts of the people by constantly presiding at their shooting-practice. The Swedish forces, after taking Constance, advanced as far as the Valtelin, and Tirol was threatened with invasion on both sides at once. By her skilful measures, at every rumour of an inroad, the mountains bristled with the unerring marksmen of Tirol, securely stationed at their posts inaccessible to lowlanders. Nothing was spared to keep up the vigilance and spirit of the true-hearted peasants. By this constant watchfulness she saved the country from the horrors of war, in which almost the whole of the German Empire was at that time involved. During all this time she was also developing the internal resources, and consolidating the administration of the country. Two misfortunes, however, visited Innsbruck during her reign: a terrible pestilence, and a destructive fire in which the Burg suffered severely, the beautiful chapel of Ferdinand II. being consumed, and the body of Leopold, her husband, which was lying there at the time, rescued with difficulty. After this, Claudia spent some little time at Botzen, and also visited Florence. It may be questioned whether the introduction of the numerous Italians about her court was altogether for the benefit of Tirol. They brought with them certain ways and principles which were not altogether in accordance with the German character; and we have seen the effect of the jealousies of race in the tragic fate of her chancellor Biener. [165] Ferdinand Karl having attained his majority in 1646, Claudia withdrew from public affairs, and died only two years later. In his reign the introduction of the Italian element at court was apparent in the greater luxury of its arrangements, and in the greater cultivation of histrionic and musical diversions. The establishment of the theatre in Innsbruck is due to him. The marriage of his two sisters, Maria Leopoldina and Isabella Clara, and the frequent interchange of visits between him and the princes of Italy, further enlivened Innsbruck. The visit of Queen Christina, [166] of which I have already said enough for my limits, also took place in his reign (1655). Nor did Ferdinand Karl give himself up to amusement to the neglect of business, or of more manly pleasures. He maintained all his mother's measures for the encouragement of the Scheibenschiessen, and had the satisfaction of seeing the departure of the enemy's army from his borders, which was celebrated by the building of Mariähülfskirche. [167] To his love of the national sport of chamois-hunting his death has to be ascribed; for the neglect of an attack of illness while out on a mountain expedition near Kaltern after the wild game, gave it a hold on his constitution, which placed him beyond recovery. His death occurred in 1660, at the early age of thirty-four; he left no heir. He was succeeded by his only brother, Sigmund Franz, Bishop of Gurk, Augsburg, and Trent, who seems to have inherited all his mother's finer qualities without sharing her Italianizing tendencies. With a perhaps too sudden sternness, he purged the court and government of all foreign admixture, and reduced the sumptuous suite of his brother to dimensions dictated by usefulness alone. However popular this may have made him with the German population, the ousted Italians were furious; and his sudden death--which occurred while, after the pattern of his father, applying for a dispensation to marry, in 1665--was by the Germans ascribed to secret poisoning; his Tuscan physician Agricola having, it is alleged, been bribed to perpetrate the misdeed. Tirol now once more reverted to the Empire. Though Leopold I. came to Innsbruck to receive the homage of the people on his accession, and a gay ceremonial ensued, yet it lost much of its importance by having no longer a resident court. While there, however, Leopold had seen the beautiful daughter of Ferdinand Karl's widow, Claudia Felicità, who made such an impression upon him, that he married her on the death of his first wife. The ceremony was performed in Innsbruck by proxy only; but the dowager-archduchess provided great fêtes, in which the city readily concurred, and gave the bride thirty thousand gulden for her wedding present. Claudia Felicità, in her state at Vienna, did not forget the good town of Innsbruck; and by her interest with her husband, Tirol received a Statthalter in the person of Charles Duke of Lotharingia, husband of his sister Eleonora Maria, widow of the King of Poland. Charles took up his residence at Innsbruck; and though he was often absent with the army, the presence of his family revived the gaiety of the town; still it was not like the old days of the court. Charles, however, who had been originally educated for the ecclesiastical state, was a sovereign of unexceptionable principles and sound judgment; and he did many things for the benefit of Tirol, particularly in developing its educational establishments. He raised the Jesuit gymnasium of Innsbruck to the character of a university; and the privileges with which he endowed it, added to the salubrity of the situation, attracted alumni from far and near, who amounted to near a thousand in number. Nothing of note occurred in Tirol till 1703--the Duke of Lotharingia had died in 1696--which is a memorable year. The war of the Spanish Succession, at that time, found Maximilian, Elector of Bavaria, and some of the Italian princes, allied with France against Austria--thus there were antagonists of Austria on both sides of Tirol; nevertheless, no attack on it seems to have been apprehended; and thus, when a plan was concerted for entering Austria by Carinthia (the actual boundaries against Bavaria being too well defended to invite an entrance that way), and it was arranged that the Bavarian and Italian allies should assist the French in overrunning Tirol, everyone was taken by surprise. Maximilian easily overcame the small frontier garrison. At Kufstein he met a momentary check, but an accident put the fortress in his power. Possessed of this base of operations, he was not long in reducing the forts of Rottenburg Scharnitz, and Ehrenberg, and possessing himself of Hall and Innsbruck. He now reckoned the country his, and that it only remained to send news of his success to Vendôme, who had taken Wälsch-Tirol similarly by surprise and advanced as far as Trent, in order to carry out their concerted inroad through the Pusterthal. So sure of his victory was he, that he ordered the Te Deum to be sung in all the churches of Innsbruck. In the meantime the Tirolese had recovered from their surprise, and had taken measures for disconcerting and routing the invaders; the storm-bells and the Kreidenfeuer [168] rallied every man capable of bearing arms, to the defence of his country. The main road over the Brenner was quickly invested by the native sharp-shooters; there was no chance of passing that way. Maximilian thought to elude the vigilance of the people by sending his men round by Oberinnthal and the Finstermünz. The party trusted with this mission were commanded by a Bavarian and a French officer. They reached Landeck in safety, but all around them the sturdy Tirolese were determining their destruction. Martin Sterzinger, Pfleger or Judge, of Landeck, summoned the Landsturm of the neighbouring districts, and arranged the plan of operation. The enemy were suffered to advance on their way unhindered along the steep path, where the rocky sides of the Inn close in and form the terrible gorge which is traversed by the Pontlatzerbrücke; but when they arrived, no bridge was there! The mountaineers had been out in the night and cut it down. Beyond this point the steep side afforded no footing on the right bank, no means remained of crossing over to the left! The remnants of the bridge betrayed what had befallen, and quickly the command was given to turn back; in the panic of the moment many lost their footing, and rolled into the rapid river beneath. For those even who retained their composure no return was possible; the heights above were peopled with the ready Tirolese, burning to defend their country. Down came their shots like hail, each ball piercing its man; those who had no arms dashed down stones upon the foe. Only a handful escaped, but at Landeck these were taken prisoners; and there was not one even to carry the news to Maximilian. This famous success is still celebrated every year on the 1st of July by a solemn procession. Maximilian and Vendôme remained perplexed at hearing nothing from each other, and without means of communication; in vain they sent out scouts; money could not buy information from the patriotic Tirolese. Meantime, danger was thickening round each; the Landsturm was out, and every height was beset with agile climbers, armed with their unerring carbines, and with masses of rock to hurl down on the enemy who ventured along the road beneath them. The Bavarian and French leaders in the north and in the south only perceived how critical was their situation just in time to escape from it, and the waste and havoc they had made during their brief incursion was recompensed by the numbers lost in their retreat. The Bavarians held Kufstein for some time longer, but their precipitate withdrawal from all the rest of the country earned for the campaign, in the mouths of the Tirolese, the nickname of the Baierische-Rumpel. While brave arms had been defending the mountain passes, brave hearts of those whose arms were nerved only for being lifted up in prayer, not for war, were day by day earnestly interceding in the churches for the deliverance of their husbands, fathers, and brothers; and when, on the 26th of July, the land was found free of the foe, it was gratefully remembered that it was S. Anne's Day, and the so-called Annensäule, which adorns the Neustadt--the principal thoroughfare of Innsbruck--was erected in commemoration. It is composed of the marbles of the country; the lower part red, the column white, the effigy of the Immaculate Conception, which surmounts it and the surrounding rays, in gilt bronze. Round the base stand St. Vigilius and St. Cassian (two apostles of Tirol), and St. Anne and St. George; about them float angels, in the breezy style of the period. The monument was solemnly inaugurated on S. Anne's Day, 1706; and every year on that day a procession winds round it from the parish church, singing hymns of thanksgiving; and an altar, gaily dressed with fresh flowers, stands before it for eight days under the open sky. Leopold I. died in 1705, and was succeeded by his son, Joseph I., who reigned only six years. Charles VI., Leopold's younger son, followed, who appointed Karl Philipp, Palsgrave of Neuburg, Governor of Tirol. He was another pious ruler, and much beloved by the people; his memory being the more endeared to them, that he was their last independent prince. His reign benefited Innsbruck by the erection of the handsome Landhaus and the Gymnasium, and also by the extensive restoration of the Pfarrkirche. This occupied the site of the little chapel, the accorded privilege to which of hearing in it masses of obligation forms the earliest record of Innsbruck's history. It had grown with the growth of the town, and had been added to by various sovereigns, and we have seen it gifted with Kranach's Mariähilf. The earthquakes of 1667 and 1689 had left it so dilapidated, however, that Karl Philipp resolved to rebuild it on a much larger plan. He laid the first stone on May 12, 1717, in presence of his brother, the Bishop of Augsburg, and it was consecrated in 1724. It has the costliness and the vices of its date; its overloaded stucco ornaments are redeemed by the lavish use of the beautiful marbles of the country; the quarrying and fashioning these marbles occupied a hundred workmen, without counting labourers and apprentices, for the whole time during which the church was building. The frescoes setting forth the wonder-working patronage of St. James, on the roof and cupola, are by Kosmas Damian Asam, whose pencil, and that of his two sons, Kosmas and Egid, were entirely devoted to the decoration of churches and religious houses. There is a tradition, that as the fervent painter was putting the finishing touches to the figure of the saint, as he appears, mounted on his spirited charger as the patron of Compostella, in the cupola, he stepped back to see the effect of his work. Forgetting in his zeal the narrowness of the platform on which he stood, he would inevitably have been precipitated on to the pavement below, but that the strong arm of the saint he had been painting so lovingly, detached itself from the wall, and saved his client from the terrible fate! [169] Other works of this reign were the Strafarbeitshaus, a great improvement on the former prison; and the church of St. John Nepomuk, in the Innrain, then a new and fashionable street. The canonization of the great martyr to the seal of Confession took place in 1730. Though properly a Bohemian saint, his memory is so beloved all through southern Germany, that all its divisions seem to lay a patriotic claim to him. His canonization was celebrated by a solemn function in the Pfarrkirche, lasting eight days; and the people were so stirred up to fervour by its observance, that they subscribed for the building of a church in his honour, the governor taking the lead in promoting it. Maria Theresa succeeded her father, Charles VI., in 1742. She seems to have known how to attend to the affairs of every part of the Empire alike; and thus, while the whole country felt the benefit of her wise provisions, all the former splendours of the Tirolean capital revived. Maria Theresa frequently took up her residence at Innsbruck; and while benefiting trade by her expenditure, and by that of the visitors whom her court attracted, she set at the same time an edifying example of piety and a well-regulated life. Her associations with Innsbruck were nevertheless overshadowed by sad events more than once, though this does not appear to have diminished her affection for the place. When Marshal Daun took a whole division of the Prussian army captive at Maxen in 1758, the officers, nine in number, were sent to Innsbruck for safe custody. Here they remained till the close of the war, five years later. This, and the furnishing some of its famous sharpshooters to the Austrian contingent, was the only contact Tirol had with the Seven Years' War. Two years after (1765) Maria Theresa arranged that the marriage of her son (afterwards Leopold II.) with Maria Luisa, daughter of Charles III. of Spain, should take place there. The townspeople, sensible of the honour conferred on them, responded to it by adorning the city with the most festive display; not only with gay banners and hangings, but by improving the façades of their houses, and the roads and bridges, and erecting a triumphal arch of unusual solidity at the end of the Neustadt nearest Wilten, being that by which the royal pair would pass on their way from Italy; for Leopold was then Grand Duke of Tuscany. The theatre and public buildings were likewise put in order. Maria Theresa, with her husband Francis I., and all the Imperial family, arrived in Innsbruck on July 15, attracting a larger assemblage of great people than had been seen there even in its palmiest days. Banquets and gay doings filled up the interval till August 5, when Leopold and Maria Luisa made their entrance with unexampled pomp. The marriage was celebrated in the Pfarrkirche by Prince Clement of Saxony, Bishop of Ratisbon, assisted by seven other bishops. Balls, operas, banquets, illuminations, and the national Freischiessen, followed. But during all these fêtes, an unseasonable gloom, which is popularly supposed to bode evil, overclouded the August sky, usually so clear and brilliant in Innsbruck. On the 18th, a grand opera was given to conclude the festivities; on his way back from it Francis I. was seized with a fit, and died in the course of the night in the arms of his son, afterwards Joseph II. Though Maria Theresa's master mind had caused her to take the lead in all public matters, she was devotedly attached to her husband, and this sudden blow was severely felt by her. She could not bear that the room in which he expired should ever be again used for secular purposes, and had it converted into a costly chapel; at the same time she made great improvements and additions to the rest of the Burg. She always wore mourning to the end of her life, and always, when state affairs permitted, passed the eighteenth day of every month in prayer and retirement. A remarkable monument remains of both the affection and public spirit of this talented princess. Driving out to the Abbey of Wilten in one of the early days of mourning, while some of the tokens of the rejoicing, so unexpectedly turned into lamentation, were still unremoved, the sight of the handsome triumphal arch reminded her of a resolution suggested by Francis I. to replace it by one of similar design in more permanent materials. Her first impulse was to reject the thought as a too painful reminder of the past; but reflection on the promised benefit to the town prevailed over personal feelings, and she gave orders for the execution of the work; but to make it a fitting memorial of the occasion, she ordered that while the side facing the road from Italy should be a Triumphpforte, and recall by its bas-reliefs the glad occasion which caused its erection, the side facing the town should be a Trauerpforte, and set forth the melancholy conclusion of the same. The whole was executed by Tirolean artists, and of Tirolean marbles. She founded also a Damenstift, for the maintenance of twelve poor ladies of noble birth, who, without taking vows, bound themselves to wear mourning and pray for the soul of Francis I. and those of his house. Another great work of Maria Theresa was the development she gave to the University of Innsbruck. After her death, which took place in 1780, Joseph II., freed from the restraints of her influence, gave full scope to his plans for meddling with ecclesiastical affairs, for which his intercourse with Russia had perhaps given him a taste. Pius VI. did not spare himself a journey to Vienna, to exert the effect of his personal influence with the Emperor, who it would seem did not pay much heed to his advice, and so disaffected his people by his injudicious innovations, that at the time of his death the whole empire, which the skill of Maria Theresa had consolidated, was in a state of complete disorganization. [170] Though increased by his ill-gotten share of Poland, he lost the Low Countries, and Hungary was so disaffected, that had he not been removed by the hand of death (1790), it is not improbable it would have thrown off its allegiance also. Leopold II., his brother, who only reigned two years, saved the empire from dissolution by prudent concessions, by rescinding many of Joseph's hasty measures, and abandoning his policy of centralization. One religious house which Joseph II. did not suppress was the Damenstift of Innsbruck, of which his sister, the Archduchess Maria Elizabeth, undertook the government in 1781; and during the remainder of her life held a sort of court there which was greatly for the benefit of the city. Pius VI. visited her on his way back from Vienna on the evening of May 7, 1782. The whole town was illuminated, and all the religious in the town went out to meet him, followed by the whole body of the people. Late as was the hour (a quarter to ten, says a precise chronicle) he had no sooner reached the apartment prepared for him in the Burg, than he admitted whole crowds to audience, and the enthusiasm with which the religious Tirolese thronged round him surpasses words. Many, possessed with a sense of the honour of having the vicar of Christ in their very midst, remained all night in the surrounding Rennplatz, as it were on guard round his abode. In the morning, after hearing mass, he imparted the Apostolic Benediction from the balcony of the Burg, and proceeded on his way over the Brenner. Leopold II. had not been three months on the throne before he came to Innsbruck to receive the homage of his loyal Tirolese, who took this opportunity of winning from him the abrogation of many Josephinischen measures, particularly that reducing their University to a mere Lyceum. He was succeeded in 1792 by his son, Francis II.; but the mighty storm of the French Revolution was threatening, and absorbed all his attention with the preservation of his empire, and the defence of Tirol seems to have been overlooked. Year by year danger gathered round the outskirts of her mountain fastnesses. Whole hosts were engaged all around; yet there were but a handful, five thousand at most, of Austrian troops stationed within her frontier. The importance of obtaining the command of such a base of operations, which would at once have afforded a key to Italy and Austria, did not escape Bonaparte. Joubert was sent with fifteen thousand men to gain possession of the country, and advanced as far as Sterzing. Innsbruck was thrown into a complete panic, and I am sorry to have to record that the Archduchess Maria Elizabeth took her flight. The Austrian Generals, Kerpen and Laudon, did not deem it prudent, with their small contingent, to engage the French army. Nevertheless, the Tirolese, instead of being disheartened at this pusillanimity, with their wonted spirit rose as one man; a decisive battle was fought at Spinges, a hamlet near Sterzing, where a village girl fought so bravely, and urged the men on to the defence of their country so generously, that though her name is lost, her courage won her a local reputation as lasting as that of Joan of Arc or the 'Maid of Zaragoza,' under the title of Das Mädchen von Spinges. [171] Driven out hence, the French troops made the best of their way to join the main army in Carinthia. After this the enemy left Tirol at Peace for some years, with the exception of one or two border inroads, which were resolutely repulsed. One of these is so characteristic of the religious customs of Tirol, that, though not strictly belonging to the history of Innsbruck, I cannot forbear mentioning it. The French, under Massena, had in 1799 been twice repulsed from Feldkirch with great loss. Divisions which had never known a reverse were decimated and routed by the practised guns of the mountaineers. Thinking their victory assured, the peasants, after the manner of volunteer troops, had dispersed but too soon, to return to their flocks and tillage. Warily perceiving his advantage, Massena led his troops back over the border silently by night, intending in the morning to take the unsuspecting town by storm--a plan which did not seem to have a chance of failure. But it happened to be Holy Saturday. Suddenly, just as he was about to give the order for the attack, the bells of all the churches far and near, which had been so still during the preceding days, burst all together upon his ear with the jubilant Auferstehungsfeier. [172] General and troops, alike unfamiliar with religious times and seasons, took the sound for the alarm bells calling out the Landsturm. In the belief that they were betrayed, a precipitate retreat was ordered. But the night no longer covered the march; and the peasants, who were gathered in their villages for the Offices of the Church, were quickly collected for the pursuit. This abortive expedition cost the French army three thousand men. In the meantime the Archduchess had returned to Innsbruck, and all went on upon its old footing, as if there were no enemy to fear. So little was another disturbance expected, that the Archduchess devoted herself to the promotion of local improvements, including that of the Gottesacker. This is one of the favourite Sunday afternoon resorts of the Innsbruckers, and is well worthy of a visit. The site was first destined for the purpose by the Emperor Maximilian. It was gifted with all the indulgences accorded to the Campo Santo of Rome by the Pope, and in token of the same some earth from San Lorenzo fuori le mura was brought hither at the time of its consecration by the Bishop of Brixen in 1510. It has, according to the frequent German arrangement, an upper and a lower chapel; the former, dedicated to S. Anne; the latter, as usual, to S. Michael, though the people commonly call it die Veitskapelle, on account of some cures of S. Vitus' dance wrought here. The arcades which now surround the cemetery were the result of the introduction of Italian customs later in the sixteenth century. Some of the oldest and noblest names of Tirol are to be found upon the monuments here, some of which cannot fail to attract attention. The bas-reliefs sculptured by Collin for that of the Hohenhauser family, and those he prepared for his own, may be reckoned among his masterpieces. Some which are adorned with paintings would be very interesting if the weather had spared them more. The Archduchess had prepared her own resting-place here also, but was not destined to occupy it. The disastrous defeat of Austerlitz filled her with alarm, and she once more fled from Innsbruck, this time not to return. This was the year 1805, and a sad one it was for Tirol. The treaty of Pressburg had given Tirol to Bavaria, and Bavaria and Tirol had never in any age been able to understand each other. Willingly would the Tirolese have opposed their entrance; but the Bavarians, who knew every pass as well as themselves, were enabled to pour in the allied troops under Marshal Ney in such force, that they were beyond their power to resist. The fortresses near the Bavarian frontier were razed, and Innsbruck occupied. On February 11, 1806, Marshal Ney left, and the town was formally delivered over to Bavarian rule. The most unpopular changes of government were adopted, particularly in ecclesiastical matters and in forcing the peasants into the army; the University also was once more made into a Lyceum. But the Landsturm was not idle, and the Archduke Johann, Leopold's brother, came into Tirol to encourage them. Maturing their plans in secret, the patriots, under Andreas Hofer, who had been to Vienna in January to declare his plans and get them confirmed by his government, and Speckbacher, broke into Innsbruck on April 13, 1809, where the townspeople received them with loud acclamations; and after a desperate and celebrated conflict at Berg Isel, succeeded in completely ridding it of the invaders. The Bavarian arms on the Landhaus were shattered to atoms, and when the Eagle replaced them, the people climbed the ladders to kiss it. This was the first great act of the Befreiungskämpfe which have made 'the year Nine' memorable in the annals of Tirol, and, I may say of Europe, for it was one of the noblest struggles of determined patriotism those annals have to boast, and at the same time the most successful effort of volunteer arms. Hofer accepted the title of Schützenkommandant, and was lodged in the imperial Burg, while his peasant neighbours took the office of guards; but he altered nothing of his simple habits, nor his national costume. His frugal expenses amounted to forty-five kreuzers a day, and he lost no opportunity of expressing that he did nothing on his own account, but all in the name of the Emperor. On May 19 the Bavarians laid siege to the town; but the defenders of the country, supported by a few regular Austrian troops, obliged them by the end of a fortnight to decamp. On June 30 they returned with a force of twenty-four thousand men; but other feats of arms of the patriots in all parts of Tirol showed that its people were unconquerable, and for the third time Hofer took possession of Innsbruck. In the meantime, however, the Peace of Schönbrunn, of October 25, had nullified their achievements, though the memory of their bravery could never be blotted out, and always asserted its power. Nor could the brave people, even when bidden by the Emperor himself to desist, believe that his orders were otherwise than wrung from him, nor could their loyalty be quenched. Hofer's stern sense of subordination made him advise abstention from further strife, but the more ardent patriots refused to listen, and ended by leading him to join them. A desultory warfare was now kept up, with no very effectual result, but yet with a spirit and determination which convinced the Bavarians that they could never subdue such a people, and predisposed them to consent to the evacuation of their country in 1814; for they saw that Freedom from every hut Sent down a separate root, And when base swords her branches cut, With tenfold might they shoot. In the meantime a terrible wrong had been committed; the French, knowing the value of Hofer's influence in encouraging the country-people against them, set a price on his head sufficient to tempt a traitor to make know his hiding-place. He was taken, and thrown into prison at the Porta Molina at Mantua. Tried in a council of war, several voices were raised in honour of his bravery and patriotism; a small majority, however, had the cowardice to condemn him to death. He received the news of the sentence with the firmness which might have been expected of him, the only favour he condescended to ask being the spiritual assistance of a priest. Provost Manifesti was sent to him, and remained with him to the end. An offer was made him of saving his life by entering the French service, but he indignantly refused to join the enemies of his country. To Provost Manifesti he committed all he possessed, to be expended in the relief of his fellow-countrymen who were prisoners. He spent the early hours of the morning of the day on which he was to die, after mass, in writing his farewell to his wife, bidding her not to give way to grief, and to his other relations and friends, in which latter category was comprehended the population of the whole Passeyerthal, not to say all Tirol; recommending himself to their prayers, and begging that his name might be given out, and the suffrages of the faithful asked for him, in the village church where he had so often knelt in years of peace. He was forbidden to address his fellow-prisoners. He bore a crucifix, wreathed in flowers, in his hand as he walked to the place of execution, which he was observed repeatedly to kiss. There he took a little silver crucifix from his neck, a memorial of his first Communion, and gave it to Provost Manifesti. He refused to kneel, or to have his eyes bandaged, but stood without flinching to receive the fire of his executioners. His signal to them was first a brief prayer; then a fervently uttered 'Hoch lebe Kaiser Franz!' and then the firm command, 'Fire home!' His courage, however, unmanned the soldiers; ashamed of their task, they durst not take secure aim, and it took thirteen shots to send the undaunted soul of the peasant hero to its rest. It was February 20, 1810; he was only forty-five. The traditions of his courage and endurance, his probity and steadfastness, are manifold; but in connexion with Innsbruck we have only to speak of his brief administration there, which was untarnished by a single unworthy deed, a single act of severity towards prisoners of war, of whom he had numbers in his power who had dealt cruel havoc on his beloved valleys. The Emperor for whom he had fought so nobly returned to Innsbruck, to receive the homage of the Tirolese, on May 28, 1816, amid the loud rejoicings of the people, preceded by a solemn service of thanksgiving in the Pfarrkirche. Illuminations and fêtes followed till June 5, when the ceremony was wound up by a grand shooting-match, at which the Emperor presided and many prizes were distributed. The number who contended was 3,678, and 2,137 of them made the bull's-eye; among them were old men over eighty and boys of thirteen and fourteen. The claims of Hofer on his country's remembrance were not forgotten when she once more had leisure for works of peace. His precious remains, which had been carefully interred by the priest who consoled his last moments at Mantua, were brought to Innsbruck in 1823, and laid temporarily in the Servitenkloster. On February 21 they were borne in solemn procession by six of his brothers in arms, all the clergy and people following. The Abbot of Wilten sang the requiem office. The Emperor ordered the conspicuous and appropriate monument to mark the spot where they laid him, which is one of the chief ornaments of the Hofkirche. The pedestal bears the inscription-- Seinen in den Befreiungskämpfen gefallenen Söhnen das dankbare Vaterland, and the sarcophagus the words-- Absorbta est mors in victoria. Tirol had no reason to regret the restoration of the dynasty for which she had suffered so much. Most of her ancient privileges were restored to her, and in 1826 Innsbruck again received the honour of a University, and many useful institutions were founded. Francis came to Innsbruck again this year, and while there, received the visit of the Emperor of Russia and the King of Prussia. Another shooting-match was held before them, at which the precision of the Tirolese received much praise; and again for a short time in 1835. The Archduke John, who came in 1835 to live in Tirol, was received with great enthusiasm; his hardy feats of mountain climbing, and hearty accessible character, endearing him to all the people. The troubles of 1848 gave the Tirolese again an opportunity of showing that their ancient loyalty was undiminished. The Emperor Ferdinand, driven out of his capital, found that he had not reckoned wrongly in counting on a secure refuge in Tirol. It was the evening of May 16 that the Imperial pair came as fugitives to Innsbruck. Though there was hardly time to announce their advent before their arrival, the people went out to meet them, took their horses from the carriage, and themselves drew it into the town; and all the time they remained the towns-people and Landes-schützen mounted guard round the Burg. More than this, the Tirolese Kaiser-Jäger-Regiment volunteered for service against the insurgents, and fought with such determination that Marshal Radetsky pronounced that every man of them was a hero. With equal stout-heartedness the Landes-schützen repelled the attempted Italian invasion at several points of the south-western frontier, and kept the enemy at bay till the imperial troops could arrive. These services were renewed with equal fidelity the next year. A tablet recording the bravery of those who fell in this campaign--one of the officers engaged being Hofer's grandson--is let into the wall of the Hofkirche opposite Hofer's monument. It was this Emperor from whom the name of Ferdinandeum was given to the Museum, but it was rather out of compliment, and while he was yet Crown-Prince, than in memory of any signal co-operation on his part. It was projected in 1820 by Count Von Chotek, then Governor of Tirol. It comprises an association for the promotion of the study of the arts and sciences. The Museum contains several early illuminated MSS., in the production of which the Carthusians of Schnals and the Dominicans of Botzen acquired a singular pre-eminence. At a time when the nobles of other countries were occupied with far less enlightened pursuits, the peaceful condition of Tirol enabled its nobles, such as the Edelherrn of Monlan, Annaberg, Dornsberg, Runglstein, and others, to keep in their employment secretaries, copyists, and chaplains, busied in transcribing; and often sent them into other countries to make copies of famous works to enrich their collections. It has also some of the first works produced from the printing-press of Schwatz already mentioned. This press was removed to Innsbruck in 1529; Trent set one up about the same time. In the lower rooms of the Ferdinandeum is a collection of paintings by Tirolean artists, and specimens of the marbles, minerals, and other natural productions of the country. The great variation in the elevation of the soil affords a vast range to the vegetable kingdom, so that it can boast of giving a home to plants like the tobacco, which only germinates at a temperature of seventy degrees, and the edelweiss, which only blossoms under the snow. There is also a small collection of Roman and earlier antiquities, dug up at various times in different parts of Tirol, and specimens of native industries. Among the most singular items are some paintings on cobweb, of which one family has possessed the secret for generations, specimens of their works may be found in most of the museums of South Germany; these almost self-taught artists display great dexterity in the management of their strange canvas, and considerable merit in the delicate manipulation of their pigments; sometimes they even imitate fine line engravings in pen and ink without injuring the fragile surface. They delight specially in treating subjects of traditional interest, as Kaiser Max on the Martinswand, the beautiful Philippine Welser, the heroic Hofer, and the patron saints and particular devotions of their village sanctuaries. Kranach's Mariähilf is thus an object of most affectionate care. The 'web' is certainly like that of no ordinary spider; but it is reported that this family has cultivated a particular species for the purpose, and an artist friend who had been in Mexico mentioned to me having seen there spiders'-webs almost as solid as these. I was not able, however, to learn any tradition of the importation of these spiders from Mexico. In the first room on the second floor are to be seen the characteristic letter written, as I have said, by Hofer, shortly before his end, and other relics of him and the other patriots, such as the hat and breviary of the Franciscan Haspinger. Also an Italian gun taken by the Akademische Legion--the band of loyal volunteer students of Innsbruck university, in the campaign of 1848--and I think some trophies also of the success of Tirolese arms against the attempted invasion of the later Italian war, in which as usual the skill of these people as marksmen stood them in good stead. Anyone who wishes to judge of their practice may have plenty of opportunity in Innsbruck, for their rifles seem to be constantly firing away at the Schiess-stand; so constantly as to form an annoyance to those who are not interested in the subject. This Schiess-stand, or rifle-butt, was set up in 1863, in commemoration of the fifth centenary of Tirol's union with Austria and its undeviating loyalty. No history presents an instance of a loyalty more intimately connected with religious principle than the loyalty of Tirol; the two traditions are so inseparably interwoven that the one cannot be wounded without necessarily injuring the other. The present Emperor and Empress of Austria are not wanting to the devout example of their predecessors, but the modern theory of government leaves them little influence in the administration of their dominions. Meantime the anti-Catholic policy of the Central Government creates great dissatisfaction and uneasiness in Tirol. Other divisions of the empire had been prepared for such by laxity of manners and indifferentism to religious belief--the detritus, which the flood of the French revolution scattered more or less thickly over the whole face of Europe. But the valleys of Tirol had closed their passes to the inroads of this flood, and laws not having religion for their basis are there just as obnoxious in the nineteenth as they would have been in any former century. In concluding my notice of the capital of Tirol, it may be worth while to mention that the census of January 1870 gives it a population (exclusive of military) of 16,810, being an increase of 2,570 over the twelve preceding years. CHAPTER X. NORTH TIROL--OBERINNTHAL. INNSBRUCK TO ZIRL AND SCHARNITZ--INNSBRUCK TO THE LISENS-FERNER. I taught the heart of the boy to revel In tales of old greatness that never tire. Aubrey de Vere. Those who wish to visit the legend-homes of Tirol without any great measure of 'roughing,' will doubtless find Innsbruck the most convenient base of operations for many excursions of various lengths to places which the pedestrian would take on his onward routes. Those on the north and east, which have been already suggested from Hall and Schwatz, may also be treated thus. It remains to mention those to be found on the west, north-west, and south. But first there is Mühlau, also to the east, reached by an avenue of poplars between the right bank of the Inn and the railway; where the river is crossed by a suspension-bridge. There are baths here which are much visited by the Innsbruckers, and many prefer staying there to Innsbruck itself. A pretty little new Gothic church adorns the height; the altar is bright with marbles of the country, and has a very creditable altar-piece by a Tirolean artist. Mühlau was celebrated in the Befreiungskämpfe through the courage of Baroness Sternbach, its chief resident; everywhere the patriots gathered she might have been found in their midst, fully armed and on her bold charger, inspiring all with courage. Arrested in her château at Mühlau during the Bavarian occupation, no threats or insult could wring from her any admission prejudicial to the interests of her country, or compromising to her son. She was sent to Munich, and kept a close prisoner there, as also were Graf Sarnthein and Baron Schneeburg, till the Peace of Vienna. From either Mühlau or Innsbruck may be made the excursion to Frau Hütt, a curious natural formation which by a freak of nature presents somewhat the appearance of a gigantic petrifaction of a woman with a child in her arms. Of it one of the most celebrated of Tirolean traditions is told. In the time of Noe, says the legend, there was a queen of the giants living in these mountains, and her name was Frau Hütt. Nork makes out a seemingly rather far-fetched derivation for it out of the wife der Behütete (i.e. the behatted, or covered one), otherwise Odin, with the sky for his head-covering. However that may be, the legend says Frau Hütt had a son, a young giant, who wanted to cut down a pine tree to make a stalking-horse, but as the pine grew on the borders of a morass, he fell with his burden into the swamp. Covered over head and ears with mud, he came home crying to his mother, who ordered the nurse to wipe off the mud with fine crumb of white bread. This filled up the measure of Frau Hütt's life-long extravagance. As the servant approached, to put the holy gift of God to this profane use, a fearful storm came on, and the light of heaven was veiled by angry clouds; the earth rocked with fear, then opened a yawning mouth, and swallowed up the splendid marble palace of Frau Hütt, and the rich gardens surrounding it. When the sky became again serene, of all the former verdant beauty nothing remained; all was wild and barren as at present. Frau Hütt, who had run for refuge with her son in her arms to a neighbouring eminence, was turned into a rock. In place of our 'Wilful waste makes woeful want,' children in the neighbourhood are warned from waste by the saying, 'Spart eure Brosamen für die Armen, damit es euch nicht ergehe wie der Frau Hütt.' [173] Frau Hütt also serves as the popular barometer of Innsbruck; and when the old giantess appears with her 'night-cap' on, no one undertakes a journey. This excursion will take four or five hours. On the way, Büchsenhausen is passed, where, as I have already mentioned, Gregory Löffler cast the statues of the Hofkirche. I have also given already the legend of the Bienerweible. As a consequence of the state execution which occasioned her melancholy aberrations, the castle was forfeited to the crown. Ferdinand Karl, however, restored it to the family. It was subsequently sold, and became one of the most esteemed breweries of the country, the cellars being hewn in the living rock; and its 'Biergarten' is much frequented by holiday-makers. Remains of the old castle are still kept up; among them the chapel, in which are some paintings worth attention. On one of the walls is a portrait of the Chancellor's son, who died in the Franciscan Order in Innsbruck, in his ninety-first year. If time allows, the Weierburg and the Maria-Brunn may be taken in the way home, as it makes but a slight digression; or it may be ascended from Mühlau. The so-called Mühlauer Klamm is a picturesque gorge, and the torrent running through it forms some cascades. Weierburg affords a most delightful view of the picturesque capital, and the surrounding heights and valleys mapped out around. Schloss Weierburg was once the gay summer residence of the Emperor Maximilian, and some relics of him are still preserved there. Hottingen, which might be either taken on the way when visiting Frau Hütt or the Weierburg, is a sheltered spot, and one of the few in the Innthal where the vine flourishes. It is reached by continuing the road past the little Church of Mariähilf across the Inn; it had considerable importance in mediæval times, and has consequently some interesting remains, which, as well as the bathing establishment, make it a rival to Mühlau. In the church (dedicated to St. Nicholas) is Gregory Löffler's monument, erected to him by his two sons. The Count of Trautmannsdorf and other noble families of Tirol have monuments in the Friedhof. The tower of the church is said to be a remnant of a Roman temple to Diana. To the right of the church is Schloss Lichtenthurm, well kept up, and often inhabited by the Schneeburg family. On the woody heights to the north is a little pilgrimage chapel difficult of access, and called the Höttingerbilde. It is built over an image of our Lady found on the spot in 1764, by a student of Innsbruck who ascribed his rapid advance in the schools to his devotion to it. On the east side of the Höttinger stream are some remains of lateral mining shafts, which afford the opportunity of a curious and difficult, though not dangerous, exploration. There are some pretty stalactitic formations, but on a restricted scale. There is enough of interest in a visit to Zirl to make it the object of a day's outing; but if time presses it may be reached hence, by pursuing the main street of this suburb, called, I know not why, zum grossen Herr-Gott, which continues in a path along an almost direct line of about seven miles through field and forest, and for the last four or five following the bank of the Inn. Or the whole route may be taken in a carriage from Innsbruck, driving past the rifle-butt under Mariähilf. At a distance of two miles you pass Kranebitten, or Kranewitten, not far from which, at a little distance on the right of the road, is a remarkable ravine in the heights, which approach nearer and nearer the bank of the river. It is well worth while to turn aside and visit this ravine, which goes by the name of the Schwefelloch. It is an accessible introduction on a small scale to the wild and fearful natural solitudes we read of with interest in more distant regions. The uneven path is closed in by steep and rugged mountain sides, which spontaneously recall many a poet's description of a visit to the nether world. At some distance down the gorge, a flight of eight or nine rough and precarious steps cut in the rock, and then one or two still more precarious ladders, lead to the so-called Hundskirche, or Hundskapelle, [174] which is said to derive its name from having been the last resort of Pagan mysteries when heathendom was retreating before the advance of Christianity in Tirol. Further on, the rocks bear the name of the Wagnerwand (Wand being a wall), and the great and lesser Lehner; and here they seem almost to meet high above you and throw a strange gloom over your path, and the torrent of the Sulz roars away below in the distance; while the oft-repeated answering of the echo you evoke is more weird than utter silence. The path which has hitherto been going north now trends round to the west, and displays the back of the Martinswand, and the fertile so-called Zirlerchristen, soon affording a pleasing view both ways towards Zirl and Innsbruck. There is rough accommodation here for the night for those who would ascend the Gross Solstein, 9,393 feet; the Brandjoch, 7,628 feet; or the Klein Solstein, 8,018 feet--peaks of the range which keep Bavaria out of Tirol. As we proceed again on the road to Zirl, the level space between the mountains and the river continues to grow narrower and narrower, but what there is, is every inch cultivated; and soon we pass the Markstein which constitutes the boundary between Ober and Unter-Innthal. By-and-by the mountain slopes drive the road almost down to the bank, and straight above you rises the foremost spur of the Solstein, the Martinswand, so called by reason of its perpendicularity, celebrated far and wide in Sage and ballad for the hunting exploit and marvellous preservation of Kaiser Max. It was Easter Monday, 1490; Kaiser Max was staying at Weierburg, and started in the early morning on a hunting expedition on the Zirlergebirge. So far there is nothing very remarkable, for his ardent disposition and love of danger often carried him on beyond all his suite; but then came a marvellous accident, the accounts of the origin of which are various. There is no one in Innsbruck but has a version of his own to tell you. As most often reported, the chamois he was following led him suddenly down the very precipice I have described. The steepness of the terrible descent did not affright him; but in his frantic course one by one the iron spikes had been wrenched from his soles, till at last just as he reached a ledge, scarcely a span in breadth, he found he had but one left. To proceed was impossible, but--so also was retreat. There he hung, then, a speck between earth and sky, or as Collin's splendid popular ballad, which I cannot forbear quoting, has it:-- Hier half kein Sprung, Kein Adler-Schwung Denn unter ihm senkt sich die Martinswand Der steilste Fels im ganzen Land. Er starrt hinab In 's Wolkengrab Und starrt hinaus in 's Wolkenmeer Und schaut zurück, und schaut umher. Wo das Donnergebrüll zu Füssen ihm grollt Wo das Menschengewühl tief unter ihm rollt: Da steht des Kaisers Majestät Doch nicht zur Wonne hoch erhöht. Ein Jammersohn Auf luft 'gem Thron Findet sich Max nun plötzlich allein Und fühlt sich schaudernd, verlassen und klein. [175] But the singers of the high deeds of Kaiser Max could not bring themselves to believe that so signal a danger could have befallen their hero by mere accident. They must discover for it an origin to connect it with his political importance. Accordingly they have said that the minions of Sigismund der Münzreiche, dispossessed at his abdication, had plotted to lead Max, the strong redresser of wrongs, the last flower of chivalry, the hope of the Hapsburg House, the mainstay of his century, into destruction; that it was not that the innocent chamois led the Kaiser astray, but that the conspirators misled him as to the direction it had taken. Certainly, when one thinks of the situation of the empire at that moment, and of Hungary, the borderland against the Turks, suddenly deprived of its great King Matthias Corvinus, even while yet at war with them, only four days before [176]; when we think that the writers of the ballad had before their eyes the great amount of good Maximilian really did effect not only for Tirol, but for the empire and for Europe, and then contemplated the idea of his career being cut short thus almost at the outset, we can understand that they deemed it more consonant with the circumstances to believe so great a peril was incurred as a consequence of his devotion to duty rather than in the pursuit of pleasure. Here, then, he hung; a less fearless hunter might have been overawed by the prospect or exhausted by the strain. Not so Kaiser Max. He not only held on steadfastly by the hour, but was able to look round him so calmly that he at last discerned behind him a cleft in the rock, or little cave, affording a footing less precarious than that on which he rested. The ballad may be thought to say that it opened itself to receive him. The rest of the hunting party, even those who had nerve to follow him to the edge of the crag, could not see what had become of him. Below, there was no one to think of looking up; and if there had been, even an emperor could hardly have been discerned at a height of something like a thousand feet. The horns of the huntsmen, and the messengers sent in every direction to ask counsel of the most experienced climbers, within a few hours crowded the banks on both sides with the loyal and enthusiastic people; till at last the wail of his faithful subjects, which could be heard a mile off, sent comfort into the heart of the Kaiser, who stood silent and stedfast, relying on God and his people. Meantime, the sun had reached the meridian; the burning rays poured down on the captive, and gradually as the hours went by the rocks around him grew glowing hot like an oven. Exhausted by the long fast, no less than the anxiety of his position, and the sharp run that had preceded the accident, he began to feel his strength ebbing away. One desire stirred him--to know whether any help was possible before the insensibility, which he felt must supervene, overcame him. Then he bethought him of writing on a strip of parchment he had about him, to describe his situation, and to ask if there was any means of rescue. He tied the scroll to a stone with the cord of his hunting-horn, and threw it down into the depth. But no sound came in answer. In the meantime all were straining to find a way of escape. Even the old Archduke Sigismund who, though he is never accused of any knowledge of the alleged plot of his courtiers, yet may well be supposed to have entertained no very good feeling towards Maximilian, now forgot all ill-will, and despatched swift messengers to Schwatz to summon the cleverest Knappen to come with their gear and see if they could not devise a means for reaching him with a rope; others ran from village to village, calling on all for aid and counsel. Some rang the storm-bells, and some lighted alarm fires; while many more poured into the churches and sanctuaries to pray for help from on High; and pious brotherhoods, thousands in number, marching with their holy emblems veiled in mourning, and singing dirges as they came, gathered round the base of the Martinswand. The Kaiser from his giddy height could make out something of what was going on, but as no answer came, a second and a third time he wrote, asking the same words. And when still no answer came--I am following Collin's imaginative ballad--his heart sank down within him and he said, 'If there were any hope, most surely my people would have sent a shout up to me. So there is no doubt but that I must die here.' Then he turned his heart to God, and tried to forget everything of this earth, and think only of that which is eternal. But now the sun sank low towards the horizon. While light yet remained, once more he took his tablet and wrote; he had no cord left to attach it to the stone, so he bound it with his gold chain--of what use were earthly ornaments any more to him?--'and threw it down,' as the ballad forcibly says, 'into the living world, out of that grave high placed in air.' One in the crowd caught it, and the people wept aloud as he read out to them what the Kaiser had traced with failing hand. He thanked Tirol for its loyal interest in his fate; he acknowledged humbly that his suffering was a penance sent him worthily by heaven for the pride and haughtiness with which he had pursued the chase, thinking nothing too difficult for him. Now he was brought low. He offered his blood and his life in satisfaction. He saw there was no help to be hoped for his body; he trusted his soul to the mercy of God. But he besought them to send to Zirl, and beg the priest there to bring the Most Holy Sacrament and bless his last hour with Its Presence. When It arrived they were to announce it to him by firing off a gun, and another while the Benediction was imparted. Then he bid them all pray for steadfastness for him, while the pangs of hunger gnawed away his life. The priest of Zirl hastened to obey the summons, and the Kaiser's injunctions were punctually obeyed. Meantime, the miners of Schwatz were busy arranging their plan of operations--no easy matter, for they stood fifteen hundred feet above the Emperor's ledge. But before they were ready for the forlorn attempt, another deliverer appeared upon the scene with a strong arm, supported the almost lifeless form of the Emperor--for he had now been fifty-two hours in this sad plight--and bore him triumphantly up the pathless height. There he restored him to the people, who, frantic with joy, let him pass through their midst without observing his appearance. Who was this deliverer? The traditions of the time say he was an angel, sent in answer to the Kaiser's penitential trust in God and the prayers of the people. Later narrators say--some, that he was a bold huntsman; others, a reckless outlaw to whom the track was known, and these tell you there is a record of a pension being paid annually in reward for the service, if not to him, at least to some one who claimed to have rendered it. [177] The Monstrance, which bore the Blessed Sacrament from Zirl to carry comfort to the Emperor in his dire need, was laid up among the treasures of Ambras. Maximilian, in thanksgiving for his deliverance, resolved to be less reckless in his future expeditions, and never failed to remember the anniversary. He also employed miners from Schwatz to cut a path down to the hole, afterwards called the Max-Höhle, which had sheltered him, to spare risk to his faithful subjects, who would make the perilous descent to return thanks on the spot for his recovery; and he set up there a crucifix, with figures of the Blessed Virgin and S. John on either side large enough to be seen from below; and even to the present day men used to dangerous climbing visit it with similar sentiments. It is not often the tourist is tempted to make the attempt, and they must be cool-headed who would venture it. The best view of it is to be got from the remains of the little hunting-seat and church which Maximilian afterwards built on the Martinsbühl, a green height opposite it, and itself no light ascent. It is said Maximilian sometimes shot the chamois out of the windows of this villa. The stories are endless of his hardihood and presence of mind in his alpine expeditions. At one time, threatened by the descent of a falling rock, he not only was alert enough to spring out of the way in time, but also seized a huntsman following him, who was not so fortunate, and saved him from being carried over the precipice. At another he saw a branch of a tree overhanging a yawning abyss; to try his presence of mind he swung himself on to it, and hung over the precipice; but crack! went the branch, and yet he saved himself by an agile spring on to another tree. Another time, when threatened by a falling rock, his presence of mind showed itself in remaining quite still close against the mountain wall, in the very line of its course, having measured with his eye that there was space enough for it to clear him. But enough for the present. Zirl affords a good inn and a timely resting-place, either before returning to Innsbruck, or starting afresh to visit the Isarthal and Scharnitz. The ascent of the Gross Solstein is made from Zirl, as may also be that of the Martinswand. In itself Zirl has not much to arrest attention, except its picturesque situation (particularly that of its 'Calvarienberg,' to form which the living rocks are adapted), and its history, connecting it with the defence of the country against various attacks from Bavaria. Proceeding northwards along the road to Seefeld, and a little off it, you come upon Fragenstein, another of Maximilian's hunting-seats, a strong fortress for some two hundred years before his time, and now a fine ruin. There are many strange tales of a great treasure buried here, and a green-clad huntsman, who appears from time to time, and challenges the peasants to come and help him dig it out, but something always occurs to prevent the successful issue of the adventure. Once a party of excavators got so far that they saw the metal vessel enclosing it; but then suddenly arose such a frightful storm, that none durst proceed with the work; and after that the clue to its place of concealment was lost. Continuing the somewhat steep ascent, Leiten is passed, and then Reit, with nothing to arrest notice; and then Seefeld, celebrated by the legend my old friend told me on the Freundsberg. [178] The Archduke Ferdinand built a special chapel to the left of the parish church, called die Heilige Blutskapelle, in 1575, to contain the Host which had convicted Oswald Milser, and which is even now an object of frequent pilgrimage. The altar-piece was restored last year very faithfully, and with considerable artistic feeling, by Haselwandter, of Botzen. It is adorned with statues of the favourite heroes of the Tirolese legendary world, St. Sigismund and St. Oswald, and compartment bas-reliefs of subjects of Gospel history known as 'the Mysteries of the Rosary.' The tone of the old work has been so well caught, that it requires some close inspection to distinguish the original remains from the new additions. The Archduchess Eleonora provided the crystal reliquary and crown, and the rich curtains within which it is preserved. At a little distance to south-west of Seefeld, on a mountain-path leading to Telfs, is a little circular chapel, built by Leopold V. in 1628, over a crucifix which had long been honoured there. It is sometimes called the Kreuz-kapelle, but more often the zur-Seekapelle, though one of the two little lakes, whence the appellation, and the name of Seefeld too, was derived, dried out in 1807. There is also a legend of the site having been originally pointed out by a flight of birds similar to that I have given concerning S. Georgenberg. The road then falls more gently than on the Zirl side, but is rugged and wild in its surroundings, to Scharnitz, near which you meet the blue-green gushing waters of the Isar. Scharnitz has borne the brunt of many a terrible contest in the character of outpost of Tirolean defences: it is known to have been a fortress in the time of the Romans. It was one of the points strengthened by Klaudia de' Medici, who built the 'Porta Klaudia' to command the pass. Good service it did on more than one occasion; but it succumbed in the inroad of French and Bavarians combined, in 1805. It was garrisoned at that time by a small company of regular troops, under an English officer in the Austrian service named Swinburne, whose gallant resistance was cordially celebrated by the people. He was overwhelmed, however, by superior numbers and appliances, and at Marshal Ney's orders the fort was so completely destroyed, that scarcely a trace of it is now to be found. [179] It is the border town against Bavaria, and is consequently enlivened by a customs office and a few uniforms, but it is a poor place. I was surprised to be accosted and asked for alms by a decent-looking woman, whom I had seen kneeling in the church shortly before as this sort of thing is not common in Tirol. She told me the place had suffered sadly by the railway; for before, it was the post-station for all the traffic between Munich and Innsbruck and Italy. The industries of the place were not many or lucrative; the surrounding forests supply some employment to woodmen; and what she called Dirstenöhl, which seems to be dialectic for Steinöhl or petroleum, is obtained from the bituminous soil in the neighbourhood; it is obtained by a kind of distillation--a laborious process. The work lasted from S. Vitus' Day to the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin; that was now past, and her husband, who was employed in it, had nothing to do; she had an old father to support, and a sick child. Then she went on to speak of the devotion she had just been reciting in the church to obtain help, and evidently looked upon her meeting with me as an answer to it. It seemed to consist in saying three times, a petition which I wrote down at her dictation as follows:--'Gott grüsse dich Maria! ich grüsse dich drei und dreizig Tausend Mal; O Maria ich grüsse dich wie der Erzengel Gabriel dich gregüsset hat. Es erfreuet dich in deinen Herzen dass der Erzengel Gabriel den himmlischen Gruss zu dir gebracht hat. Ave Maria, &c.' She said she had never used that devotion and failed to obtain her request. I learnt that the origin she ascribed to it was this:--A poor girl, a cow-herd of Dorf, some miles over the Bavarian frontier, who was very devout to the Blessed Virgin, had been in the habit while tending her herds of saying the rosary three times every day in a little Madonna chapel near her grazing-ground. But one summer there came a great heat, which burnt up all the grass, and the cattle wandered hither and thither seeking their scanty food, so that it was all she could do to run after and keep watch over them. The good girl was now much distressed in mind; for the tenour of her life had been so even before, that when she made her vow to say the three rosaries, it had never occurred to her such a contingency might happen. But she knew also that neither must she neglect her supervision of the cattle committed to her charge. While praying then to Heaven for light to direct her in this difficulty, the simple girl thought she saw a vision of our Lady, bidding her be of good heart, and she would teach her a prayer to say instead, which would not take as long as the rosary, and would please her as well, and that she should teach it also to others who might be overwhelmed with work like herself. This was the petition I have quoted above. But the maid was too humble to speak of having received so great a favour, and lived and died without saying anything about it. When she came to die, however, her soul could find no rest, for her commission was unfulfilled; and whenever anyone passed alone by the wayside chapel where she had been wont to pray, he was sure to see her kneeling there. At last a pious neighbour, who knew how good she had been, summoned courage to ask her how it was that she was dealt with thus. Then the good girl told him what had befallen her long ago on that spot, and bid him fulfil the part she had neglected, adding, 'But tell them also not to think the mere saying the words is enough; they must pray with faith and dependence on God, and also strive to keep themselves from sin.' In returning from Zirl to Innsbruck, the left bank may be visited by taking the Zirl bridge and pursuing the road bordering the river; you come thus to Unterperfuss, another bourne of frequent excursion from Innsbruck, the inn there having the reputation of possessing a good cellar, and the views over the neighbourhood being most romantic, the Château of Ferklehen giving interest to the natural beauties around. Hence, instead of pursuing the return journey at once, a digression may be made through the Selrainthal (Selrain, in the dialect of the neighbourhood, means the edge of a mountain); and it is indeed but a narrow strip bordering the stream--the Melach or Malk, so called from its milk-white waters--which pours itself out by three mouths into the Inn at the debouchure of the valley. There is many a 'cluster of houses,' as German expresses [180] a settlement too small to be dignified with the name of village, perched on the heights around, but all reached by somewhat rugged paths. The first and prettiest is Selrain, which is always locally called Rothenbrunn, because the iron in the waters, which form an attraction to valetudinarian visitors, has covered the soil over which they flow with a red deposit. Small as it is, it boasts two churches, that to S. Quirinus being one of the most ancient in Tirol. The mountain path through the Fatscherthal, though much sought by Innsbruckers, is too rough travelling for the ordinary tourist, but affords a fine mountain view, including the magnificent Fernerwand, or glacier-wall, which closes it in, and the three shining and beautifully graduated peaks of the Hohe Villerspitz. At a short distance from Selrain may be found a pretty cascade, one of the six falls of the Saigesbach. Some four or five miles further along the valley is one of the numerous villages named Gries; and about five miles more of mountain footpath leads to the coquettishly perched sanctuary of St. Sigismund, the highest inhabited point of the Selrainthal. It is one of the many high-peaked buildings with which the Archduke Sigismund, who seems to have had a wonderful eye for the picturesque, loved to set off the heaven-pointing cones of the Tirolese mountains. Another opening in the mountains, which runs out from Gries, is the Lisenthal, in the midst of which lie Juvenau and Neurätz, the latter much visited by parties going to pick up the pretty crystal spar called 'Andalusiten.' Further along the path stands by the wayside a striking fountain, set up for the refreshment of the weary, called the Magdalenenbründl, because adorned with a statue of the Magdalen, the image of whose penitence was thought appropriate to this stern solitude by the pious founder. The Melach is shortly after crossed by a rustic bridge, and a path over wooded hills leads to the ancient village of Pragmar. Hence the ascent of the Sonnenberg or Lisens-Ferner is made. The monastery of Wilten has a summer villa on its lower slope, serving as a dairy for the produce of their pastures in the neighbourhood; a hospitable place of refreshment for the traveller and alpine climber, and with its chapel constituting a grateful object both to the pilgrim and the artist. The less robust and enterprising will find an easier excursion in the Lengenthal, a romantically wild valley, which forms a communication between the Lisenthal and the OEtzthal. The Selrainthalers are behind none in maintaining the national character. When the law of conscription--one of the most obnoxious results of the brief cession to Bavaria--was propounded, the youths of the Selrain were the first to show that, though ever ready to devote their lives to the defence of the fatherland, they would never be enrolled in an army in whose ranks they might be sent to fight in they knew not what cause--perhaps against their own brethren. The generous stand they made against the measure constituted their valley the rendezvous of all who would escape from it for miles round, and soon their band numbered some five hundred. During the whole of the Bavarian occupation they maintained their independence, and were among the first to raise the standard of the year 1809. A strong force was sent out on March 14 to reduce them to obedience, when the Selrainers gave good proof that it was not cowardice which had made them refuse to join the army. They repulsed the Bavarian regulars with such signal success, that the men of the neighbourhood were proud to range themselves under their banner, which as long as the campaign lasted was always found in the thickest of the fight. No less than eleven of their number received decorations for personal bravery. In peace, too, they have shown they know how to value the independence for which they fought; though their labours in the field are so greatly enhanced by the steepness of the ground which is their portion, that the men yoke themselves to the plough, and carry burdens over places where no oxen could be guided. Their industry and perseverance provide them so well with enough to make them contented, if not prosperous, that 'in Selrain hat jeder zu arbeiten und zu essen' (in Selrain there is work and meat enough for all) is a common proverb. The women, who are unable for the reason above noted to take so much part in field-labours as in some other parts, have found an industry for themselves in bleaching linen, and enliven the landscape by the cheerful zest with which they ply their thrifty toil. The path for the return journey from Selrain to Ober-Perfuss--or foot of the upper height--is as rugged as the other paths we have been traversing, but is even more picturesque. The church is newly restored, and contains a monument, with high-sounding Latin epitaph, to one Peter Anich, of whose labours in overcoming the difficulties of the survey and mensuration of his country, which has nowhere three square miles of plain, his co-villagers are justly proud. He was an entirely self-taught man, but most accurate in his observations, and he induced other peasants to emulate his studies. Ober-perfuss also has a mineral spring. A pleasant path over hills and fields leads in about an hour to Kematen, a very similar village; but the remains of the ruined hunting-seat of Pirschenheim, now used as an ordinary lodging-house, adds to its picturesqueness. Near by it may also be visited the pretty waterfall of the Sendersbach. A shorter and easier stage is the next, through the fields to Völs or Vels, which clusters at the foot of the Blasienberg, once the dwelling of a hermit, and still a place of pilgrimage and the residence of the priest of the village. The parish church of Vels is dedicated in honour of S. Jodok, the English saint, whose statue we saw keeping watch over Maximilian's tomb at Innsbruck. Another hour across the level ground of the Galwiese, luxuriantly covered with Indian corn, brings us back to Innsbruck through the Innrain; the Galwiese has its name from the echo of the hills, which close in the plain as it nears the capital; wiese being a meadow, and gal the same form of Schall--resonance, which occurs in Nachtigall, nightingale; and also, strangely enough, in gellen, to sound loudly (or yell). At the cross-road (to Axams) we passed some twenty minutes out of Völs, where the way is still wild, is the so-called Schwarze Kreuz-kapelle. One Blasius Hölzl, ranger of the neighbouring forest, was once overtaken by a terrible storm; the Geroldsbach, rushing down from the Götzneralp, had obliterated the path with its torrents; the reflection of each lightning flash in the waste of waters around seemed like a sword pointed at the breast of his horse, who shied and reared, and threatened to plunge his rider in the ungoverned flood. Hölzl was a bold forester, but he had never known a night like this; and as the rapidly succeeding flashes almost drove him to distraction, he vowed to record the deliverance on the spot by a cross of iron, of equal weight to himself and his mount, if he reached his fireside in safety. Then suddenly the noisy wind subsided, the clouds owned themselves spent, and in place of the angry forks of flame only soft and friendly sheets of light played over the country, and enabled him to steer his homeward way. Hölzl kept his promise, and a black metal cross of the full weight promised long marked the spot, and gave it its present name. [181] The accompanying figures of our Lady and S. John having subsequently been thrown down, it was removed to the chapel on Blasienberg. Ferneck, a pleasant though primitive bath establishment, is prettily situated on the Innsbruck side of the Galwiese, and the church there was also once a favourite sanctuary with the people; but when the neighbouring land was taken from the monks at Wilten, who had had it ever since the days of the penitent giant Haymon, it ceased to be remembered. Starting from Innsbruck again in a southerly direction, a little beyond Wilten, already described, we reach Berg Isel. Though invaded in part by the railway, it is still a worthy bourne of pilgrimage, by reason of the heroic victories of the patriots under Hofer. On Sunday and holiday afternoons parties of Innsbruckers may always be found refreshing these memories of their traditional prowess. It is also precious on less frequented occasions for the splendid view it affords of the whole Innthal. Two columns in the Scheisstand record the honours of April 29 and August 30, 1809, with the inscription, 'Donec erunt montes et saxa et pectora nostra Austriacæ domini mænia semper erunt.' I must confess, however, that the noise of the perpetual rifle-practice is a great vexation, and prevents one from preserving an unruffled memory of the patriotism of which it is the exponent; but this holds good all over Germany. Here, on May 29, fell Graf Johan v. Stachelburg, the last of his noble family, a martyr to his country's cause. The peasants among whom he was fighting begged him not to expose his life so recklessly, but he would not listen. 'I shall die but once,' he replied to all their warnings; 'and where could it befall me better than when fighting for the cause of God and Austria?' He was mortally wounded, and carried in a litter improvised from the brushwood to Mutters, where he lies buried. A little beyond the southern incline of Berg Isel a path strikes out to the right, and ascends the heights to the two villages of Natters and Mutters, the people of which were only in 1786 released from the obligation of going to Wilten for their Mass of obligation. Natters has some remains of one of Archduke Sigismund's high-perched hunting-seats, named Waidburg; he also instituted in 1446 a foundation for saying five Masses weekly in its chapel. There are further several picturesque mountain walks to be found in the neighbourhood of Innsbruck, under the grandly towering Nockspitze and the Patscherkofl. Or again from either Mutters or Natters there is a path leading down to Götzens, Birgitz, Axams, and Grintzens, across westwards to the southern end of the Selrainthal. Götzens (from Götze, an idol), like the Hundskapelle, received its name for having retained its heathen worship longer than the rest of the district around. The ruins, which you see on a detached peak as you leave Götzens again, are the two towers of Liebenberger, and Völlenberger the poor remains of Schloss Völlenberg, the seat of an ancient Tirolean family of that name, who were very powerful in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It fell in to the Crown during the reign of Friedrich mit der leeren Tasche, by the death of its last male heir. Frederick converted it into a state-prison. The noblest person it ever harboured was the poet Oswald von Wolkenstein. Himself a knight of noble lineage, he had been inclined in the early part of Frederick's reign to join his influence with the rest of the nobility against him, because he took alarm at his familiarity with the common people. Frederick's sudden establishment of his power, and the energetic proceedings he immediately adopted for consolidating it, took many by surprise, Oswald von Wolkenstein among the rest. He was a bard of too sweet song, however, to be shut up in a cage, and Friedl was not the man to keep the minstrel in durance when it was safe to let him be at large. He had no sooner established himself firmly on the throne than he not only released the poet, but forgetting all cause of animosity against him, placed him at his court, and delighted his leisure hours with listening to his warbling. Oswald's wild and adventurous career had stored his mind with such subjects as Friedl would love to hear sung. But we shall have more to say of Oswald when we come to his home in the Grödnerthal. The next village is Birgitz; and the next, after crossing the torrent which rushes down from the Alpe Lizum, is Axams, one of the most ancient in the neighbourhood, after passing the opening to the lonesome but richly pastured Sendersthal, the slopes of which meet those of the Selrainthal. The only remaining valley of North Tirol which I have room here to treat is the Stubay Thal. [182] Of the three or four ways leading into it from Innsbruck, all rugged, the most remarkable is called by the people 'beim Papstl' because that traversed by Pius VI. when he passed through Tirol, as I have already narrated. The first place of any interest is Waldrast, a pilgrim's chapel, dating from the year 1465. A poor peasant was directed by a voice he heard in his sleep to go to the woods (Wald), and lay him down to rest (Rast), and it would be told him what he should do; hence the name of the spot. There the Madonna appeared to him, and bid him build a chapel over an image of her which appeared there, no one knew how, some years before. [183] A Servite monastery, built in 1624 on the spot, is now in ruins, but the pilgrimage is still often made. It may be reached from the railway station of Matrey. The ascent of the Serlesspitz being generally undertaken from here, it is called in Innsbruck the Waldrasterspitz. Fulpmes is the largest village of the Stubay Thal. The inhabitants are all workers in iron and steel implements, and among other things are reckoned to make the best spikes for the shoes of the mountain climbers. Their works are carried all over Austria and Italy, but less now than formerly. In the church are some pictures by a peasant girl of this place. Few will be inclined to pursue this valley further; and the only remaining place of any mark is Neustift, the marshy ground round which provides the Innsbruck market with frogs. The church of Neustift was built, at considerable cost, in the tasteless style of the last century. The wood carvings by the Tirolean artists Keller, Hatter, and Zatter, however, are meritorious. CHAPTER XI. WÄLSCH-TIROL. THE WÄLSCH-TIROLISCHE ETSCHTHAL AND ITS TRIBUTARY VALLEYS. It is not some Peter or James who has written these stories for a little circle of flattering contemporaries; it is a whole nation that has framed them for all times to come, and stamped them with the impress of its own mighty character.--Aksharounioff, Use of Fairy Tales. It is time that we turn our attention to the Traditions of South and Wälsch-Tirol, though it must not be supposed that we have by any means exhausted those of the North. There are so many indications that ere long the rule over the province, or Kreis, [184] as it is called, of Wälsch-Tirol, may some day be transferred to Italy, that, especially as our present view of it is somewhat retrospective, it is as well to consider it first, and before its homogeneity with the rest of the principality is destroyed. Wälsch, or Italian-Tirol sometimes, especially of late, denominated the Trentino, comprises the sunniest, and some at least, of the most beautiful valleys of Tirol. The Etschthal, or valley of the Adige, which takes its source from the little lake Reschen, also called der Grüne, from the colour of its waters, near Nauders, traverses both South and Wälsch-Tirol. That part of the Etschthal belonging to the latter Kreis takes a direct north to south direction down its centre. There branch out from it two main lines of valleys on the west, and two on the east. The northernmost line on the west side is formed of the Val di Non and the Val di Sole; on the east, of the Avisio valley under its various changes of name which will be noted in their place. The Southern line on the west is called Giudicaria, and on the east, Val Sugana, or valley of the Euganieren. The traveller's first acquaintance with the Wälschtirolische-Etschthal will probably, as in my own case, be made in the Val Lagarina, through which the railway of Upper Italy passes insensibly on to Tirolese soil, for you are allowed to get as far as Ala before the custom-house visitation reminds you that you have passed inside another government. It is a wild gorge along which you run, only less formidable than that which you saw so grimly close round you as you left Verona. If you could but lift that stony veil on your left, you would see the beautiful Garda-See sparkling beside you; but how vexatious soever the denial, the envious mountains interpose their stern steeps to conceal it. Their recesses conceal too, but to our less regret, the famous field of Rivoli. Borghetto is the first village on Tirolese soil, and Ala, in the Middle Ages called Sala, the first town. It thrives on the production of silk, introduced here from Lombardy about 1530. It has a picturesque situation, and some buildings that claim a place in the sketchbook. The other places of interest in the neighbourhood are most conveniently visited from Roveredo, or Rofreit as the Germans call it, a less important and pleasing town than Trent, but placed in a prettier neighbourhood. It received its name of Roboretum from the Latins, on account of the immense forests of oak with which it was surrounded in their time. The road leading through it, being the highway into the country, bristles all along its way with ancient strongholds, as Avio, Predajo, Lizzana, Castelbarco, Beseno, and others, which have all had their share in the numerous struggles for ascendancy, waged for so many years between the Emperor, the Republic of Venice, the Bishops of Trent, and the powerful families inhabiting them. The last-named preserves a tradition of more peaceful interest. At the time that Dante was banished from Florence, Lizzana was a seat of the Scaligers, and they had him for their visitor for some time during his wanderings. Not far from it is the so-called Slavini di San Marco, a vast Steinmeer, which seems, as it were, a ruined mountain, such vast blocks of rock lie scattered on every side. There is little doubt the poet has immortalized the scene he had the opportunity of contemplating here in his description of the descent to the Inferno, opening of Canto XII. It is said that a fine city, called San Marco, lies buried under these gigantic fragments, concerning which the country people were very curious, and were continually excavating to arrive at the treasure it was supposed to contain, till one day a peasant thus engaged saw written in fiery letters on one vast boulder, 'Beati quelli che mi volteranno' (happy they who turn me round). The peasant thought his fortune was made. There could be no doubt the promised happiness must consist in the riches which turning over the stone should disclose. Plenty of neighbours were ready to lend a hand to so promising a toil; and after the most unheard-of exertions, the monster stone was upheaved. But instead of a treasure they found nothing but another inscription, which said 'Bene mi facesti, perchè le coscie mi duolevano (you have done me a good turn, for I had a pain in my thighs). [185] As the peasants felt no great satisfaction in working with no better pay than this, the buried city of San Marco ceased from this time to be the object of their search. Nevertheless, near Mori, on the opposite (west) side of the river, is a deep cave called 'la Busa del Barbaz,' concerning which the saying runs, that it was, ages ago, the lurking-place of a cruel white-bearded old man, who lived on human flesh, and that whoso has the courage to explore the cave and discover his remains, will, immediately on touching them, be confronted by his spirit, who will tell the adventurous wight where an immense treasure lies hid. Some sort of origin for this fable may be found in an older tradition, which tells that idols, whose rites demanded human sacrifices, were cast down this cave by the first Christian converts of the Lenothal. The Slavini are closed by a rocky gorge, characteristically named Serravalle; and as the country again opens out another cave on the east bank is pointed out, which was for long years a resort of robbers, who plundered all who passed that way. These were routed out by the Prince-bishop of Trent in 1197, and a hospice for the relief of travellers built on the very spot which so long had been the terror of the wayfarer. The chapel was dedicated in honour of S. Margaret, and still retains the name. Roveredo itself is crowned by a fort--Schloss Junk, or Castel nuovo--which has stood many a siege, originally built by the Venetians; but it is more distinguished by its villas and manufactories. The silk trade was introduced here in 1580, and has continuously added to the prosperity of the place. Gaetano Tacchi established relations with England at the end of the last century, and the four brothers of the same name, who now represent her house, are the richest family in Roveredo. They have a very pretty family vault near the Madonna del Monte, a pilgrimage reached by a road which starts behind the Pfarrkirche of Sta. Maria. Another pilgrimage church newly established is the Madonna de Saletto. While the silk factories occupy the Italian hands, the Germans resident in Roveredo find employment at a newly-established tobacco factory. Much tobacco is grown in the Trentino. A great deal of activity is seen in Roveredo. The Corso nuovo is a broad handsome street with fine trees. A new and handsome road, between the town and railway station, was laid out in the autumn of 1869. Outside the town is the so-called Lenoschlucht, reached by the Strada nuova, which crosses it by a daring high arched bridge. The cliff rises sheer on the right hand, and overlooking the dangerous precipice is the little chapel of S. Columban, seemingly perched there by enchantment. It is built over the spot where a hermit, who was held in veneration by the neighbourhood, had his retreat. There are seven churches, but not much to remark in any of them. That of S. Rocchus was built in consequence of a vow made by the townspeople during the plague of 1630, to invite a settlement of Franciscans if it was stayed. The altar-piece is ascribed to Giovanni da Udine. There are several educational establishments, and a club which is devoted to propagandism of Italian tendencies. The time to see Trent to advantage is in the month of June, not only for the sake of the natural beauties of climate and scenery, but because then falls the festa of S. Vigilius (26th), the evangelizer of the country, and the churches are crowded with all the surrounding mountain population, who, after religious observances have been duly fulfilled, indulge in all their characteristic games and amusements, often in representations of sacred dramas, [186] and always wind up with their favourite and peculiar illumination of their mountain sides by disposing bonfires in devices over a whole slope. This custom is the more worth noting that it is thought to be a remnant of fire-worship, prevailing before the entrance of the Etruscans. [187] That their city was the see of S. Vigilius, and the seat of the great council of the Church, are reckoned by its people their greatest glories; and they delight to trace a parallel between their city and 'great Rome.' They reckon that it was founded in the time of Tarquinius Priscus by a colony of Etruscans, under a leader named Rhætius, who established there the worship of Neptune, whence the name of Tridentum or Trent. That they occupied and fortified the country, and subsequently became a power formidable to the Empire; but some twenty-five years before the Christian era, Rhætia, as the country round was called, was conquered by Drusus, son-in-law of Augustus, and colonized. An ancient inscription preserved in the Schloss Buon Consiglio shows that Trent was the centre of the local government, which was exactly modelled on that of Rome. S. Vigilius, who spread the light of the faith here, was a born Roman, and suffered martyrdom in a persecution emulating those of Rome in the year 400. The city endured sieges and over-running from many of the barbarous nations which over-ran and sacked Rome, and researches into the ancient foundations show that the accumulation of ruins has raised the soil, as in Rome, some feet above the original ground plan--Ranzi says more than four metres. The traces of three distinct lines of walls, showing just as in Rome the progressive enlargement of the city, have been found, as also remains of a considerable amphitheatre, and many of inlaid pavements, &c., showing that it was handsomely built and provided. To complete the parallel, it was under the régime of an ecclesiastical ruler that, after years of distress and turmoil, its peace and prosperity were restored. The Bishop of Trent still retains his title of Prince, but the deprivation of his territorial rule was one of the measures of secularization of Joseph II. There are sixteen churches in Trent, of which the most considerable is the Cathedral, dating from the eleventh century--with some remnants of sculpture, as the Lombard ornaments of the three porches, reckoned to belong to the seventh or eighth--a Romanesque building of massive design, built of the reddish-brown marble which abounds in the neighbourhood, with a Piazza and fountain before it. The interior is extensively decorated with frescoes. It is dedicated to S. Vigilius, whose relics are preserved in a silver sarcophagus. Among its other notabilia are a Madonna, by Perugino, and some good paintings of less esteemed masters; also a copy of the Madonna di San Luca of the Pantheon, presented in 1465 to the then Bishop of Trent, while on a visit to Rome, by the Pope, and ever since an object of popular veneration. As a curiosity, is shown a waxen image of the Blessed Virgin, modelled by a Jew. It also contains several curious brass monuments. The Church of Sta. Maria Maggiore, where the great Council was held, on this account, surpasses it in interest, though of small architectural merit. There is a legend that when the final Te Deum at the close of the Council was sung on December 4, 1563, [188] a crucifix, still pointed out in one of the side chapels [189] of the Cathedral, was seen to bow its head as if in token of approval of the constitutions that had been established. Sta. Maria Maggiore contains a picture of the Council, with the fathers in full session, which is not without interest, as all the costumes can still be made out, though quaint and faded and injured by lightning. It has also a very fine organ, the tone of which was so much esteemed at the time it was built, that it is said the Town Council determined to put out the eyes of the organ-builder, [190] lest he should endow any other city with as perfect an instrument. The meister, finding he could not prevail on the councilmen to relent, asked as a last favour to be allowed to play on his organ, which was willingly conceded; but as soon as he had obtained access to the instrument, he contrived to damage the stop imitating the human voice, which he had invented, and which had been its great merit, and thus punished the pride and cruelty of the municipality. In the remarkable Gothic Church of St. Peter is a chapel, built in commemoration of the infant St. Simeon, or Simonin, whose alleged martyrdom at the hands of the Jews, in 1472, I have already had reason to mention. Many relics of him are shown in the chapel, where a festa is still kept in his honour on March 24. The cutting of his name in the stone is still quite legible. My limits forbid my speaking in much detail of the secular buildings and institutions which are, however, not unworthy of attention. There are clubs and reading-rooms--in some of which aspirations after union with Italy are steadily propagated. The spirit of loyalty to Austria, though still strong in many breasts, has nothing like the same influence as in 1848-9, or in 1866, when the attacks and blandishments of the revolutionists of Italy were alike powerless to shake the allegiance of the Trentiners. No one will overlook the vast Schloss buon Consiglio in the Piazza d'Armi, said to be an Etruscan foundation. The public museum is a very creditable institution, enriched in 1846 by the legacy of Count Giovanelli's collection, chiefly of coins and medals; and paintings, not to be despised, are to be seen in the collections of the best families of the place--Palazzi Wolkenstein and Sizzo, Case Salvetti and Gaudenti. Two great ornaments of the city are the Palazzi Tabarelli, and Zambelli or Teufelspalast; and with the legend of the latter I must wind up my notice of Trent. Georg Fugger, a scion of the wealthy Anthony Fugger, of Augsburg, the entertainer of Charles Quint, was deeply enamoured of the spirited Claudia Porticelli, the acknowledged beauty of Trent. Claudia did not appear at all averse from the match, but she was too proud to yield herself all too readily; and besides, was genuinely possessed with the spirit of patriotism, to which mountain folk are never wanting. Accordingly, when the reply long pressed for from her lips came at last, it informed him that never would Claudia Porticelli of Tirolean Trent give her hand to one whose dwelling was afar from her native city; she wondered, indeed, that one who did not own so much as a little house to call a home in Trent, should imagine he possessed her sympathies. To another this answer would have amounted to a refusal, for it only wanted a day of the time already fixed, of long date beforehand, for the announcement of her final choice. But Georg Fugger, whose vast riches had long nursed him in the belief that 'money maketh man,' and that nothing was denied to him, would not yield up a hope so dearly cherished as that of making Claudia Porticelli his wife. To his determined mind there was a way of doing everything a man was resolved to do. To build a house, however, in one night, and that a house worthy of being the home of his Claudia, when men should call her Claudia Fugger, was a serious matter indeed. No human hands could do the work, that was clear; he must have recourse to help from which a good Christian should shrink; but the case was desperate; he had no choice. Nevertheless, Georg Fugger had no mind to endanger his soul either. The game he had to play was to get the Evil One to build the house, but also to guard from letting him gain any spiritual advantage against him; and his indomitable energy devised the means of securing the one and preventing the other. Without loss of time the devil was summoned, and the task of building the desired palace propounded. The tempter willingly accepted the undertaking, on his usual condition of the surrender of the soul of him in whose favour it was performed. Georg Fugger cheerfully signed the bond with his blood, only stipulating first for the insertion of one slight condition on his side--namely, that the devil should do one little other thing for him before he claimed his terrible guerdon. 'Whatever you like! it won't be too hard for me!' boasted the Evil One; and they separated, each well satisfied with the compact. 'The Devil's Palace has a splendid design, worthy the genius of Palladio,' writes a modern traveller, who has only seen it in its decadence. On the night in which it was built, it was resplendent with marbles and gilding and tasteful decoration; furnished it was too, to satisfy the most fastidious taste, and the requirements of the most luxurious. With pride the devil called Georg Fugger to come and survey the lordly edifice, and name his 'final condition.' Georg Fugger was prepared for him; he had taken a bushel of corn, and strewn it over all the floors of the vast building. 'Look here, Meister,' he said. 'If you can gather this corn up grain by grain, and deliver me back the whole number correctly, then indeed my soul will be yours; but if otherwise, my soul remains my own and the palace too. That is my final condition.' The devil accepted the task readily, and with no misgiving of his success. True, it took all the time that remained before sunrise to collect all the scattered grain; still he had performed harder feats before that day. But the hours ran by, and still there were five grains wanting to complete the count; where could those five grains be! With a flaring torch, lighted at his fiercest fire, he searched every corner through and through, but the five grains were nowhere to be seen, and daylight began to appear! 'Ah! the measure is well-heaped up, the Fugger won't discover they are missing,' so the fiend flattered himself. But Georg Fugger was keener than he seemed. Before his eyes he counted out the corn, and asked for the five missing grains. 'Stuff! the measure is piled up full enough, I can't be so particular as all that. The number must be there.' 'But it is not!' urged Fugger. 'Oh, you've miscounted,' rejoined the Evil One; 'I'm not going to be put off in that way. I've built your house, and I've collected your measure of corn, and your soul is mine; you can't prove that there were five more grains.' 'Yes, I can,' replied Fugger; 'reach out me your paw;' and the Devil, not guessing how he could convict him by that means, held out his great paw, with insolent confidence of manner. 'There!' cried Fugger, pointing to it as he spoke; 'there, under your own claws, lie the five grains! That corn had been offered before the Holy Rood, and by the power of the five Sacred Wounds it was kept from fulfilling your fell purpose. You had not collected the full number of grains into the measure by the morning light, so our bargain is at an end. Begone!' The Devil, self-convicted, had no refuge but to strive to alarm his victor by a show of fury, and with burning claw he began tearing down the wall so lately raised. But Fugger remained imperturbable, for he had fairly won the palace, and the Devil himself had no more power over it. He could only succeed in making a hole big enough for himself to escape by, which hole was for many and many years pointed out. But Fugger had also hereby established his claim to Claudia's hand, who rejoiced at the gentle violence thus done her; and many happy days they spent together in the Teufelspalast. In later years it passed from their family into the hands of Field-Marshal Gallas, who lived here in peaceful retirement after his renowned exploits in the Thirty Years' War, whence it was long called Palazzo Gallas or Golassi; but it has lately again changed hands, and thus acquired the name of Palazzo Zambelli. The suburbs of Trent, among other excursions, offer the pleasing pilgrimage of the Madonna alle Laste, [191] which is reached through the Porta dell' Aquila, on the east side of the city, by half an hour's climbing up a mountain path off the road to Bassano. On a spur of this declivity had stood from time immemorial a marble Maria-Bild, honoured by the veneration of the people. Somewhere about the year 1630 a Jew wantonly disfigured and damaged the sacred token, to the indignation of the whole neighbourhood. Christopher Detscher, a German artist, devoted himself to restoring it; but it was impossible altogether to obliterate the traces of the injury. By some means or other, however--the people said by miraculous intervention--it was altogether renewed in one night; and this prodigy so enhanced its fame, that there was no case so desperate but they believed it must obtain relief when pleaded for at such a shrine. A poor cowherd named Antonia, who had been deaf all her life, was said to have received the power of hearing after praying there; and a child, who had died before there was time to baptise it, a reprieve of existence long enough to receive that Sacrament. The grateful people now immediately set themselves to raise a stone chapel over it, and by their ready alms maintained a hermit on the spot to guard the sacred precincts. Twelve years later, by the bounty of Field-Marshal Gallas, a community of Carmelites was established on the spot, which continued to flourish down to the secularization of Joseph II. The convent buildings, however, yet serve the beneficent purpose of a Refuge for foundlings and orphans. The prospect from the precincts of the institution is very fine; between the distant ranges of mountains and the foreground slopes covered with peach trees, lies the grand old city of Trent, shaped, like the country of Tirol itself, in the form of a heart. [192] Very effective in accentuating the outline are the two old castles of the Buon' Consiglio and the Palazzo degli Alberi, both formerly fortress-residences of the Prince-Bishops of Trent, the former vieing with the castle of the Prince-Bishop of Salzburg in extent and grandeur. The curious isolated rock of Dos Trento is another centre of a splendid view. The Romans called it Verruca, a wart. It was strongly fortified by Augustus, and remains of inscriptions and bas-reliefs are built into the wall of the ancient church of St. Apollinaria, occupying the site of a temple of Saturn. The vantage ground it afforded in repelling the entry of the French in 1703 obtained for it the name of the Franzosenbühel. It has lately been newly fortified. A charming but somewhat adventurous excursion may be made on foot, by a path starting from the fort of the Dos Trento rock, to the cascade of Sardagna. Somewhere about this path, in the neighbourhood of Cadine, it is said, St. Ingenuin, [193] one of the early evangelizers of the country, planted a beautiful garden, which was a living model of the Garden of Eden; but so divinely beautiful was it, that to no mortal was it given to find it. Only the holy Albuin obtained by his prayers permission once to find entrance to 'St. Ingenuin's Garden.' Entranced with the delights of the place, he determined at least to bring back some sample of its produce. So he gathered some of its golden fruits, to show the children of earth. To this day a choice yellow apple, something like our golden pippin, grown in the neighbourhood, goes by the name of St. Albuin's apple. The only remaining towns of any note in the line of the Wälschtirolische Etschthal, are Lavis and S. Michel. Lavis is a pretty little well-built town (situated at the point where the torrents of the Cembra, Fleims, and Fassa valleys, under the name of the Avisio, are poured into the Etsch), remarkable for a red stone viaduct, nearly 3,000 feet long, near the railway station, over the Avisio. Lavis fell into possession of the French in 1796, when the church was burnt and the houses plundered. In 1841--forty-five years after--a French soldier sent a sum of one hundred gulden to the church, in reparation for having carried off a silver sanct-lamp for his share of the booty. Lavis has on many another occasions stood the early brunt of the attacks of Tirol's foes, and its people have testified their full share of loyalty. There is a tradition that the French, having on one occasion gained possession of it with a band two hundred strong, the people posted themselves on the neighbouring heights and harassed them in flank; but a cobbler of Lavis, indignant at the havoc the French were making, left this vantage ground, and running down into the town, shouting 'Follow me, boys!' dispersed the French troops before one of his fellows had time to come up! [194] San Michel, or Wälsch Michel, is the boundary town against the circle of South Tirol, once the last town on Venetian territory. There are imposing remains here of a fine Augustinian priory, which originated in a castle given up to this object by Ulrich Count of Eppan in 1143; the building has of late years been sadly neglected; it is now a school of agriculture. A little way before Wälsch Michel, the railway crosses, for the first time since leaving Verona, to the left bank of the Adige, by a handsome bridge called by the people 'the sechsmillionen Brücke.' Here we leave the Etschthal for a time, but we shall renew acquaintance with it in its northern stretch when we come to visit South Tirol. The two northern tributary valleys of the Etschthal on the west are the Val di Non [195] and Val di Sole; among the Germans, they go by the names of Nonsberg and Sulzberg, as if they considered the hills in their case more striking than the valleys. The Val di Non is entered at Wälschmetz or Mezzo Lombardo by the strangely wild and gloomy Rochettapass. Wälschmetz is a flourishing Italian-looking town, whence a stellwagen meets every train stopping at San Michel. Conveyances for exploring the valleys can be hired either at the 'Corona' or the 'Rosa.' The Rochetta is guarded by a ruined fort fantastically perched on an isolated spur of rock called Visiaun or Il Visione, said to have formed part of a system of telegraphic communication established by the Romans. In the church of Spaur Maggiore, or Spor, so called because the principal place in the neighbourhood, which at one time all belonged to the Counts of Spaur, is a Wunderbild of the Blessed Virgin, which has for centuries attracted pilgrims from the whole country round. The church of the next place of any importance, Denno, is remarkably rich in marbles, and handsome for its situation; a new altar-piece of some pretension, and a new presbytery, were completed here in August 1869. Flavone or Pflaun, the next village, is particularly proud of a rich silver-gilt cross, twenty-five pounds in weight, and set with pearls, a gift of a bishop of Trient. At the time of the French invasion it was taken to Vicenza, but as soon as peace and security were re-established the people would not rest till it was restored to them. The hamlet is adorned with a rather handsome municipal palazzo, built in the sixteenth century, when the ancient Schloss, which overhangs the Trisenega torrent, was pronounced unsafe after several earth-slips. This valley is, if possible, richer in such remains than any other: every mountain spur bristles with them. One of the most important and picturesque is the Schloss Belasis, near Denno, claiming to be the cradle of the family of that name, which has established itself with honour in several countries of Europe, including our own. Behind Pflaun are large forests, which constitute the riches of the higher, as the Seidenbaum [196] is of the lower, level of the valley. In its midst lies the Wildsee of Tobel, which, frozen in winter, serves for the transport of the timber growing on the further side. The safety of its condition for the purpose is ascertained by observing the time when the trace of the sagacious fox shows that he has trusted himself across. Cles, situated nearly at the northernmost reach of the valley, is a centre of the silk trade, and the factory-girls are remarkable for their tastefully adorned hair, though they all go barefooted. The site of a temple of Saturn, of considerable dimensions, has been found, coinciding with traditions of his worship having been popular here; and remains of an ancient civilization are continually dug up. There is a wild-looking plain outside the town, still called the Schwarzen Felder, or black fields, because tradition declares it to be the place where the Roman inhabitants burnt their dead. Here SS. Sisinius, Martyrius, and Alexander, are believed to have suffered death by fire on May 29, 397, because these zealous supporters and missionaries of St. Vigilius refused to take part in a heathen festival. St. Vigilius no sooner heard of their steadfast witnessing to the truth, than he repaired to the spot, and after zealously collecting and venerating their remains, preached so powerfully on their holy example, that great numbers were converted by his word. A church was shortly after built here, and being the first in the neighbourhood, was called Eccelesia, whence the name of Cles. The devout spirit of these saintly guides does not seem wanting to the present inhabitants; when the jubilee was held on occasion of the Vatican Council, more than two thousand persons went to Communion. At the not far distant village of Livo, on the same occasion, it was found necessary to erect a temporary building to supplement the large parish church, for the numbers who flocked in from the outlying parishes. The same thing occurred when the faithful were invited to join in prayers for the Pope after the Piedmontese invasion of Rome, September 20, 1870. On these 'Campi neri' was found, in the spring of 1869, a tablet since known as the 'Tavola Clesiana.' It is a thickish bronze tablet, about 18 in. by 13 in., with holes showing where it was attached to a wall by the corners. It bears an inscription in Roman character, the graving of which is quite distinct and unworn, as if newly executed. It is as follows, and has given rise to a great deal of controversy among archæologists, and between Professors Vallaury and Mommsen, concerning its bearing on the early history of Annaunia:-- Miunio . sIlano . q . sulpicio . camerino . CoS idibus . martIs . baIs . in . praetorio . edictum . ti . claudi . caesaris . augusti . germanici . propositum . fuit . id . quod . infra . scriptum . est . ti . claudius . caesar . augustus . germanicus . pont . maxim . trib . potest . VI . imp . XI . P . P . cos . designatus . IIII . dicit . cum . ex . veteribus . controversIs . petentibus . aliquamdiu . etiam . temporibus . ti . caesaris . patrui . meI . ad . quas . ordinandas . pinarium . apollinarem . miserat . quae . tantum . modo . inter . comenses . essent . quantum . memoria . refero . et . bergaleos . is que . primum . apsentia . pertinaci . patrui . meI . deinde . etiam . gaI . principatu . quod . ab . eo . non . exigebatur . referre . non . stulte . quidem . neglexerit . et . posteac . detulerit . camurius . statutus . ad . me . agros . plerosque . et . saltus . meI . iuris . esse . in . rem . praesentem . mIsi . plantam . iulium . amicum . et . comitem . meum . qui . cum . adhibitis . procuratoribus . meis . quisque . in . alia . regione . quique . in . vicinia . erant . summa . cura . inquisierit . et . cognoverit . cetera . quidem . ut . michi . demonstrata . commentario . facto . ab . ipso . sunt . statuat . pronuntietque . ipsi . permitto . Quod . ad . condicionem . anaunorum . et . tulliassium . et . sindunorum . pertinet . quorum . partem . delator . adtributam . tridentinis . partem . neadtributam . quidem . arguisse . dicitur . tam . et . si . animaduerto . nonnimium . firmam . id . genus . hominum . habere . civitatis . romanae . originem . tamen . cum . longa . usurpatione . in . possessionem . eius . fuisse . dicatur . et . ita . permixtum . cum . tridentinis . ut . diduci . ab . Is . sine . gravi . splendi . municipI . iniuria . non . possit . patior . eos . in . eo . iure in . quo . esse . existimaverunt . permanere . beneficio . meo . eo . quidem . libentius . quod . plerisque . ex . eo . genere . hominum . etiam . militare . in . praetorio . meo . dicuntur . quidam . vero . ordines . quoque . duxisse . nonnulli . collecti . in . decurias . romae . res . iudicare . Quod . beneficium . Is . ita . tribuo . ut . quaecumque . tanquam . cives . romani . gesserunt . egeruntque . aut . inter . se . aut . cum . tridentinis . alIsve . ratam . esse . iubeat . nominaque . ea . que . habuerunt . antea . tanquam . cives . romani . ita . habere . Is . permittam . A fragment of an altar was found at the same time, with the following words on it:-- SATURNO SACR L. PAPIRIUS L OPUS Livo is the first village of the Val di Sole, which runs in a south-westerly direction, forming nearly a right-angle with the Val di Non, than which it is wilder, and colder, and less inhabited. At Magras the Val di Rabbi strikes off to the north. Its baths are much frequented, and S. Bernardo is hence provided with four or five capacious hotels. A new church has just been built there, circular in form, with three altars, one of which is dedicated in honour of St. Charles Borromeo, who visited the place in 1583, and preached with so much fervour as effectually to arrest the Zuinglian teaching, which had lately been imported. Male is the chief place of Val di Sole, and contains about 1,500 inhabitants. At a retreat held here last Christmas by the Dean of Cles, so many of them as well as of the circumjacent hamlets were attracted, that not less than 3,000 went to communion. Further along the valley is Mezzana, the birthplace of Antonio Maturi, who, after serving in the campaigns of Prince Eugene, entered a Franciscan convent at Trent, whence he was sent as a missionary to Constantinople, and was made Bishop of Syra, and afterwards was employed as nuncio by Benedict XIV. It was almost entirely destroyed by fire a few years ago, but is being rapidly rebuilt. After this place the country becomes more smiling, and cheerful cottages are seen by the wayside, with an occasional edifice, whose solid stone-built walls suggest that it is the residence of some substantial proprietor. The valley widens out to a plain at Pellizano, round which lofty mountains rise on every side. The church here has a most singular fresco on the exterior wall, which is intended to record the circumstance that Charles Quint passed through in 1515. Some restoration or addition was made to the church at his expense, and a quaint inscription hints that he did it somewhat grudgingly. A few miles further the valley divides into two branches, the Val di Pejo and the Val di Vermiglio. At Cogolo, the chief place of Val di Pejo, had long been stored a magnificent monstrance, offered to the church by Count Megaezy, who, though resident in Hungary, owned it for his Stammort. [197] It had long been the admiration of the neighbourhood, and the envy of visitors; but it was stolen by sacrilegious hands in the troubles consequent on the invasion of the Trentino by 'Italianissimi,' in 1849. Count Guglielmo Megaezy sent the village a new one of considerable value and handsome design, whose reception was celebrated amid lights and flowers, ringing of bells and firing of mortaletti, July 18, 1869. This branch of the valley is closed in by the Drei Herren Spitz, or Corno de' tre Signori, the boundary-mark between the Valtellina, Bormio, and Tirol, and so called when they belonged to three different governments. The Val di Vermiglio is closed by Monte Tonale, the depression in whose slope forms the Tonal Pass into Val Camonica and the Bergamese territory. Monte Tonale was notorious in the sixteenth to early in the eighteenth century for its traditions of the Witches' Sabbath, and the trials for sorcery connected with them. [198] Freyenthurn, a ruin-crowned peak at no great distance, bears in its name a tradition of the worship of Freya. On the vine-clad height of Ozolo, above Revo, a few miles north of Cles, is a little village named Tregiovo, most commandingly situated; hence, on a fine day, may be obtained one of the most enchanting and remarkable views, sweeping right over the two valleys. Hence a path runs up the heights, and along due north past Cloz and Arz to Castelfondo, with its two castles overhanging the roaring cascade of the Noce. Along this path, where it follows the Novella torrent, numbers of pilgrims pass every year to one of the most famed sanctuaries of Tirol--Unsere liebe Frau im Walde, or auf dem Gampen, as the mountain on which it is perched is called by the Germans; and this reach of the Nonstal is almost entirely inhabited by Germans. The Italians call it le Pallade, and more commonly Senale. The chapel is on the site of an ancient hospice for travellers, which became disused, however, as early as the fourteenth century. A highly-prized Madonnabild, of great sweetness of expression, found in a swamp near the place, stands over the high-altar. A celebration of the seventh centenary of its being found was kept by a festival of three days from August 14, 1869, when crowds of pilgrimages, comprising whole populations of circumjacent villages, both German and Italian, might have been seen gathering round the shrine. Fondo, though but a few miles distant, is a thoroughly Italian town; and so great is the barrier this difference of tongue sets up, that great part of the population of the one never visits the other. It was nearly burnt down in 1865, and has hardly yet recovered from the catastrophe; the church, which occupies a very commanding situation, was saved, and its fine peal of six bells. Near it is St. Biagio, where was once the only convent the Nonsthal ever possessed. Near this again is Sanzeno, which, by a tradition a little different from that given at Denno, is made out to be the place of martyrdom of SS. Sisinius (supposed to be another form of the name of St. Zeno), Martyrius, and Alexander. Their relics, at all events, are venerated here in a marble urn behind the high-altar of the church, which bears the title of the Cathedral of the Val de Non; and the Roman remains, which are continually being discovered, [199] show that there were Romans here to have done the martyrdom. The legend is, that these saints were three brothers of noble family, of Cappadocia, who put themselves under the bidding of S. Vigilius, Bishop of Trent (who was already engaged in the conversion of the valley), A.D. 390. Their conversions were numerous during a series of years; but on May 23, 397, the inhabitants of the valley, who adhered to the old teaching, desirous to make their usual sacrifice to obtain a blessing on their crops, called upon the Christian converts to contribute a sheep for the purpose. On the Christians refusing a strife ensued, of which two of the three missionaries were the immediate victims; but the next day, the third, Alexander was also arrested; he was burnt alive, along with the corpses of his companions. A church was subsequently built on the spot where they were said to have suffered; their acts may be seen in a bas-relief of the seventeenth century. San Zeno is also famous for being the birth-place of Christopher Busetti, whose verses, no less than the details of his life, earned for him the title of the Tirolean Petrarch. A little east of San Zeno is the narrow inlet into the Romediusthal, so called from S. Romedius, whom we heard of at Taur, [200] having chosen it for a hermitage whence to evangelize the Nonsthal, and in which to end his days. A more secluded spot could not be found on the whole earth. Perpendicular rocks narrow it in, leaving scarcely a glimpse of the sky above; the torrent which files its way through it, called San Romedius-Bach, continually works a deeper and deeper bed. Two other torrents strive for possession of the gorge (Romediusschlucht), the Rufreddo and the Verdes, between them; near their confluence rises a stark isolated crag, from whose highest point, almost like a fortress, rises the far-famed hermitage, accessible only from one side. The legend has it that S. Vigilius, knowing his exalted piety, conceived the idea of consecrating the cell whence his holy prayers had been poured out, for a chapel, but was warned in a vision that angels had already fulfilled the sacred task. When this was known, it may be imagined that the veneration of the people for it knew no bounds, and the angelic consecration is still remembered by diligent pilgrimages every first Sunday in June; the Saint's feast is on January 15. The shrine is overladen with thank-offerings, which might attract the robber in so lonely a situation. Due precautions are taken for the preservation of the treasury; the chapel is surrounded by strong walls, and ingress is not permitted to strangers after nightfall. There is no record of any attempt having been made on it but once, some thirty years ago. On this occasion three men presented themselves at the gate, and urgently begged to be admitted to confession; their devotion was so well assumed, and their show of penitence so hearty, that the good priest could not refrain from letting them in. He had scarcely taken his seat in the confessional, however, than the three surrounded him, each presenting a pistol at his breast; all three missed fire, and the would-be robbers, convicted by the portent, knelt and made a real confession of their misdeeds, and left as really penitent as they had feigned to to be on arriving. The spot has never ceased to be honoured since the death of the saint, somewhere about 398. It is strange to stand between the walls of the living mountain and realize the fact. There are few shrines in all Europe which can boast of such antiquity, such unbroken tradition, and such exemption from desecration. The building is as singular and characteristic as the locality. The chapel, where the saint's remains rest, and where he himself raised the first sanctuary of the Nonsthal, is reached by one hundred and twenty-two steps, necessarily very steep; and on attaining the last, it must be a very steady head that can turn to survey the rise without giddiness. The interior is quite in keeping with the surroundings. Its light is dim and subdued, sufficient only to reveal the countless trophies of answered prayer which cover the dark red marble columns and enrichments. There are two other chapels at lower levels, one of the Blessed Sacrament, called del Santissimo, and one over the hermitage in the rock. Flanking this curious pile of chapels on chapels are, on one side, the priory or residence of the chaplain of the place, and on the other the Hospice for pilgrims and visitors, the whole forming a considerable corps de bâtiment, and enclosed by a wall which seems to have grown out of the rock. Another little crag, jutting up as if in emulation of that so gloriously crowned, was made into a Gottesacker, by a late prior, and its churchyard cross affords it a striking termination too; though not many monuments of the dead bristle from its sides as yet. This singularly interesting excursion may be made direct from S. Michel by those who have not time for visiting the whole valley. They will pass several striking old castles, particularly that of Thun, nearly opposite Castle Bellasi, the Stammschloss of one of the oldest and noblest German families, founded by one of the dearest companions and patrons of St. Vigilius. No other has given so many distinguished scions to the service of the Church; Sigmund von Thun was the representative of the Emperor at the Council of Trent. There is a strong attachment between it and the people of the valley, who delight in celebrating every domestic event by what they call a Nonesade, or poem in the dialect of the Val di Non. The castle is well kept up; the interior is characteristically decorated and arranged, and many curiosities are preserved in the library; its grounds also are charmingly laid out. It is supplied with water by a noble aqueduct, raised in 1548, right across the valley from Berg St. Peter; crowned also by an ancient castle, but in ruins. Few will have a prettier page in their sketch-book than they can supply it with here. Half way between Sanzeno and Fondo, by a path which forms a loop with that already mentioned, by Cloz and Arz, and just where the opening into the Romediusthal strikes off, is a village named Dambel or Dambl, where a very curious relic of antiquity, and an important one for throwing light on the history of the earlier inhabitants of the valley, was unearthed a couple of years ago. It is a stout, handsome bronze key, 14 1/2 in. long, the bow ornamented with scroll-work, which at first sight suggested the idea that it had formed part of a comparatively modern casting of the Pontifical arms. Closer inspection showed that on an octagonal ornament of the upper part of the stem was an inscription, not merely engraved, but deeply cut (it is thought with a chisel), and in perfect preservation, in characters described by a local antiquary as 'parte Runiche, parte Gotiche, del Greco e Latino del 388 dell' era volgare, descritte da Ufila; ma molte somigliano a quelle del Latino dell' Ionio 741 B. C.' The owner of the ground, Bartolo Pittschneider, the jeweller of the village, seems to have been digging the foundation for a rustic house, intending to make use of a remnant of a very ancient wall long thought to have formed part of a temple of Saturn. At a depth of about 18 or 20 in. he came to a sort of pavement, or tomb or cellar covering, of roughly-shaped stones resting against and sloping away from the base of the ancient wall, so as to form a little enclosure. Along with the key lay some other small objects, which unfortunately have been dispersed, [201] but among them were two bronze coins of Maximilian and Constantine the Great, thought to indicate the date of the burial of the key and not that of its manufacture. This key was subsequently sent to Padre Tarquini, [202] and a copy has been given me of his report upon it. He pronounced the inscription to be undoubtedly Etruscan, but at the same time he did not think the work of the key to be of older date than the fourth century of our era; inasmuch as there are other examples of Etruscan writing surviving to as late a date in remote districts; that its size and material (a mixture of silver and copper) denoted it to belong to some important edifice, and most probably to the very temple of Saturn amid whose ruins it was found buried. He found in it two new forms of letters not found in other Etruscan inscriptions, but says that similar aberrations are too common to excite surprise. He translated it in the following form:--'Ad introducendum virum (1) addictum igni in Vulcani (2) Vivus aduratur ob perversitatem--incidendo incide (3)--Sceleratus est; sectam facit; blasphemavit--In aspectu ejus ascendentes limen paveant, videntes hominem oblitum Ejus (4) præstare jubilationem retinenti ad cruciatum, tamquam hostem suum.' [203] It would be curious to know how Mr. Isaac Taylor would read the inscription by his different method, for Padre Tarquini found a curious coincidence of circumstances to afford an interpretation to his translation. It would seem that it was only after translating it as above that his attention was called to the Christian local tradition, and then he was struck with several points of contact between it and them. 1. The date which he had already assigned to the key is that given by the Bollandists to the martyrdom of St. Alexander and his two brothers. 2. It was found within the very precincts where he was said to have been burnt, and (his translation of) the inscription commemorates a human burnt sacrifice (il vivicomburio). 3. The inscription (by his translation) seems to allude to Christians, to their suffering expressly for propagating their religion. 4. The inscription points to the sacrifice having taken place in an elevated situation, as it uses the verb 'to ascend,' and the contemporary narrative of St. Vigilius to St. Chrysostom of the event, as it had happened before his eyes, says 'Itum est post hæc in religiosa fastigia, hoc est altum Dei templum ... in conspectu Saturni.' He further goes on to approve a conjecture of the local antiquary that the key was a votive offering made on occasion of the martyrdom of St. Alexander with SS. Zeno and Martyrius, in thanksgiving for the triumph over their teaching, and inscribed with the above lines as a perpetual warning to their followers. The Avisiothal--the northernmost eastern tributary of the Etschthal--consists of three valleys running into each other; the Val di Cembra, or Zimmerthal; the Val Fieme, or Fleimserthal; and the Val di Fassa, or Evasthal. The Val di Cembra is throughout impracticable for all wheeled traffic. Nature has made various rents and ledges in its porphyry sides, of which hardy settlers have taken advantage for planting their villages, and for climbing from one to another; but even their laborious energy has not sufficed to make roads over such a surface. This difficulty of access has not been without its effect in tending to keep up the honesty, hospitality, and piety of the people; but as few will be able to penetrate their recesses, their characteristics will be better sacrificed to the exigencies of space than those of others. I will only mention, therefore, the Church of Cembra, the Hauptort (about four hours' rugged walk from Lavis), which is an ancient Gothic structure well kept up, and adorned with paintings; and a peculiar festival which was celebrated on the Assumption-day, 1870, at Altrei, namely, the presentation of new colours to the Schiess-stand, by Karl von Hofer, on behalf of the Empress of Austria. One bears a Madonna, designed by Jele of Innsbruck, on a banner of green and white (the national colours); the other the names of the Empress ('Karolina Augusta') and the word 'All-treu,' the original name of the village, conferred on it by Henry Duke of Bohemia, when he permitted ten faithful soldiers to make a settlement here free of all taxes and customs. And yet the Italians, regardless of derivations, have made of it Anterivo. Cavalese (which can be reached in five hours by stellwagen running twice a day from the railway station at Neumarkt) stands near the point where the Val di Cembra (which runs nearly parallel to the railway between Lavis and Neumarkt) passes into the Fleimserthal. It is a charmingly picturesque, thriving little town, and should not be overlooked, for the church is a very museum of Tirolese art: painting, sculpture, and architecture, all being due to native artists, and highly creditable to national taste, culture, and devotion. Among these artists were Franz Unterberger, who was chosen by the Empress Catherine to execute copies from Raffael's Loggie, Alberti, Riccaboni, and others, whose fame has resounded beyond the echoes of their native mountains. Many private houses also contain works of Tirolese art. Cavalese stands on a plateau, overlooking a magnificent panorama, and shaded by a grove of leafy limes. Under these is a stone table, with stone seats arranged round it, where a sort of local parliament was formerly held. Respecting the appropriation of this plateau for the site of the church, tradition says that in early times, when the church was about to be built, the commune fixed upon this plateau, in the outskirts of the town, as the most beautiful, and therefore most appropriate, situation. But the old lady, part of whose holding it formed, could be induced on no consideration to give it up. Some little time after, however, she had a very serious illness; on her sick bed she vowed, that if restored to health she would devote as much of her fair meadow to the use of the church as a man could mow in one day. [204] She had no sooner registered her vow than health returned. The commune appointed a mower, and he mowed off the whole of the vast meadow in one day. The old lady always maintained that there was something uncanny about it, and anyone can see for themselves that no human mower could have done it. The Market-place is adorned with a very handsome tower. A new church is now building, after the design of Staidl, of Innsbruck, on the site of the little ruined church of St. Sebastian, which shows that the study of architecture is not neglected in Tirol. The space being very restricted, the novel expedient has been resorted to of placing the sacristy under the sanctuary, and with good effect to the external appearance. The former palace of the Bishops of Trent, now a prison, is not to be overlooked. Predazzo is the only other spot in this valley we will stop to look at. The extraordinary geological formation of the neighbourhood has attracted many men of science to the place, whose names may be seen in the strangers' book. The people are singularly thrifty and industrious. A high road connecting it with Primiero is just completed, which is to be continued to meet the railway projected between Belluno and Treviso. A new church is being raised there, of proportions and design quite remarkable for so remote a place. It was begun simultaneously with the troubles in Italy, in 1866, and a creditable amount has been since laid out upon it. The lofty vaulting of the nave is supported by ten monolithic columns of granite; the floor is paved with hard cement, arranged in patterns formed in colour; the smaller pillars, doors, steps, mouldings, are all of granite; much of the tracery is very artistic; the windows are of creditable painted glass, though not free from the German vice of over-shading. The architect is Michel Maier, of Trent; the elegant campanile by Geppert, of Innsbruck. It will be the largest church in the whole of Wälsch-Tirol, after the Cathedral of Trent. The interior arrangements and decoration bid fair to be worthy of the structure. There is some good polychrome in the presbytery, by Ciochetti, a young artist, native of the village of Moena, in Fassathal, who in the last five years has had eleven medals from the Academy of Fine Arts at Venice. It is the custom all through the valley that each village should have its own gay banner, which is carried before bridal processions to and from the church. But at Predazzo they have many other peculiarities; among these is the following:--The night before the wedding the bridegroom goes to the house of the bride, accompanied by a party of musicians, knocks at the door, and demands his bride. The eldest and least well-favoured member of the household is then brought to him, on which a humorous altercation takes place and a less ancient dame is brought, and so on, till all have been passed in review, and then the intended bride herself is brought at last, who admits the swain to the evening meal of the family. The friends and neighbours then come in, and bring their wedding gifts to the loving pair. The Fassathal begins just after Moena. One of its wildest legends is that of the feuriger Verräther. It dates from the time of the Roman invasion. The mountain-dwellers appear to have been as zealous defenders of their native fastnesses then as in later times, and it is said the conquering legions were long wandering round the confines without finding any who would lead them into the interior of the country. It was at last an inhabitant of the Fassathal who betrayed the narrow pass which was the key to their defences, and which cost the liberty of the nation--all for the sake of the proffered blood-money. But he was never suffered to enjoy it; for a flash like lightning, though under a clear sky, struck him to the earth, and ever since, the traitor has been to be met by night wrapt in flames, and howling piteously. Vigo is the principal town, and serves as the starting-point for the magnificent mountain excursions of the neighbourhood. The most difficult of these, and one only to be attempted by the well-seasoned Alpine climber, [205] is that of the massive snow-clad Marmolata, 10,400 feet high, surnamed the Queen of the Dolomites; but she is a severe and haughty queen, who knows how to hold her own, and keep intruders at a distance; and many who have been enchanted with her stern beauty from afar have rued the attempt at intruding on the cold solitude of her eternal penance. For the legends tell that in her youth she was covered with verdant charms, which made her the delight of the people; but they were not content to use with pious moderation the precious gifts she had in store, and for some sin of theirs--some say for selfish disregard of the law of charity to the poor; [206] some say for disregard of the Church's law forbidding to work on the hohe Unser-frauentag (the Assumption), [207] some say for unjust striving for the possession of the soil--the vengeance of Heaven overtook them, and the once smiling meadows were converted into the hard and barren glacier. Near Vigo is a little way-side chapel, highly prized, because near it some French soldiers in the invasion of 1809 lost their way, and the town was thus saved from their depredations; and the legend arose that the Madonnabild had stricken them blind. Several of them died of falls and hunger, and tradition says, that on wild nights notes of distress from a dying bugler's horn may be heard resounding still. The Avisio was once the boundary against Venetian territory; and St. Ulrich dying on its banks, on his return from Rome, exacted of his disciples a promise that they would carry his body across, so that he might find his final rest on German soil. CHAPTER XII. WÄLSCH-TIROL. VAL SUGANA.--GIUDICARIA.--FOLKLORE. Legends are echoes of the great child-voices from the primitive world; so rich and sweet that their sound is gone out into all lands. Val Sugana is watered by the Brenta through its whole course, running nearly direct east from Trent. It is reached by the Adler Thor, and over the handsome bridge of S. Ludovico, through luxuriant plantations of mulberries and vines, and with many a summer villa on either hand. The road leads (at a considerable and toilsome distance) to the low range of hills (in Tirol called a Sonnenberg) of Baselga, locally named Pinè, whose sides are studded with a number of villages and groups of houses. In one of these, Verda or Guarda by name, near the village of Montanaga, is the most celebrated pilgrimage of the Trentino--the Madonna di Pinè, also known as the Madonna di Caravaggio. It was the year 1729; a peasant girl, Domenika Targa, native of Verda, who was noted by all her neighbours for the angelic holiness of her life, had lost some of her herd upon the mountain one hot August day; in her distress, she knelt down to ask for help to bring back her charge faithfully. Suddenly the place was bathed in a light of glory, and before her stood a lady so benign and glorious, she could be none other than the Himmelskönigin. 'Go, my child, and tell them that you have seen me here, and that I have chosen this spot for my delight; and that their prayers will be heard which they offer before the picture of the Madonna di Caravaggio.' The light faded away, and Domenika turned to seek her flock. She found them all in order, waiting for her to drive them home. There was considerable discussion after this as to what 'Madonna di Caravaggio' might mean; and it was at last decided that it could mean nothing but the picture of the Madonna by Caldara, surnamed Caravaggio from his birthplace, venerated at Milan. Domenika could not leave her herds to go to Milan, and she was perplexed how to obey the vision. In her simple faith she addressed her prayer on high for further direction, and once more the heavenly sight was vouchsafed to her, and it was explained that the Madonnabild meant was not that of Milan, but the one in the little field-chapel of S. Anna, near Montanaga. Domenika did not fail to go there the next festival on which it was open, the Ascension Day, which was, that year, May 26. Above the faint light of the tapers tempered by the incense clouds, and amid the chanted litanies of the choir, the fair Queen once more appeared to her in garments of gold, and surrounded by a glittering train of attendants. Some months passed, and though the people had wondered at the marvel, nothing had been done to commemorate it; Domenika was kneeling, on September 8, the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin, in the Chapel of S. Anna. A sound of soft chanting broke on her ear, which she thought must be the procession of the parish coming up the hill to pray for rain. But as it grew nearer, the same heavenly radiance overspread the place, and once more she saw the Virgin Mother; but this time she looked stern, for the great favour of her visit had been overlooked, and she reasoned with Domenika on the ingratitude it betokened. Domenika honestly outspoke her inward cogitations on the subject--what could a poor cattle-herd do? It was given her to understand that much might be done even by such a poor peasant, if she exercised energy and devotion. With new strength and determination, she girt herself for the task of building a shrine over the spot so dear to her. At first she met with great ridicule and scorn, but she pursued her way so steadily and so humbly, that all were won to share her convictions. Offerings for the work began to flow in. Those who had no money gave their corn, or their grapes, their ornaments, and their very clothes. Year by year the new church rose, according as she could collect the means; and at last, on May 26, 1751, she had the consolation of seeing the complete edifice consecrated. It is a neat cruciform building, sixty-three feet long and fifty-three feet wide, with three marble altars, on one of which is a copy of the Madonna di Caravaggio of Milan painted by Jakob Moser after he had made three pilgrimages to the original. I was not able to ascertain what was supposed to have been intended in the first instance by calling the old picture in S. Anna's field-chapel the Madonna di Caravaggio. Possibly the little Milanese town, which has given two painters to fame, had produced some 'mute inglorious' 'Caravaggio,' who painted the earlier picture. The commemoration of Domenika's vision is celebrated every year in Val Pinè by pilgrimages on May 26 when the most striking gatherings of Tirolese costume are to be observed there. Pergine is the first large village on returning into the main valley, about six miles from Trent. It well deserves to be better known: the neighbourhood is of great beauty, and the form of the surrounding heights is well likened by the inhabitants to a theatre. The church, built in 1500-45, is spacious and handsome, adorned in the interior with red marble columns. In the churchyard are the remains of the older church, where every Lent German sermons are still preached for the benefit of the scattered German population, whose name for the place is Persen. The German and Italian elements within the village are blended with tolerable amity. From the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries, silver, copper, lead, and iron, were got out in the neighbouring Fersinathal; and though the works are now nearly given up, the Knappen then formed an important portion of the community. They cast the bell as an offering to the church when building, and it is still called the Knappinn--by the Italians canòppa. The chief industry now is silk-spinning. The greatest ornament of the place is the Schloss of the Bishop of Trent, which is well kept up, and from the roof of which an incomparable view is obtained. Among the peculiar customs of the place those concerning marriages deserve to be recorded, as they tend to show the character of the people. Two young men of the bridegroom's friends are selected for the office of Brumoli so called; they have to carry, the one a barn-door fowl, the other a spinning-wheel, before the bride as she goes to and from church, to remind her of her household duties. After the wedding, as she returns with her husband to his house the door is suddenly closed as she approaches, and there is then carried on a dialogue, according to an established form, between her and her husband's mother--the latter requiring, and the former undertaking, that she will prove herself God-fearing and domesticated; that she will be faithful and devoted to her husband, and live in charity with all his family. The little ceremony complete, the mother-in-law throws wide the door, and receives her with open arms. On the south side of the valley, opposite Pergine, is the clear lake of Caldonazzo, whose waters reflect the bright green chestnut woods around it; it is the source of the Brenta, and one of the largest lakes of Tirol; about three miles long, and half as broad. Count Welfersheim, an Austrian general, and his adjutant, were drowned in attempting to walk over the thin ice on it in March 1871. On a rugged promontory jutting into its midst stands the most ancient sanctuary of the neighbourhood, San Cristofero; once a temple to Saturn and Diana, but adopted for a Christian church by the earliest evangelizers of the valley, for which reason the produce of the soil and waters yet pays tithe to the presbytery of Pergine. Other villages add to the surrounding beauties of the lake, particularly Campolongo, with its church of St. Teresa high above the green waters, and the church and hermitage of San Valentin; the latter is now used for a roccolo, or vogeltennen, by which numbers of birds of passage are caught on their migrations. The land is very poor. To eke out their living, most of the male inhabitants of the villages around are wont to go out every winter as pedlars, with various small articles manufactured in the valley, and with which they are readily trusted by those who stay behind. On their return, which is always at Easter, they distribute honourably what they have earned for each, deducting a small commission. So straightforward and honourable are they, that though they have little idea of keeping accounts, and the sums are generally made out with a bit of chalk on the inn table, yet it is said that such a thing as a dispute over the amounts is utterly unknown. The church of St. Hermes, at Calzeranica, is reckoned the most ancient of the whole neighbourhood; remains of an ancient temple, thought to have been to Diana of Antioch, have been found when repairing it. In the forest behind Bosentino, a neighbouring village, is a pilgrimage chapel called Nossa Signora del feles; die h. Jungfrau vom Farrenkraut--St. Mary of the Fern. Some two hundred years ago, Gianisello, a little dumb boy of Bosentino, who was minding his father's herd in the forest, was visited by a bright lady, who pointed to a tuft of fern growing under a chestnut tree, and bid him go and tell the village people she would have them built a chapel there. When the people heard the boy tell his story, who for all the twelve years of his life had never spoken a word before, they felt no doubt it was the Blessed Virgin he had seen. The chapel was soon built, and furnished with a painting embodying the little boy's story. In time of dearth, drought, epidemic, or other local calamity, many are the processions which may yet be seen wending their prayerful way to the chapel of St. Mary of the Fern. Among the wild and beautiful legends of this part of the valley is a variant of one familiar in every land. A young swain, the maiden of whose choice was called to an early grave, went wandering through the chestnut groves calling for his beloved, till he grew weary with crying, and laid him down in a cave to rest. A sweet sleep visited him, and he found himself in it at home as of old in the Valle del Orco, [208] with his Filomena on his arm; he led her to the village church, and the silver-haired pastor gave the marriage blessing, while all the village prayed around. He brought Filomena home to his old house, alle Settepergole, [209] his dear old father and mother welcomed her, and she brought sunshine into the cottage; and when they were called away the old walls were yet not without life and joy, for it resounded to the voice of the prattling little ones. The little ones grew up into stalwart lads and lasses, who earned homesteads of their own, and erewhile brought another tribe of prattling little ones to his knee; while Filomena smiled a bright sunshine over all, and they were so happy they prayed it might never end: but one day it seemed that the sunshine of Filomena's smile was not felt, for she was no longer there; then all grew pale and cold, and with a sudden chill he woke. It was grey morning as he rose from the cave; the cattle were lowing as they were led out to pasture; he looked out towards the chestnut groves, and watched in their waving foliage the strange effect which had been the charm of his childhood, looking like rippled ocean pouring abroad its flood. [210] But when he reached the village the sights and sounds were no more so familiar: the old church tower was capped with a steeple, of which he never saw the like; the folk he met by the way were all strangers, and stared at him as at one who comes from far. He wandered up and down all the day, and everything was yet strange. At evening the men came back from the fields, and again they gazed at him estranged: once he made bold to ask them for 'Zansusa,' the companion of his boyhood, but they shrugged their shoulders with a 'Chè Zansusa?' and passed on. He asked again for 'Piero,' almost as dear a friend, and they pointed to a 'Piero' with not one feature like his Peter. Once again he asked for 'Franceschi,' and they pointed to a grave, where his name was written indeed--'Franceschi,' who but the day before had walked with him in full life and health, to hang a fresh wreath on Filomena's cross! Ah! there was Filomena's cross, but how changed was that too! the bright gilding, on which his savings had been so willingly lavished, was tarnished and weather-worn, and not a leaf of his garland remained round it. He wandered no further, nor sought to fathom the mystery more; he knelt on the only spot of earth that had any charm for him. As his knees touched the hallowed soil consoling thoughts of her undying affection overflowed him. 'Here we are united again,' he said; 'in a little while we shall be united for ever.' 'At last have I found thee! these fifty years I have sought thee in vain!' The moonbeam kissed his forehead as he looked up, and the moonbeam bore her who had spoken. A fair form she wore, but still it was not the form of Filomena. 'Who are you, and wherefore sought you me?' he asked. 'I am Death,' replied the pale maiden, 'and for fifty years I have sought thee to lead thee to Filomena.' She beckoned as she spoke, and willingly he followed her whither the moonbeam led. The village of Caldonazzo, with its ancient castle, is another ornament of the lake. Further south is the village of Lavarone, or Lafraun, accessible only to the pedestrian. A house close to the edge of a little lake here is pointed out, which in olden time was the residence of two brothers, the owners of the meadow over which the lake is now spread. These two could never agree; their strife grew from day to day, till at last one night they called each other out to settle their quarrels once for all by mortal combat. The noise of the strife within had made them oblivious to the strife of the elements which was waging without. The gust which entered as the eldest turned to open the cottage door, and the blinding rain, drove them back; even their fierce passions seemed mastered by the fiercer fury without. In silence they returned into the room, and neither cared to raise his voice amid the angry voices of the storm, which now made themselves heard solemnly indeed. In sullen silence they passed the night, and during the silence there was time for reflection; each would have been glad to have backed out of the promised fight, but neither had the courage to propose a reconciliation. Sullenly they rose with the morning light; the pale gold rays rested on the trees, now calm and tranquil, and both shuddered to carry their vengeance out on to the fair scene; but neither dared speak, and once more the eldest opened the door. This time it was not the rain descending from above which drove him back; it was the flood rising from beneath! The Centa torrent had overflowed. The disputed meadow had become a lake, and with their united efforts they scarcely kept the waters banked out. The community of labour, of danger, and of distress, ended the strife; and though their worldly possessions were lost to them for ever, they had found a greater boon, the bond of fraternal charity. I must pass over Levico, near which the Brenta has its source, and the intervening villages; but Borgo di Val Sugan' demands our attention for its beautiful situation. The view over both may be enjoyed by mountain climbers from the neighbouring height of Vezzena. Borgo is commonly called the Italian Meran, for its likeness with that favourite watering-place. Its buildings extend over both sides of the Brenta, being united by a massive stone bridge, built in 1498. Those on the left bank were nearly destroyed by fire in 1862, but the rebuilding has been carried on with great spirit. Its ecclesiastical buildings do not date far back; the rebuilding of the parish church in 1727 nearly obliterated all traces of the earlier edifice; its chief glories are three paintings it possesses, one by Titian's brother, one by Karl Loth, and one by Rothmayr. The fine campanile was added in 1760. There is also a Franciscan convent, but it does not date back further than 1603, there is the following curious tradition of its origin. The Sellathal leading to Sette Comuni, is narrowed by two mighty cliffs--the Rochetta on the south, and the Grolina on the north, adorned with the ruined Castel San Pietro, [211] seemingly perched above all human reach. On a green knoll beneath it stand the lordly remains of Castel Telvana; its frescoes are now nearly faded away, only a room here and there is habitable; but its enduring walls and towers show of what strength it was in the days long gone by--days such as those in which Anna, wife of Siccone di Caldonazzo, defended it with so much spirit against all the might of Friedrich mit der leeren Tasche, that she obtained the right to an honourable capitulation. It was bought by the Counts of Welsburg in 1465, and henceforth it became an abode of pleasure rather than a mere fortress. Count Sigmund von Welsburg, who was its master towards the end of the sixteenth century, was particularly disposed to make his residence in their midst a boon to the inhabitants of Borgo, and entered heartily into all the pastimes of the people. It happened thus that the Carneval procession of the year 1598 was invited to take the Castel Telvana for its bourne; and that the women might not be fatigued by the ascent, the Count gallantly provided them all with horses from his own stud. The valley resounded with merriment as they wended their way up in their varied and fantastic attire. Arrived at the castle, good cheer was provided, which none were slow to turn to account, and the return was commenced in no less boisterous humour. At the most precarious spot of the giddy declivity, the courage of the foremost rider forsook her; the Count's high-couraged charger, which she bestrode, perceiving the slackened pressure on the rein, grew nervous and bewildered too, and uneasy to find himself for the first time subjected to devious guidance. The indecision of the first fair cavalier alarmed her sister, who followed next behind--a shriek was the expression of the alarm, which communicated itself to the next rider, and in a moment a panic had possessed the whole cavalcade, or nearly the whole; for the few who here and there still retained their presence of mind were powerless to make those before them advance, or to keep back the threatening tramp of those behind. The Count saw the danger, and the one remedy. First registering a vow, that if he succeeded in his daring enterprise he would build a convent to the honour of God and St. Francis, he set out along the brink of the narrow track, where there was scarce a foot-breadth between him and the abyss, past the whole file of the snorting horses and their terrified burdens. He had this in his favour, that every denizen of his stable recognised him as he went by, and his presence soothed their chafing. Arrived at last safely at the head of the leading steed, his hand on its mane was enough to restore its confidence; securely he led it to the full end of the dangerous pass, and all the others followed in docile order behind. The Count did not forget his vow, nor would he in his gratitude allow any other hand to diminish the outlay he had undertaken. The convent buildings are now in part turned to secular uses, though part is also used for a hospital, where all the sick of the town are freely tended. In the church is an altarpiece of Lazarus begging at the gate of Dives, by Lorenzo Fiorentini, a native artist. The pass I have mentioned between the Rochetta and the Grolina--the importance of which as a defence was not unknown to the Romans, of whose remains the town possesses a considerable collection dug up at different times--was not without its share of work in the French invasions of 1796 and 1809. In the former, a handful of Tirolese successfully repulsed five hundred of the enemy in an obstinate encounter of three hours' duration. In the latter, the place was attacked by tenfold greater numbers. General Ruska was so infuriated, not only by their determined and galling fire, but by the derisive shouts and gestures of the mountaineers, who carried their daring so far as to fling the dead bodies of the soldiers they had killed down under the wheels of his carriage, that he ordered the pillage and destruction of the town. His guns were ready planted to pour out their murderous fire, when the parish priest, heading a procession of aged house-fathers, came to implore him to spare their homes. At the same moment news was brought him that two Austrian battalions were advancing with dangerous haste. One or other of the considerations thus urged effected the deliverance of the town, which was only required to buy itself off at the price of a large supply of provisions. Borgo has further advantage of the mineral spring of Zaberle, and a creditable theatre. Silk-spinning is again the chief industry of the place; and there are several so-called Filatoriums, employing a great number of hands. The most remarkable excursions in the neighbourhood are to the deserted hermitage of San Lorenzo and the stalactite caves of Costalta, both in the Sellathal, whence there is a path leading to the curiously primitive and typically upright community of the Sette Comuni. Pursuing the valley further in its easterly course, I must not omit to mention Castelalto, not only remarkable for its share in the mediæval history of Tirol, but for being still well kept up. At Strigno, one of the largest hamlets of the valley, is another ancient castle, which after its abandonment in the fourteenth century acquired the name of Castelrotto. The parish church, rebuilt in 1827, contains a Madonna del Rosario by Domenichino; and a Mater Dolorosa in Carrara marble, by the Venetian sculptor Melchiori. This is the generally adopted starting-place for the Cima d'Asta, the highest peak of the Trentino (8,561 feet), and commanding a panorama of exceptional magnificence. Under favourable circumstances it is reached within thirty hours, sleeping in the open at Quarazza. The interest of the way is heightened by two considerable lakes; the lower, that of Quarazza, closed in by wall-like cliffs, is fed by a cascade from the higher lake, which receives several torrents. Near the summit is a garnet quarry. Just below Strigno is another inhabited castle, that of Ivano, belonging to the Count of Wolkenstein-Trostburg, who makes it a summer residence. The church is dedicated to S. Vindemian; near it was once a hermitage. Further down the valley is Ospedaletto, famous in border warfare, and once a hospice for travellers, served by monks, still a mountain-inn with a chapel attached. Grigno has another once-important castle. S. Udalric, Bishop of Augsburg, had occasion to pass through the village on his way to Rome in the time of Pope Sergius III. (A.D. 904-11), and left behind him so profound an impression of his sanctity, that the devotion of the people to his memory has never diminished. In the eleventh century a chapel was built in his honour, with the picturesque instinct of the people of that date, on the steep way leading to Castel Tesino. It was always kept in good condition till 1809, when it was desecrated by the French soldiery. It was restored within ten years, and a rustic piazza in front planted with lime trees, which have at the present time attained considerable dimensions. In July 1869, processions consisting of more than four thousand villagers met at this shrine, to pray for deliverance from the heavy rains, which were causing the inundation of their homesteads. From Grigno there is a path which few persons however will be tempted to follow, across the so-called Canal San Bovo, to Primiero, a country which has already been so ably laid open to the tourist that I need not attempt a fresh description of its beauties. If any one penetrates its recesses as far as the village of Canal San Bovo, I think they will not be sorry to have been advised to ask for a certain Virginia Loss, who has a touching story to tell them of her adventures. On a stormy day, the last of October 1869, she was making her way, though only thirteen, with her mother and another woman, along the dangerous path leading hither from the Fleimserthal, following their occupation of carriers. They had passed Panchià and Ziano, and were in the midst of the verdant tract known as the Sadole. The fierce wind that blew exhausted her poor mother's strength, and she saw no help but to lay down her burden by the way, and try to reach home with bare life. Domenica Orsingher, the other woman, however, who had already got on a good way beyond her, no sooner learned what she had done than, considering what a loss it must be to her, with a humble heroism went back to fetch the pack intending to carry it in addition to her own! The next day some men travelling by the same path found her body extended by the wayside. She had died of cold and exhaustion. The land is strong with such as these, Her heroes' destined mothers. Further along they found Elisabetta Loss and her daughter huddled together. On carrying the bodies to Cauria they succeeded in reviving only the child. Virginia has a tragic story to tell of; of how her mother sank to her rest, and her own unavailing and inexperienced efforts to call her to life; then the horror of the approaching night, the snow storm in which she expected to be covered up and lost to sight, yet had not strength to move away; and, worst of all, the circling flight of crows and ravens which she spent her last energies in driving with her handkerchief from her mother's face; and yet the presence of death, solitude and helplessness, made the approach of even those rapacious and ill-omened companions seem almost less unwelcome. The insensibility which ensued was probably the most welcome visitant of all. Le Tezze is a smaller village than Grigno, but one that has done good service to the patriotic cause, having many a time stayed the advance of invading hosts; and never more successfully than in the latest Garibaldian attempt on the Trentino, upon the cession of Venice by Austria after Sadowa. The tombs of the bold mountaineers who fell while driving back the tenfold numbers opposed to them are to be seen appropriately ranged along the stony declivity they defended so well. These graves are yearly visited by their brethren on the 14th of August. They fell devoted and undying, The very gale their deeds seems sighing; The waters murmur forth their name, The woods are peopled with their fame, The silent pillar, lone and gray, Claims kindred with their sacred clay. Le Tezze is the last Tirolean village of the valley, and the seat of the Austrian custom-house against Italy. On the other side of this frontier is the interesting Italian town of Primolano, whence there is an easier way into Primiero-thal than by crossing the Canal San Bovo. Val Sugana retains more of the German element than any other district of Wälsch-Tirol. Judicarien or Giudicaria bifurcates westwards and south-westwards from the Etschthal opposite Val Sugana. Its first (south-west) division is called the Sarcathal and reaches to the Lago di Garda. Though no part of the beautiful Italian lake actually belongs to Tirol the town of Riva overlooks it; the country round is most productive in wine, silk, lemons, figs, and other fruits. Its pleasant climate, the warmest in all Tirol, is due not only to its southern latitude, but also to its being the lowest land of the principality. Innsbruck is 1,820 feet above the sea-level, Riva but 220. From the western division of Giudicaria there branch out northwards Val Rendena, north-westwards Val Breguzzo and Val Daone, and southwards Val Bona. The Val di Ledro or Lederthal, forms a parallel return towards the Garda-See. Here an attempt at invasion headed by Garibaldi was repulsed by the Innsbruck Student-brigade in 1866 at a pass called Bezzecca. Giudicaria is little explored yet it contains some choice scenery and traditions. Castel Madruzz, which can be visited from Trent, is one of its most ancient and important castles. From the twelfth to the seventeenth century, the family which inhabited it and bore its name takes a foremost place in Tirol's history. In the church are shown the portraits of seven of the family ascribed to Titian. From 1530 to 1658 four of its members occupied the See of Trent, and were successively invested with the Cardinalitial dignity. Cardinal Karl Madruzz became the last of his house. All his kindred having died without heirs, he applied to Rome for permission to marry--a dispensation which we have seen once before accorded in favour of a Tirolese prince. Cardinal Madruzz preferred his suit successively before Urban VIII., Innocent X., and Alexander VII., and at last obtained it, coupled with the proviso that he should only marry in his own station. As this did not accord with his intentions, the favour so tardily granted was never acted on. This fine castle had fallen into sad neglect but it is being restored. From its deserted terraces a glorious view is obtained, which takes in the two lakes of Toblino to the north, and Cavedine to the south, both being fed by the same torrents. Round the Lago di Cavedine lie the flowery slopes which bear the name of Abraham's Garden. The Lake of Toblino is broken into by a picturesque promontory, bearing the castellated villa of the Prince-Bishops of Trent; though on flat ground, the round turrets at the angles with their pointed caps afford a wonderful relief to the landscape. The village is called Sta. Massenza, from the mother of S. Vigilius, who died here in the odour of sanctity, 381. Her relics were translated to Trent, 1120. At the foot of the height on which stands Schloss Madruzz is a double chapel, on the model of the Holy House of Loreto, the legend being inscribed on the walls. At the westernmost reach of Giudicaria, the Rendenathal branches off towards Val di Sole. It was the cradle of the evangelization of Tirol, for here S. Vigilius suffered martyrdom, 405, and the valley is rife with traditions of him. He appears to have been stirred with zeal for the propagation of the faith at a very early age; and his piety and earnestness were so apparent that he was consecrated Bishop of Trent at the age of twenty. He made many conversions, and built a church to SS. Gervasius and Protasius, A.D. 375. But he was not content with establishing the faith here, and sending out missionaries hence; he would wander himself on foot through all the valleys where paganism still lurked, overturning idols and building Christian sanctuaries--more than thirty trace their origin to his work. Nowhere did he meet with so much opposition as in the Rendenathal, which was the last to accept the yoke of Christ. But he was untiring in his apostolic labours, nor could he rest while one token of a false religion remained erect. It is not to be supposed that, though he made many fervent converts, he effected all this without also exciting the opposition and fury of those whose teaching he had come to supersede. Yet though many were the snares set for him, no conspiracy against him succeeded till he had cast down the last idol. It was at Mortaso, one of the remotest villages of this secluded dell, he stood announcing the 'glad tidings' of the Gospel from the pedestal of the image he had overthrown, and the population crowded round, earnestly garnering in his words. He had left off preaching, and just raised his hands in benediction, when a body of heathen men and women, who had long determined to compass his end, rushed upon the scene from the surrounding grove, and stoned him with the fragments of the image he had overthrown. His hearers would have defended him, but he knew that his hour was come, for his work was accomplished; and forbidding all strife, he knelt down, and folding his arms on his breast meekly rendered up his spirit, while his constancy won many to the faith. His disciples reverently gathered his remains and bore them to Trent; but as soon as his murderers were aware of their intent, they set out to follow them. The Christian party, delayed by the weight of their burden, found that their pursuers were fast gaining ground. In this strait, says the legend, they called upon the rocky wall before them-- Apritevi, O sassa, Che S. Vigilio passa, and behold before them suddenly appeared a cleft in the rock, through which they passed in safety, and which is pointed out to this day. Another narrow cleft is pointed out near Cadine, which is said to have been rent asunder at his bidding, when once, at an earlier stage of his labours, he deemed it right to flee from those who would have taken his life. The Acqua della Vela now passes through it, and a dent is shown which is said to mark the place where the saint impressed his hand on the obedient stone. It was this suggested to the bearers of the bier to make a similar appeal on behalf of his relics. It is commonly reported that in Mortaso the bread never rises properly; and they couple with it this tradition, that when the pieces of the broken idol sufficed not for all who would attack the saint, the women brought out loaves from the oven to complete the work. The Rendenathal also preserves the memory of S. Julian, called also Sent Ugiano and San Zulian in local dialect. His legend says he lived with his parents in an outlying house. On one occasion, at the time of day when they were usually at work in the fields, he heard the sound of persons entering the house, and turned and slew them, and only found afterwards that it was his parents whose lives he had taken. [212] Struck with horror he devoted himself to a life of penance, and made a vow to live so far from the habitations of men that he should no more hear the cheerful crowing of the cock or the holy chime of the church bells. After his death the people found that angels had planted roses on his grave which bloomed in winter, and they observed that no venomous reptile ever rested on it, while earth taken from it cured their sting. So they built a chapel in his honour on the border of the little lake which bears his name, at the opening of Val Génova. Another interesting church in the same locality is that of Caresolo. Its exterior walls are adorned with frescoes bearing date 1519, and inside is an inscription recording that it was restored by the munificence of Charles Quint. At Pelugo, near Tione, where the Rendenathal branches off, he found the castle in possession of a Jew, and so indignant was he to find a once Christian fortress so occupied, that he had him immediately ejected and the place exorcised. Here, as also at Massimeno and Caderzone, all inconsiderable mountain villages, new churches were consecrated during the Bishop of Trent's visitation in August 1869, showing that the spirit of S. Vigilius had not died out. In the Pfarrkirche at Condino is a Muttergottesbild, presented in 1620 by a parishioner who averred he had seen it shed tears. Of the church of Campiglio the legend runs, that when it was building, the people being much distressed by a dearth, and their means hardly sufficing, the angels used to bring stone, wood, and other materials in the night; and one pillar is pointed out which was raised before the eyes of the builders in broad day by invisible hands. The inn here occupies a hospice built by the Templars, hence its imposing appearance. Colini, who was locally called the Hofer of Wälsch-Tirol, for his brave leadership of his countrymen in 'the year nine,' kept it till his death in 1862. At Pinzolo is a thriving glass-house, supported by Milanese capital and Venetian art and industry. Riva, at the head of the Garda-See, is one of the most charming spots in Tirol. Its German name of Reif is not a mere corruption of the Italian name; it is an old German word, having the same signification, of a shore. The parish church is a really handsome edifice, and a great ornament to the town and neighbourhood. Outside the town is a curious octagonal church of the Immaculate Conception, built to enclose a wonder-working picture of the Blessed Virgin, by Cardinal Karl von Madruzz, who also founded a House of Friars Minor to attend to the spiritual necessities of the many pilgrims who came to visit it. The churches of S. Roch and S. Sebastian were built on occasion of visitations of the plague in 1522 and 1633. The neighbourhood supplies the whole of Tirol with twigs of olive to use in the office of Palm Sunday, and all kinds of southern produce grow on the banks of the lake. It was long considered the highest latitude at which the olive-tree would grow, but it has since been successfully cultivated as far north as Botzen. In order to gain a full enjoyment of the beautiful scenery around, the Altissimo di Nago should be ascended by all who have the courage for a six or seven hours' climb. From San Giacomo, however, where there is a poor Wirthshaus and chapel, reached in not more than two hours, the scene at sunrise is one of inconceivable beauty. Behind are ranges beyond ranges and peaks beyond peaks of lordly alps. Before you lies the blue Lago di Garda, and the vast Lombard plains studded with fair cities, amid which you will not fail to distinguish Milan, which some optical illusion brings so near that it seems it would take but an easy morning's walk to reach it. On the way hence to Mori, at about half distance, lies Brentonico, with a new church perched picturesquely as a mediæval one on a bold scarped rock. The old parish church has a fine crypt. The Castello del Dosso Maggiore is a noble ruin. There is a bridge over a deep defile in the outskirts, called the Ponte delle strege--the Witches' Bridge--being deemed too daring for human builders. Mori, though named from its mulberry trees, is more famed for its tobacco, which is reckoned the best grown in Tirol. Wälsch-Tirol has many traditions, customs and sayings, which differ from those of the rest of the Principality, more resembling those of Italy, and some of which it cannot be fanciful to trace back to an Etruscan connection. Some bear the impress of the Roman occupation, and all are strung together by an overpowering Germanic influence. The most prominent group--and their special home, I am assured, clusters round the Dolomite mountains--are those concerning certain beings called 'Salvan' and 'Gannes;' and traditions about 'Orco.' A local collector of such lore, to whom I am chiefly indebted for the above fact, is inclined to identify the 'Salvan' with 'Orco;' but I think it can be shown that they are distinct ideas. Both are only ordinarily, not always malicious, but the 'Salvan' is one of a number of sprites, Orco has the dignity of being one by himself. The Salvan in some respects takes the place of the wild man of the North, and of the satyr whom I also found called in Rome 'salvatico' and 'selvaggio.' [213] 'Orco' clearly takes the place of Orcus in Italy; and that of the 'Teufel' in German legend. Yet so are the traditions of neighbouring peoples intermingled, that the Germans, not content with their own devil, have sprightly imitations of Orco in their 'Nork' and Lorg, softened in the intermediate Deutsch Tirol into Norg. [214] In Norway the same appellation is found, hardened into Nök, Neck, Nikr, [215] which seems to bring us round to our own 'Old Nick;' for in Iceland he is 'Knikur,' and, perhaps, he gave his name to Orkney. [216] It is curious, in tracing the seemingly undoubtable connection between the Norg and Orco, to observe that though the Norg possesses almost invincible strength, and often prevails against giants, yet in stature he is always a dwarf, while Orco himself is considered a giant. But then it is the one essential characteristic of Orco which forms the link between all conceptions of him, whether men call him Orco, Nork, or Nyk, that he is a deceiver ever; a liar from the beginning; whenever he appears it is continually under some ever-changing, not-to-be-expected form, and only the wise guess what he is before it is too late. [217] Thus it happened to two young lads of Mori, who had been up the mountains to visit their sweet-hearts, and coming back, they met Orco prowling about after his manner when all good people are safe in bed asleep--this time in the form of an ass. The Mori lads, never thinking but that it was a common ass, jumped on its back. They soon found out their mistake, for Orco quickly resented their want of discrimination, and cantered off with them past an old building which had once been a prison, and skilfully chucked them both in at the window. It was some days before they contrived to crawl out again, and not till they were nearly starved. But we have in English another affinity with 'Orco,' besides 'Old Nick;' we have seen him take the place of our 'ogre' in deed as well as in name in the Roman fairy tales, and in Italy he is also the bugbear of the nursery which we have almost literally in 'Old Bogey.' And now Mr. I. Taylor has found another affinity for him if he be justified in identifying our 'ogre' with "the Tatar word, 'ugry,' a thief." [218] To return to Orco's place in Tirol, we find his name assumes nearly as many transliterations as his external appearance assumes changes. In Vorarlberg they have a Dorgi or Doggi (i being the frequent local abbreviation for the diminutive lein,--klein), there considered as one personation of the devil. The Doggi spreads over part of Switzerland, and overflows into Alsace as the Doggele. [219] In the zone of Tirol where the Italian and German elements of the population mingle, there is a class of mischievous irrepressible elfs called Orgen; soft, and round, and small, like cats without head or feet, who establish themselves in any part of a house performing all sorts of annoyances, but who are as afraid of egg-shells as the Norgs in other parts are said to be. Their chief home is in the Martelthal, south of Schlanders in the Vintschgau, and their name is devoted to the brightly shining peak seen from it--the Orgelspitz. In the Passeyer, on the north side of the Vintschgau, they go by the name of Oerkelen. Since we have seen him, too, divested of his 'r' in Doggi from Vorarlberg to Alsace, and the Germans have already given him an L in Lorg, he assumes a mysterious likeness to Loki himself, and as a sample of how elastic is language, and how misleading are mere sounds, though for no other purpose, it might be said, we had found in this Doggi a relation of the dog who guards the entrance to the regions of Orcus! The Salvan and Gannes, as described by the local observer above alluded to, seem to partake very much of the character of the good and evil genii of the Etruscans, though the traditions that remain of them refer almost exclusively to their action on this side the grave. 'Their Etruscan appellation,' says Mr. Dennis, 'is not yet discovered;' [220] when it is, it will be very satisfactory if it has any analogy with 'Gannes.' [221] The Gannes were gentle, beauteous, beneficent beings, delighting in being helpful to those they took under their protection; harmful to none. The Salvans were hideous, wild, and fierce, delighting in mischief and destruction, with fiery serpents for their chief companions. They seem to have done all the mischief they could as long as their sway lasted, but they were scared by advancing civilization; and I have a ludicrous description of how they stood gazing down in stupid wonderment from their Dolomite peaks, when the first ploughs were brought into use in the valleys. Schneller, who with all his appreciation of Wälsch-Tirol, looks at its traditions too much through German spectacles, gives us some little account of these beings too. [222] He has also a 'Salvanel,' who seems a male counterpart of his Gannes, helpful and soft-natured, with no vice save a tendency to steal milk. In return he teaches mankind to make butter and cheese, and other useful arts, and is specially kind to little children; his name bears some relation with the local word for the 'Jack-'o-lantern' reflection from glass or water. But he found also the 'Salvan' in his pernicious character under the names of 'Bedelmon,' 'Bildermon,' and 'Salvadegh.' But the most pernicious spirit that came in his way was the 'Beatrik,' who is an unmitigated fury, [223] and the natural enemy and antagonist of a gentle, helpful, beauteous spirit called Angane, Eguane, and Enguane, but possessed with his German ideas, he saw in the being so designated nothing but 'a witch, or perhaps a fairy-natured being.' [224] In another page he pairs them off more fairly with the 'Säligen Fräulein' of Germany. Here is a story of their ways which was given me, but I do not know if it was founded on his at page 215, or independently collected:--A young woodman was surprised one day to meet, in the midst of his lonely toil, a beautiful maiden, who nodded to him familiarly, and bid him 'good day' with more than common interest. Nor did her conversation end with 'good day;' she found enough to prattle about till night fell; and then, though the young woodman had been sitting by her side instead of attending to his work, he found he had a bigger faggot to carry home than he had ever made up with all his day's labour before. 'That was a sweet maiden, indeed,' he mused on his way home. 'And yet I doubt if she is all right. But her talk showed she was of the right stuff to make a housewife; but then Maddalena, what will she say? ha! let her say what she will, she won't stand comparing with her! I wonder if I shall see her again! And yet I don't think she's altogether right, either.' So he mused all through the lonely evening, and all through the sleepless night; and his first thought in the morning was of whether he should meet that strange maiden again in the wood. In the wood he did meet her, and again she wiled away the day with her prattle; and again and again they met. Maddalena sat at home weeping over her spinning-wheel, and wondering why he came no more to take her for a walk; but Maddalena was forgotten, and one day it was her fate to see her former lover and the strange maiden married in the parish church. The woodman was not surprised to find his seiren the model of a wife. The house was swept so clean, the clothes so neatly mended, the butter so quickly churned, that though all the villagers had been shy of the strange maiden, none could deny her excellent capacity. The woodman was very well satisfied with his choice; but as he had always a misgiving that there was something not quite right with her, he could not help nervously watching every little peculiarity. It was thus he came to notice that it was occasionally her custom to lay her long wavy tresses carefully outside the bedclothes at night; he thought this odd, and determined to watch her. One night, when she thought him asleep, and he was only feigning, he observed that she took a little box of salve from under her pillow, and rubbing it into her hair, said, Schiva boschi e schiva selva (shun woods and forests), and then was off and away in a trice. Determined to follow her, he took out the box of salve, and rubbing it into his hair, tried to repeat her saying, but he did not recall it precisely, and said instead, Passa boschi e passa selvi (away through woods and forests), and away he went, faster than he liked, while his clothes and his skin were torn by the branches of the trees. He came, however, to the precincts of a great palace, where was a fresh green meadow, on which were a number of kine grazing, and some were sleek and well-favoured, while some were piteously lean; and yet they all fed on the same pasture. The palace had so many windows that it took him a long while to count them, and when he had counted them he found there were three hundred and sixty-five. He climbed up and looked in at one of them--it was the window of a great hall, where a number of Enguane were dancing, and his wife in their midst. When he saw her, he called out to her; but when she heard his voice, instead of coming she took to flight, nor could he overtake her with all his strength for running. At last, after pursuing her for three days, he came to the hut of a holy hermit, who asked him wherefore he ran so fast; and when he had told him, the hermit bid him give up the chase, for an Enguane was not a proper wife for a Christian man. Then the woodman asked him to let him become a hermit too, and pass the remainder of his life under his guidance. To this the hermit consented; so he built him a house, and they lived together in holy contemplation. One day the woodman told the hermit of what he had seen when he went forth to seek his wife; and the hermit told him that the palace with three hundred and sixty-five windows represented this temporal world, with its years of three hundred and sixty-five days; but the fresh green meadow was the Church, in which the Redeemer gave His Flesh for the food of all alike; but that while some pastured on it to the gain of their eternal salvation, who were represented by the well-favoured kine, there were also the perverse and sinful, who eat to their own condemnation, and were represented by the lean and distressed kine. [225] It is less easy to collect local traditions in Wälsch-Tirol than in any other part of the principality, but legends and marvellous stories exist in abundance; and so long as the institution of the Filò (or out-house room where village gossips meet to spend their evenings in silk-spinning and recounting tales) last, they will not be allowed to die out: [226] it is said that there are some old ladies who can go on retailing stories by the week together! And though by the nature of the case these gatherings must consist almost exclusively of women, yet it is thought uncanny not to have any man about the place; in fact, that in such a case Froberte [227] is sure to play them some trick. They narrate that once when this happened, one of the women exclaimed, 'Only see! we have no man at all among us; let's be off, or something will happen!' All rose to make their escape at the warning, but before they had time to leave, a donna Berta knocked and came in. 'Padrona! donna Berta dal nas longh,' [228] said all the women together, trying to propitiate her by politeness; and the nearest offered her a chair. 'Wait a little, and you'll see another with a longer nose than I,' replied Froberte; and as she spoke, a second donna Berta knocked and entered, to whom the women gave the same greeting. 'Wait a bit, and you'll see another with a longer nose than I,' said the second donna Berta; and so it went on till there were twelve of them. Then the first said, 'What shall we be at?' To which the second made answer, 'Suppose we do a bit of washing:' and the others agreeing, they told the women to give them pails to fetch water with; but the women, knowing that their intention was to have suffocated them all in the wash-tubs, gave them baskets instead. Not noticing the trick, they went down to the Etsch with the baskets to fetch water, and when they found that all their labour was in vain, they ran back in a great fury; but in the meantime the women had all escaped to their home, and every one was safe in bed with her husband. But a Froberte came to the window of each and cried, 'It is well for you you have taken refuge with your husband!' The next night the women were determined to pay off the brava Berta for the fright they had had, so they got one of their husbands to hide himself in the crib of the oxen; had he sat down with them, the Froberte would not have come at all. Not seeing him, Froberte knocked and came in, and they greeted her and gave her a chair, just as on the previous night; and the whole twelve soon arrived. Before they could begin their washing operations, however, the man sprang out of the crib, and put them to flight with many hard blows; so that they did not return for many a long day. The last day of Carneval was called il giorno delle Froberte, probably because many wild pranks in which sober people allow themselves to indulge on that day of licence were laid on the shoulders of Mistress Bertha. But it is also said, that since the sitting of the Holy Council of Trent, the power for mischief of these elves has grown quite insignificant. Here are some few specimens of the multifarious stories of the Filò. [229] Once there was a man and his wife who had two daughters: one pretty, but vain and malicious; the other ugly, but docile and pious. The mother made a favourite of the pretty daughter, but set the ugly one to do all the work of the house; and though she worked from morning to night, was never satisfied with her. One day she sent her down to the stream to do the washing; but the stream was swollen with the heavy rains, and had become so rapid that it carried off her sister's shift. Not daring to go home without it, she ran by the side of the stream, trying to fetch it back. All her pains were vain; the stream went on tumbling and roaring till it swelled out into a big river, and she could no longer even distinguish the shift from the white foam on which it was borne along. At last, hungry and weary, she descried a house, where she knocked with a trembling hand, and begged for shelter. The good woman come to the door, but advised her not to venture in, for the Salvan would soon be home; but the child knew nothing about the Salvan, but a great deal about the storm, and as one was brooding, and night coming on, she crept in. She had not been long inside, when the Salvan came home, also seeking shelter from the storm. 'What stink is this I smell of Christian flesh?' he roared; and the child was too truthful to remained concealed, and so came forward and told all her tale. The Salvan was won by her artlessness, and not only allowed her a bed and a supper, but gave her a basketful of as much fine linen as she could carry, to make up for her loss. When her pretty sister saw what a quantity of fine linen the Salvan had given her, she determined to go and beg for some too; but when the Salvan saw her coming, he holloaed out, 'So you're the child who behaves so ill to your sister!' and he gave her such a rude drubbing, that she went back with very few clothes on that were not in rags. In selecting a specimen or two of the fiabe I will take first a group going by the name of 'Zuam' or 'Gian dall' Orso' (Bear-Johnny), [230] because the Wolf-boy group is a very curious one, and this is our nearest approach to it, [231] though it deals with a bear-child and not a wolf-child; [232] and because we have already found Orso and Orco confounded in Italian folk-lore at Rome. The following is from Val di Non:--A labourer and his wife had their little boy out with them as they worked in the fields. A she-bear came out of the woods and carried him off. She treated him well, however, and taught him to be strong and hardy, and when he was twenty years old she sent him to his parents. He had such an appetite that he eat them out of house and home, and then he made his mother go and beg all over the country till she had enough to buy him three hundredweight of iron to make him a club. Armed with this club, he went forth to seek fortune. In the woods he met a giant carrying a leaden club called Barbiscat ('Cat's Beard'), and the two made friends went out together till they met another giant, who carried a wooden club called Testa di Molton ('Ram's Head'). They made friends and went out together till they came to a house in a town where magicians lived. The giant with Barbiscat knocked first, and at midnight a magician came out and said, 'Earthworm, wherefore are you come?' then he of Barbiscat was frightened and ran away. The next night the giant with Testa di Molton knocked with the same result. But the third night Gian dall' Orso himself knocked, and he had no fear, but when the magician came out he knocked him down with many blows of his iron club, and went to fetch the other two giants. When they returned no magician was to be seen, only a trail of blood. They followed the trail till they came to a deep pit, and Zuam dall' Orso made the giants let him down by a rope. In a cave he found the wounded magician and three others besides, by slaying whom he delivered a beautiful maiden. The giants drew her up, but abandoned him. Then he saw a ring lying on the ground, and when he took it up and rubbed it two Moors appeared and asked him what he wanted. 'I want an eagle, to bear me up to earth,' he said. So they brought him a big eagle, 'but,' said they, 'he must be well fed the while.' So he bid them bring him two shins of beef, and fed him well the while, and the eagle bore him to the king; who finding he was the deliverer of his daughter, killed the two giants, and gave him plenty of gold and silver, with which he went back to his home and lived happily and in peace,--a very homely termination, welcome to the mountaineer's mind. In the Lederthal version he was so strong at two years old that he lifted up the mountain under which the bear's den was, and ran back to his mother; but at school he killed all the children, and knocked down the teacher and the priest, and was sent to prison. Here he lifted the door off its hinges, and went to the judge, and made him give him a sword, with which he went forth to seek fortune. With the two companions picked up by the wayside, who for once do not play him the trick of leaving him below in the cave, he delivers three princesses, and all are made happy. In another version, where he is called 'Filomusso the Smith,' and is nurtured by an ass instead of a bear, the provision of meat for feeding the eagle is exhausted before he reaches the earth, and he heroically tears a piece of flesh out of his own leg, and thus the flight can be completed. 2. The following version of the story of Joseph and his Brethren is quaint:--A king had three sons. The two elder were grown up, while Jacob (the Italian is not given) was still quite small, and was his father's pet. One day, when the king came back from hunting, he was quite out of sorts because he had lost the feather (la penna dell' uccello sgrifone) he was wont always to wear. When everyone had sought for it in vain, little Jacob came to him, and bid him eat and be of good cheer for he and his brothers would find the feather. The king promises his kingdom to whichever of the three finds it. Little Jacob finds the feather, and carries it full of joy to his brothers. The brothers, jealous that he should have the kingdom, kill him and take the feather to their father. A year after a shepherd finds little Jacob's bones, and takes one of them to make a fife, but as soon as he begins to play upon it the fife tells the whole story of the foul play. The shepherd takes it to the king, who convicts his two sons, has them put to death, and dies of grief. 3. Here is a homely version of Oidipous and the Sphinx:--A poor man owed a large debt and had nothing to pay it with. The rich man to whom he owed it came to demand the sum, and found only the poor man's little boy sitting by the hearth. 'What are you doing?' asked the rich man. 'I watch them come and go,' replied the boy. 'Do so many people come to you then?' enquired the rich man. 'No man,' replied the boy. Not liking to own himself puzzled, the rich man asked again, 'Where is your father?' 'He's gone to plug a hole with another hole,' replied the boy. Posed again, the rich man proceeded, 'And where's your mother?' 'She's baking bread that's already eaten,' replied the boy. 'You are either very clever or a great idiot,' now retorted the rich man; 'will you please to explain yourself?' 'Yes, if you will reward me by forgiving father his debt.' The rich man accepted the terms, and the boy proceeded. 'I'm boiling beans, and the bubbling water makes them seethe, and I watch them come and go. My father is gone to borrow a sum of money to pay you with, so to plug one hole he is making another. All the bread we have eaten for a fortnight past was borrowed of a neighbour, now mother is making some to pay it back with, so I may well say what she is making is already eaten.' The rich man expressed himself satisfied, and the poor man was delivered from the burden of his debt. 4. A poor country lad once went out into the wide world to seek fortune. As he went along he met a very old woman carrying a pail of water, with which she seemed sadly overladen. The poor lad ran after her, and carried it home for her. But she was an Angana, and to reward him she gave him a dog and a cat, and a little silver ring, which she told him to turn round whenever he was in difficulty. The boy walked on, thinking little about the old woman's ring, and not at all believing in its efficacy. When he got tired with his walking he laid down under a tree, but he was too hungry to sleep. As he lay tossing about he twirled the ring round without knowing what he was doing, and suddenly an old woman appeared before him, just like the one he had helped, and asked what he wanted of her. 'Something to eat and drink,' was the ready and natural answer. He had hardly spoken it when he found a table spread with good things before him. He made a good meal, nor did he neglect to feed his dog and cat well; and then they all had a good sleep. In the morning he reasoned, 'Why should I journey further when my ring can give one all one wants?' So he turned the ring round; and when the old woman appeared he asked for a house, and meadows, and farming-stock, and furniture; and then he paused to think of what more he could possibly desire; but he remembered the lessons of moderation his mother had taught him, and he said, 'No, it is not good for a man to have all he wants in this world.' So he asked for nothing more, but set to work to cultivate his land. One day when he was working on his land, a grand damsel came by with a number of servants riding after her. The damsel had lost her way, and had to ask him to lead her back to the right path. As they went, she talked to him about his house and his means, and his way of life; and before she had got to her journey's end they were so well pleased with each other that she agreed to go back with him and marry him; but it was the ring she was in love with rather than with him. They were no sooner married than she got possession of the ring, and by its power she ordered the farm-house to be changed into a palace, and the farm-servants into liveried retainers, and all manner of luxuries, and chests of coin. Nor was she satisfied with this. One day, when her husband was asleep in a summer-house, she ordered it to be carried up to the highest tip of a very high mountain, and the palace far away into her own country. When he woke he found himself all alone on the frightful height, with no one but the dog and cat, who always slept the one at his head and the other at his feet. Though he was an expert climber it was impossible to get down from so sharp a peak, so he sat down and gave himself up to despair. The cat and dog, however, comforted him, and said they would provide the remedy. They clambered down the rugged declivity, and ran on together till they came to a stream which puss could not cross, but the dog put her on his back and swam over with her; and without further adventure they made their way to the palace where their master's wife lived. With some cleverness they manoeuvred their way into the interior, but into the bed-room there seemed no chance of effecting an entrance. They paced up and down hour by hour, but the door was never opened. At last, when all was very still, a mouse came running along the corridor. The cat pounced on the mouse, who pleaded hard for mercy in favour of her seven small children. 'If I restore you to liberty,' said the cat, 'you must do something for me in return.' The mouse promised everything; and the cat instructed her to gnaw a hole in the door, and fetch the ring out of the princess's mouth, where she made no doubt she kept it at night for safety. The mouse kept her word, and obeying her directions punctually, soon returned with the ring; and off the cat and dog set on their return home, in high glee at their success. It rankled, however, in the dog's mind, that it was the cat who had all the glory of recovering the treasure; and by the time they had got back to the stream he told her that if she would not give him the satisfaction of carrying the ring the rest of the way, he would not carry her over it. The cat would not accept his view, and a fight ensued, in the midst of which the ring escaped them both and fell into the water, where it was caught by a fish. The cat was in despair, but the dog plunged in and seized the fish, and by regaining the ring earned equal right to the merit of its recovery, and they clambered together in amity. Their master was rejoiced to receive his ring once more, and by its power he got back his homestead and farm-stock, and sent for his mother to live with him, and all his life through took great care of his faithful dog and cat; but the perverse princess he ordered the ring to transfer in the summer-house to the peak whither she would have banished him. When all this was set in order he threw away the ring, because he said it was not well for a man to have all his wishes satisfied in this world. [233] The following legend of St. Kümmerniss is very popular in Tirol. Churchill, in his 'Titian's Country,' mentions a chapel on the borders of Cadore and Wälsch-Tirol, where she is represented just as there described, but he does not appear to have inquired into its symbolism. There was once a heathen king who had a daughter named Kümmerniss, who was fair and beautiful beyond compare. A neighbouring king, also a heathen, sought her in marriage, and her father gave his consent to the union; but Kümmerniss was distressed beyond measure, for she had vowed in her own heart to be the bride of heaven. Of course her father could not understand her motives, and to force her to marry put her into a hard prison. From the depths of the dungeon Kümmerniss prayed that she might be so transformed that no man should wish to marry her; and in conformity with her devoted petition, when they came to take her out of the prison they found that all her beauty was gone, and her face overgrown with long hair like a man's beard. When her father saw the change in her he was indignant, and asked what had befallen her. She replied that He whom she adored had changed her so, to save her from marrying the heathen king after she had vowed herself to be His bride alone. 'Then shall you die, like Him you adore,' was her father's answer. She meekly replied that she had no greater desire than to die, that she might be united with Him. And thus her pure life was taken a sweet sacrifice; and whoso would like her be altogether devoted to God, and like her obtain their petition from heaven, let them honour her, and cause her effigy to be painted in the church. So many believed they found the efficacy of her intercession, that they set up memorial images of her everywhere, and in one place they set one up all in pure gold. A poor minstrel once came by that way with his violin; and because he had earned nothing, and was near starving, he stood before St. Kümmerniss and played his prayer on his violin. Plaintive and more plaintive still grew his beseeching notes, till at last the saint, who never sent any away empty, shook off one of her golden shoes, and bid him take it for an alms. The minstrel carried the golden shoe to a goldsmith, and asked him to buy it of him for money; but the goldsmith, recognizing whence it came, refused to have anything to do with sacrilegious traffic, and accused him of stealing it. The minstrel loudly protested his innocence, and the goldsmith as loudly vociferated his accusation, till their clamour raised the whole village; and all were full of fury and indignation at the supposed crime of the minstrel. As their anger grew, they were near tearing him in pieces, when a grave hermit came by, and they asked him to judge the case. 'If it be true that the man obtained one shoe by his minstrelsy, let him play till he obtain the other in our sight,' was his sentence; and all the people were so pleased with it, that they dragged the minstrel back to the shrine of St. Kümmerniss. The minstrel, who had been as much astonished as anyone else at his first success, scarcely dared hope for a second, but it was death to shrink from the test; so he rested his instrument on his shoulder, and drew the bow across it with trembling hand. Sweet and plaintive were the shuddering voice-like tones he sent forth before the shrine; but yet the second shoe fell not. The people began to murmur; horror heightened his distress. Cadence after cadence, moan upon moan, wail upon wail, faltered through the air, and entranced every ear and palsied every hand that would have seized him; till at last, overcome with the intensity of his own passionate appeal, the minstrel sank unconscious on the ground. When they went to raise him up, they found that the second golden shoe was no longer on the saint's foot, but that she had cast it towards him. When they saw that, each vied with the other to make amends for the unjust suspicions of the past. The golden shoes were restored to the saint; but the minstrel never wanted for good entertainment for the rest of his life. 'Puss in Boots' figures in the Folklore of Wälsch-Tirol as 'Il Conte Martin della Gatta;' its chief point of variation is that no boots enter into it at all, otherwise the action of the cat is as usual in other versions. There is another class of stories in which the townspeople indulge at the expense of the uninstructed peasants in outlying districts, and which their extreme simplicity and naïveté occasionally justify. I must not close my notice of the Volklore of Wälsch-Tirol without giving some specimens of these. It may be generally observed that stories which have no particular moral point, and are designed only to amuse without instructing, are as frequent in the Trentino as they are rare in the German divisions of Tirol. Turlulù [234] was such a simple boy that he could not be made to do anything aright; and what was worst was, he thought himself so clever that he would always go off without listening to half his instructions. One day his mother sent him with her last piece of money to buy a bit of meat for a poor neighbour; 'And mind,' she said, 'that the butcher doesn't give you all bone.' 'Leave that to me!' cried Turlulù without waiting for an explanation; and off he went to the town. The butcher offered him a nice piece of leg of beef. 'No, no, there's bone to that,' cried Turlulù; 'that won't do.' The butcher, provoked, offered him a lump of lights. Turlulù seeing it look so soft, and no bone at all to it, went off with it quite pleased, but of course the poor neighbour had to starve. When his mother found what he had done, she was in great distress, for she had no money left; so she sent him with a piece of home-spun linen to try to sell it. 'But mind you don't waste your time talking to gossiping old women,' she said. 'Leave that to me, mother,' cried Turlulù; and off he ran. As he got near the market-place, he began crying, 'Fine linen! who wants to buy fine linen!' Several countrywomen, who had come up to town to make purchases, came to look at the quality. 'Go along, you gossiping old things; don't imagine I'm going to sell it to you!' cried Turlulù, and he ran away from them. As he ran on he saw a capitello [235] by the wayside. When he saw the image of the Blessed Virgin, looking so grave and calm, he said, 'Ah, you are no gossip, you shall have my linen;' and he threw it at her feet. 'Come, pay me!' he cried presently; but of course the figure moved not. 'Ah, I see, you've not got the money to-day; I will come back for it to-morrow.' When he came back on the morrow the linen had been picked up by a passer-by, but no money was forthcoming. 'Pay me now,' said Turlulù; but still the figure was immovable. Again and again he repeated the demand, till, finding it still unheeded, he took off his belt, and hit hard and fast upon the image. So great was his violence, that in a very short time he had knocked it to the ground; and lo and behold, inside the now uncovered pedestal were a heap of gold pieces, which some miser had concealed there for greater security. 'My mother herself will own this is good pay for the linen,' cried Turlulù, as he filled his pockets, 'and for once she won't find fault.' His way home lay along the edge of the pond, and as he passed the ducks were crying, 'Quack! quack! quack!' Turlulù thought they were saying Quattro, meaning that he had four pieces of gold. 'That's all you know about it,' cried Turlulù; 'I've got many more than four, many more.' But the ducks continued to cry 'Quack.' 'I tell you there are more than four,' reiterated Turlulù impetuously, but the ducks did not alter their strain. 'Then take them, and count them yourselves, and you'll see what a lot there are!' So saying, he threw the whole treasure into the mud; and as the ducks, scared by the noise, left off their 'quack,' he satisfied himself that he had convinced them, and went home to boast to his mother of the feat. A showman came through a village with a dancing-bear. The people went out to see him, and gave him plenty of halfpence. 'Suppose we try our luck, and go about showing a bear too; it seems a profitable sort of trade,' said one of the lookers-on to another. 'Ay, but where shall we find one?' objected the man addressed. 'Oh, there must be bears to be found; it needs only to go out and look for them.' They went out to look for a bear, and at last really found one, [236] which ran before them and plunged into a cave. 'I'll tell you what we'll do,' said the peasant who had proposed the adventure, 'I'll creep into the cave and seize the bear, and you take hold of my legs and pull us both out together.' The other assented; and in went the first. But the bear, instead of letting him seize it, bit off his head. The other pulled him out as agreed, but was much astonished to find him headless. 'Well, to be sure!' he cried, 'I never noticed the poor fellow came out this morning without his head. I must go home and ask his wife for it.' So saying, he ran back to the man's house. 'I say, neighbour,' he cried, 'did you happen to notice, when your husband went out this morning, whether he had his head on?' 'I never thought to look,' replied the wife, 'but I'll run up and see if he left it in bed; but tell me,' she added, 'will he catch cold for going out without his head on?' 'I don't know as to that,' replied the man; 'but if he should want to whistle he might find it awkward!' A woman working in the fields one day saw a snail, which spread out its horns as she looked at it. In great alarm, she ran to the chief man of the parish, and told him what she had seen. He, too, was horribly frightened, but he mastered his fear, as became the dignity of his office. In order to provide duly for the safety of his village, he sent two trustworthy men with a large sum of money to Trent, to buy a sharp sword; and till their return placed all the able-bodied men on guard. When the man brought the sharp sword back from Trent, he called the heads of the Commune together, and said to them: 'I will not exercise my right of sending any of you in peril of his life, but I ask you which of you is ready to encounter this great danger, and whoever has the courage shall receive a great reward.' Hereupon two of the most valiant came forward as volunteers, and were invested with the sharp sword. In solemn silence they marched boldly to the field where the snail was, and they saw him sitting on the edge of a rotten leaf; but at the moment when they had screwed up their courage to smite him with the edge of the sword, the breeze blew down the leaf and the snail with it. They, however, thought the snail was preparing to attack them, and ran away so fast that they tumbled over the edge of an abyss. The people of a certain village were envious because the church tower of the neighbouring village was higher than theirs. So they held a council to consider what remedy they could apply. No one could think of anything to propose, till the oldest and wisest of them at last rose and advised that a great heap of hay should be laid by the side of their tower, so that it might eat and grow strong, and increase in height. The counsel was received with applause, and every one cheerfully brought his quota to the common sacrifice, till there was a mighty heap of hay laid at the base of the church tower. All the horses and asses that went by, finding such a fine provision of provender laid out for them, ate the hay; but the people seeing the heap diminish, were quite satisfied, and said, 'Our tower must be beginning to grow, you see how fast it eats!' In Wälsch-Tirol the graves are not decked with flowers on All Souls' Day, as in Germany, but on the other hand it is customary for the parish clergy to gather their flocks round them, and say the Rosary kneeling amid the graves. Doles of bread, locally called cuzza, and alms, are given away to the poor on that day, and in some places a particular soup made of beans. The symbolism was formerly carried so far, that these alms, devoted to the refreshment of the souls of the departed, were actually laid on the graves, as if it was supposed that the holy souls would come out and partake of the material food. And thus some even placed vessels of cold water as a special means of solace from their purgatorial pains. [237] In the north of Italy, the feast of Sta. Lucia (December 13) holds the place of that of St. Nicholas among children in Germany; in Wälsch-Tirol the children have the advantage of keeping both. In Val Arsa, part of the loaves baked on Christmas Eve are kept, as Cross-buns used to be among us. In Folgareit they have a curious game for Christmas-tide. A number of heaps of flour, according to the number of the household, are arranged on the table by the father of the family, some little present being covered up in each; when they are thus prepared the family is admitted, and the choice of places decided by various modes of contest. In several parts, particularly in the Rabbithal, the Lombard [238] custom prevails of putting a huge log on the fire, called the Zocco di Natale and the Zocco di ogni bene, that it may burn all night and keep the Divine Infant from the cold. The idea, more or less prevalent all over Christendom, that beasts have the gift of speech on Christmas Eve, prevails here no less. A story is told of a peasant who determined to sit up and listen to what his oxen said. 'Where shall we have to go to-morrow?' he heard one say. 'We shall have to fetch the boards for our master's coffin,' replied his companion. The man was so shocked, that he went to bed and died next day. Animals are blessed on St. Anthony's day (January 18), as in Rome. Carnival is celebrated with representations partaking somewhat of the character of 'Passion Plays,' though always with more or less humorous treatment of their subject. Till lately there lingered a curious pastime at this season, in which on Giovedì grasso there was a contest, according to fixed rules, between the masked and unmasked inhabitants, for certain cakes (gnocchi) made of Indian corn, whence the day is still called Giovedì dei gnocchi. It commemorated a fight between the men of Trent and them of Feltre, who tried to carry off their provision while they were building the walls of Trent, in the time of Theodoric King of the Visigoths. S. Urban is considered the patron of vineyards in Etschland, and on his feast his images are hung with bunches of grapes. Here are a few specimens of their popular sayings and customs. When it thunders the children say, Domeniddio va in carozza. The chirping of a cricket, instead of being reckoned a lucky token, forebodes death. Sponsors are regarded a person's nearest relations, and at their funeral they go as chief mourners before all others. Marriages in May are avoided. The reason why the bramble always creeps along, instead of growing erect, is, because once a thorny bramble branch caught the hair of the Blessed Virgin; before that it grew erect like other trees. Cockchafers are blind, because one of them once flew into the Blessed Virgin's face and startled her; before that they had sight. Swallows are called uccelli della Madonna, but I have not ascertained the reason. Scorpions, which are venomous in Italy, are not so in the Italian Tirol, because one fell once into St. Vigilius' chalice at Mass. I will conclude with some popular riddles, showing a traditionary observation of the movements of the heavenly bodies, but not much humour: Due viandanti, Due ben stanti, E un cardinal? [239] Gh' è 'n prà Tutto garofalà: Quanca se vien el Papa con tutta la sô paperia En garòfol sol no l'è bon de portar via? [240] Piatto sopra piatto, Uomo ben armato, Donna ben vestita. Cavalleria ben fornita? [241] C'è un palazzo, vi son dodici camere, ognuna ne ha trenta travi, e vi son due che si corrono sempre l'uno dietro all' altro e non si raggiungono mai? [242] O mein Tirol! wie ich mit Schmerzentzücken Dich nun geschaut vor meinen feuchten Blicken. So lebt dein rührend Bild im tiefsten Sinn. Nimm denn, Tirol, des Schmerzbegeistrungstrunk'nen, Des ganz in dich Verlornen und Versunk'nen Liebvolles Lebewohl, mit Liebe hin! Eduard Silesius. NOTES [1] This is what the introduction of manufactories is doing in Italy at this moment. The director of a large establishment in Tuscany, which devours, to its own share, the growth of a whole hill-side every year, smiled at my simplicity when I expressed regret at hearing that no provision was made for replacing the timber as it is consumed. [2] Except the Legends of the Marmolata, which I have given in 'Household Stories from the Land of Hofer; or, Popular Myths of Tirol,' I hardly remember to have met any concerning its prominent heights. [3] I published much of the matter of the following pages in the first instance in the Monthly Packet, and I have to thank the Editor for my present use of them. [4] See Steub 'Über die Urbewohner Rätiens und ihren Zusammenhang mit den Etruskern. Münich, 1843,' quoted in Dennis' Cities and Cemeteries of Etruria, I. Preface, p. xlv. [5] See it in use below, p. 28, and comp. Etruscan Res. p. 302, note. [6] Somewhat like pleurer. A good many words are like French, as gutschle, a settle (couche); schesa, a gig; and gespusa, mentioned above, is like épouse; and au, for water, is common over N. Tirol, as well as Vorarlberg, e.g. infra, pp. 24, 111. &c. [7] Comp. Etrus. Res. 339-41. [8] Several places have received their name from having grown round such a hut; some of these occur outside Vorarlberg, as for instance Kühthei near St. Sigismund (infra, p. 331) in the Lisenthal, and Niederthei in the OEtzthal. [9] Comp. ma = earth, land, Etrus. Res. pp. 121, 285. [10] Comp. subulo, Etrus. Res. 324. Dennis i. 339. [11] Infra, p. 411. [12] See e.g., infra, p. 202. [13] Etrus. Res. p. 330. [14] P. 79. [15] Professor Max Müller, Chips from a German Workshop. [16] Rev. G. W. Cox, Prof. De Gubernatis, Dr. Dasent, &c. [17] In the Contemporary Review for March 1874. [18] Mr. Cox had pointed it out before him, however, and more fully, Mythology of the Aryan Nations, ii. 200. [19] L'una vegghiava a studio della culla, E consolando usava l'idioma, Che pria li padri e le madri trastulla: L'altra traendo alla rocca la chioma Favoleggiava con la sua famiglia De' Troiani, e di Fiesole, e di Roma. Dante. Paradiso, xv. 120 5. [20] Tullio Dandolo. [21] Depping, Romancero, Preface. [22] The usual fate of relying on Road-books. Ours, I forget whether Amthor's or Trautwein's, said there was regular communication between Oberriet and Feldkirch, and nothing could be further from the fact, as will be seen a few pages later. [23] If Pfäffers is visited by rail (see p. 23), it is convenient to take it before Feldkirch. [24] See further quaint details and historical particulars in Vonbun, Sagen Vorarlbergs, p. 103-5. [25] Vonbun, pp. 113-4. [26] Historical particulars in Vonbun, pp. 110-1. [27] Vonbun, pp. 86-7. [28] It may also be reached by railway as it is but three or four miles from Ragatz, two stations beyond Buchs (p. 13). [29] It has been suggested by an eminent comparative mythologist that it is natural Luc-ius should be said to have brought 'the Light of the Gospel' to men of Licht-enstein. [30] The traitor was loaded with heavy armour and thrown over the Ill precipice. See Vonbun's parallel with the tradition of the Tarpeian rock, p. 99 n. 2. [31] Notably at Raggal, Sonntag, Damüls, Luterns, and also in Lichtenstein.--Vonbun, pp. 107-8. [32] Infra, Chapter viii., p. 238. [33] Vonbun, pp. 92-3. [34] Some analogous cases quoted in Sagas from the Far East, pp. 365, 383-5. [35] Father! take me also with you. [36] Vonbun, pp. 115-7. [37] The story of its curious success against the Bavarians in 1703, p. 287-8. From Landeck there is a fine road (the description of which belongs to Snitt-Tirol), over the Finstermünz and Stelvio, to the baths of Bormio or Worms. [38] The chief encounter occurred at a place called Le Tezze, near Primolano, on the Venetian border, where the Tiroleans repulsed the Italians, in numbers tenfold greater than their own, and no further attempt was made. The anniversary is regularly observed by visiting the graves on August 14; mentioned below at Le Tezze. [39] Following are the names of the fourteen, but I have never met any one who could explain the selection. 1. S. Acatius, bishop in Asia Minor, saved from death in the persecutions under Decius, 250, by a miracle he performed in the judgment hall where he was tried, and in memory of which he carries a tree, or a branch of one, in pictures of him. 2. S. Ægidius (Giles, in German, Gilgen), Hermit, of Nimes, nourished in his cell by the milk of a hind, which, being hunted, led to the discovery of his sanctity, an episode constantly recurring in the legendary world. Another poetical legend concerning him is that a monk, having come to him to express a doubt as to the virginity of Our Lady, S. Giles, for all answer traced her name in the sand with his staff, and forthwith full-bloom lilies sprang up out of it. 3. S. Barbara. A maiden whom her heathen father shut up in a tower, that nothing might distract her attention from the life of study to which he devoted her; among the learned men who came to enjoy her elevated conversation came a Christian teacher, and converted her; in token of her belief in the doctrine of the Trinity she had three windows made in her tower, and by the token her father discovered her conversion, delivered her to judgment, and she suffered an incredible repetition of martyrdoms. She is generally painted with her three-windowed tower in her hand. 4. S. Blase, Bishop of Sebaste and Martyr, A.D. 288. He had studied medicine, and when concealed in the woods during time of persecution, the wild beasts used to bring the wounded of their number to his feet to be healed. Men hunting for Christians to drag to justice, found him surrounded by lions, tigers, and bears; even in prison he continued to exercise his healing powers, and from restoring to life a boy who had been suffocated by swallowing a fishbone, he is invoked as patron against sore throat. He too suffered numerous martyrdoms. 5. S. Christopher. 6. S. Cyriacus, Martyr, 309, concerning whom many legends are told of his having delivered two princesses from incurable maladies. 7. S. Dionysius, the Areopagite, converted by S. Paul, and consecrated by him Bishop of Athens, afterwards called to Rome by S. Peter, and made Bishop of Paris. 8. S. Erasmus, a bishop in Syria, after enduring many tortures there, he was thrown into prison, and delivered by an angel, who sent him to preach Christianity in Italy, he died at Gaeta 303. At Naples and other places he is honoured as S. Elmo. 9. S. Eustachius, originally called Placidus, a Roman officer, converted while hunting by meeting a stag which carried a refulgent cross between its horns; his subsequent reverses, his loss of wife and children, the wonderful meeting with them again, and the agency of animals throughout, make his one of the most romantic of legends. 10. S. George. 11. S. Catherine of Alexandria. 12. S. Margaret. 13. S. Pantaleone, another student of medicine; when, after many tortures, he was finally beheaded, the legend tells us that, in token of the purity of his life, milk flowed from his veins instead of blood, A.D. 380. 14. S. Vitus, a Sicilian, instructed by a slave, who was his nurse, in the Christian faith in his early years; his father's endeavours to root out his belief were unavailing, and he suffered A.D. 303, at not more than twelve years of age. The only link I can discover in this chain of saints is that they are all but one or two, whose alleged end I do not know, as S. Christopher, credited with having suffered a plurality of terrible martyrdoms. To each is of course ascribed the patronage over some special one of the various phases of human suffering. [40] P. 12. [41] Among these not the least remarkable were some specimens of the unbrimmed beaver hat, somewhat resembling the Grenadier's bear-skin, only shorter, which is worn by the women in various parts of Tirol and Styria. [42] The bell called in other countries the Elevation bell, is in Germany called the Wandlung, or change-of-the-elements bell. The idiom was worth preserving here, as it depicts more perfectly the solemnity of the moment indicated. [43] The threefold invocation, supposed to be supremely efficacious. [44] In Tirol the roofs are frequently made of narrow overlapping planks, weighed down by large stones. Hence the origin of the German proverb, 'If a stone fall from the roof, ten to one but it lights on a poor widow;'--equivalent to our 'Trouble never comes alone.' [45] 'May God reward it.' [46] The frontispiece to this volume (very much improved by the artist who has drawn it on the wood). [47] Of the Brixenthal and the Gebiet der grossen Ache we shall have to speak in a later chapter, in our excursion 'from Wörgl to Vienna.' [48] The comparative mythologist can perhaps tell us why this story crops up everywhere. I have had occasion to report it from Spain in Patrañas. Curious instances in Stöber Sagen des Elsasses. [49] S. Leonard is reckoned the patron of herds. See Pilger durch Tirol, p. 247. [50] Anna Maria Taigi, lately beatified in Rome, was also a maid-servant. [51] I have throughout the story reconciled, as well as I could, the various versions of every episode in which local tradition indulges. One favourite account of Ottilia's end, however, is so different from the one I have selected above, that I cannot forbear giving it also. It represents Ottilia rushing in despair from her bed and wallowing in the enclosure of the pigs, whence, with all Henry's care, she could not be withdrawn alive. All the strength of his retainers was powerless to restrain the beasts' fury, and she was devoured, without leaving a trace behind; only that now and then, on stormy nights, when the pigs are grunting over their evening meal, some memory of their strange repast seems to possess them, and the wail of Ottilia is heard resounding hopelessly through the valley. [52] Grimm has collected (Deutsche Sagen, Nos. 349 and 350) other versions of the tradition of oxen deciding the sites of shrines which, like the story of the steeple, meets us everywhere. A similar one concerning a camel is given in Stöber's Legends of Alsace. [53] It is perhaps to be reckoned among the tokens of Etruscan residence among the Rhætian Alps, for Mr. Isaac Taylor finds that the word belongs to their language. (Etruscan Researches, pp. 333, 380.) [54] 'Hulda was supposed to delight in the neighbourhood of lakes and streams; her glittering mansion was under the blue waters, and at the hour of mid-day she might be seen in the form of a beautiful woman bathing and then disappearing.'--Wolf, Deutsche Götterlehre. See also Grimm, Deutsche Mythologie, pp. 164-8. [55] One version of the legend says, the Frozen Wall was formed out of the quantities of butter the people had wasted. [56] This excursion was made on occasion of a different journey from that mentioned in Chapter i. Of course, if taken on the way from Kufstein to Innsbruck, you would take the Wildschönau before the Zillerthal. [57] Whoever comes into the Zillerthal is sure to visit it a second time. [58] In the Vintschgau (see infra) the leading cow has the title of Proglerin, from the dialectic word proglen, to carry one's head high. She wears also the most resounding bell. [59] 'Kaspar my name: from the East I came: I came thence with great speed: five thousand miles in fourteen days: Melchior, step in.' Zingerle gives a version of the whole set of rimes. [60] See Sitten Bräuche u. Meinungen des Tiroler Volks, p. 81. [61] Its origin may be traced further back than this, perhaps. The cat was held to be the sacred animal of Freia (Schrader, Germ. Myth.), and the word freien, to woo, to court, is derived from her name. (Nork.) [62] The merry mocking laugh was a distinguishing characteristic of Robin Goodfellow. 'Mr. Launcelot Mirehouse, Rector of Pestwood, Wilts, did aver to me, super verbum sacerdotis, that he did once heare such a lowd laugh on the other side of a hedge, and was sure that no human lungs could afford such a laugh.'--John Aubrey, in Thoms' Anecdotes and Traditions, Camb. Camden Society, 1839. [63] O woe! the plough like fire glows, And no one how to help me knows. [64] Released am I now, God be praised, And the bound-stone again rightly placed. [65] The haunting cobbler--a popular name for 'the wandering Jew'; in Switzerland they call him 'Der Umgehende Jud.' [66] (The souls of all unbaptized children.) Börner, Volkssagen, p. 133. [67] A precisely similar superstition is mentioned in Mrs. Whitcomb's recently published volume as existing in Devonshire. We shall meet Berchtl again in the neighbouring 'Gebiet der Grossen Ache' on our excursion from 'Wörgl to Vienna.' [68] Procula is the name given her in the Apocryphal Gospels. [69] 'It is now known that such tales are not the invention of individual writers, but that they are the last remnants--the detritus, if we may say so--of an ancient mythology; that some of the principal heroes bear the nicknames of old heathen gods; and that in spite of the powerful dilution produced by the admixture of Christian ideas, the old leaven of heathendom can still be discovered in many stories now innocently told by German nurses, of saints, apostles, and the Virgin Mary.'--Max Müller, Chips from a German Workshop. [70] Compare Cox's Mythology of the Aryan Nations, vol. ii. p. 364, and passim. [71] Max Müller. Review of Dasent's Works. [72] Max Müller. Comparative Mythology. [73] A tradition still held of the Berchtl in many parts of Tirol. [74] Nork. Mythologie der Volkssagen. [75] Abbé Banier. Mythology Explained from History. Vol. ii. Book 3, p. 564, note a. [76] Nork, Banier, &c. Cox's Mythology of the Aryan Nations, vol. i. pp. 317-8 and note, gives other connexions of the Legend; and at vol. ii. p. 306, and note to p. 365. [77] M. Müller. Review of Kelley's Indo-European Traditions. [78] Weber says the only accusation was grounded on a pasquinade against Claudia found among his papers, but that he should calumniate her seems inconsistent with his general character. Though his unsparing lampoons on his adversaries had excited them more than anything else against him. [79] Compare Gebhart, vol. ii. p. 240. [80] Near Innsbruck. [81] Staffler, Das Deutsche Tirol, vol. i. p. 751; and Thaler, Geschichte Tirols v. der Urzeit, p. 279. [82] Ball's Central Alps. [83] Pasture-ground lying at the base of a mountain. [84] Alpine herdsman. [85] Respecting the curious idea of the kalte Pein, consult Alpenburg, Mythen Tirols; Vernalken, Alpensagen; Beckstein, Thuringer Sagenbuch. See also Dr. Dasent's remarks about Hel in Popular Tales from the Norse; and Dante (notably Inferno, cantos vi. xxii. xxiv.) introduces cold among the pains of even the Christian idea of future punishment. [86] Here we have quite the Etruscan idea of providing against after-death needs with appliances connected with the mortal state. Dennis (Cities and Cemeteries of Etruria, vol. i. p. 34) mentions more material traces of Etruscan beliefs at Matrei, on the north side of the Brenner. Somewhat further south more important remains still have of late years been unearthed, as we shall have occasion to note by-and-by. The story in the text, in its depiction of self-devotion, has much analogy with a Chinese legend told to me by Dr. Samuel Birch, of the British Museum, concerning a man who sacrifices his own life in order to put himself on fighting terms with a cruel spirit which torments that of his dead companion. In its details it is like the story I have pointed out in Folklore of Rome (the 'Tale of the Pilgrim Husband,' pp. 361-3 and xvii), as the most devious from Christian teaching of any of the legends I have met with in Rome; and it is particularly noteworthy in connexion with Mr. Isaac Taylor's summary of the Etruscan creed (Etruscan Researches, p. 270). 'The Turanian creed was Animistic. The gods needed no gifts, but the wants of the ancestral spirits had to be supplied: the spirits of the departed were served in the ghost-world by the spirits of the utensils and ornaments which they had used in life.') And in effect we find in every collection of the contents preserved at the opening of Etruscan tombs, not only gems and jewellery and household utensils, but remains also of every kind of food. [87] There is something like this in Dean Milman's Annals of St. Paul's Cathedral:--'"Others," adds Bishop Braybroke, "by the instigation of the devil, do not scruple to play at ball, and other unseemly games, within the church (he is speaking of St. Paul's), breaking the costly painted windows, to the amazement of the spectators."' Speaking of the post-Reformation period, the Dean adds: 'If, when the cathedral was more or less occupied by sacred subjects, the invasion of the sanctuary by worldly sinners resisted all attempts at suppression; now, that the daily service had shrunk into mere forms of prayer, at best into a mere 'Cathedral Service,' ... it cannot be wondered at that the reverence, which all the splendour of the old ritual could not maintain, died away altogether as Puritanism rose in the ascendant.' Mr. Longman, however (The Three Cathedrals, p. 54-6), quotes the very stringent regulations which were issued for the repression of such practices: perhaps the legend constructor would say, these afford the reason why, though St. Paul's was profaned like the church of Achensee, it did not 'likewise perish.' [88] Nork (Mythologie der Volksagen, vol. ix. p. 83) gives other significations to horse-shoes found in the walls of old churches, but does not mention this instance. Concerning the origin of the superstition about vampires, see Cox's Mythology of the Aryan Nations, vol. i. p. 363; also p. 63 and p. 429. [89] Gebhart. [90] 'Probably early in the ninth century.'--Scherer. [91] Burglechner. Pilger durch Tirol. Panzer. Mülhenhof. [92] Lit. a 'cattle-breeding-farm.' [93] It follows that (when mountain scenery is not the special object with the tourist) it is better to visit Viecht when staying at Schwatz (Chapters vi. and vii.) than from Jenbach, at least it is a much less toilsome ascent on this side from Viecht to S. Georgenberg, the most interesting point of the pilgrimage. At S. Georgenberg there is a good mountain inn. [94] In his reign, 1440-90, it was that the silver-mines of Tirol were discovered; and the abundant influx, to the extent of 500 cwt. annually, of the precious metal into his treasury, led him to treat its stores as exhaustless; though the richest monarch of his time, his easy open-handed disposition continually led him into debt, and made his subjects finally induce him in his old age to resign in favour of his cousin, the Emperor Maximilian I. It is a token of the simplicity of the times, that one of the gravest reproaches against him was that he indulged in the luxury of silk stockings! He married Eleanor, daughter of James II. of Scotland. [95] See infra in the Stubayerthal. [96] In battle impetuous, yet merciful; in time of peace tranquil, and faithful to his country's laws; whether as a warrior, a subject, or an individual, worthy of honour as of love. [97] Steward of the salt-mines. [98] Johanniswürmchen, fire-flies. [99] Peasants' war. [100] Burglechner. [101] Colin de Plancy, Légendes des sept pechés capitaux, Appendice; and Nork, Mythologie der Volkssagen, point out that the dragon, sacred to Wodin, was placed on houses, town gates, and belfries, as a talisman against evil influences. See also some remarks on the two-fold character of dragons in mythology in Cox's Mythology of the Aryan Nations, i. 428. [102] Compare Leoprechting, Aus dem Lechrain, page 78. Müllenhof Sagen der Herzogthümer Schleswig Holstein u. Lauenburg, page 237. [103] Mother of mercy. [104] A touching story has been made out of his history in Alpen Blumen Tirols. [105] This was designed so as to coincide with the time when the faithful throughout the world were saying the De Profundis. [106] A similar fact for the comparative mythologist is recorded p. 123-4, in the case of the Bienerweible. While these sheets were preparing for the press, a singular one nearer home was brought under my notice. A little girl being asked at a national school examination, 'What David was before he was made king?' answered, 'Jack the Giant-killer.' This is a noteworthy instance of the hold of myths on the popular mind; it did not proceed from defective instruction, for the school is one of the very first in its reports, and the child not at all backward. [107] Concerning der feurige Mann, and the mark of his burning hand, see Stöber Sagen des Elsasses, p. 222-3. [108] At page 145. [109] 'Feigen-Kaffee,' made of figs roasted and ground to powder, is sold throughout Austria. [110] Aubrey de Vere's Greece and Turkey. [111] Burglechner. A.D. 1409. [112] Mineral wealth--lit. Mountain-blessing. [113] I was told there that it had been reckoned that 500,000 cigars are smoked per diem in Tirol. [114] The date of death on the tombstone of Lukas Hirtzfogel, whom tradition calls the architect of this church, is 1475. [115] Brush for sprinkling holy-water. [116] See note to p. 140. [117] See p. 95. [118] See note to p. 48. [119] 'The most precious good,' or 'possession;' a Tirolean expression for the Blessed Sacrament. [120] George of Freundsberg; a man of great strength; a worthy hero; master of the field in combat and war; in every battle the enemy fell before him. The honour and power he ascribed to God. [121] Maundy Thursday. [122] Stöber Sagen des Elsasses records a legend of a similar judgment befalling a man who, in fury at a long drought, shot off three arrows against heaven. [123] Leichtsinnig. [124] God prosper and bless you! [125] Supra, pp. 80-2. [126] Rout of the Bavarians. [127] See pp. 151-2. [128] Grimm (Deutsche Sagen, No. 492) gives an interesting legend of the Hasslacherbrunnlein (half way between Kolsass and Wattens) and of the resistance offered by the inhabitants of Tirol to the Roman invasion of their country. [129] The suppression of this and several other convents, in 1783, was a measure sufficiently unpopular to almost neutralize the popularity Joseph II. enjoyed as son of Maria Theresa. The suppression was not, however, accompanied by spoliation; the funds were devoted to provide a moderate stipend to a number of women of reduced circumstances belonging to noble families. [130] Stone of Obedience. [131] I have met with another sprout of this banyan at the Monastery of the Sacro Speco in the Papal State, where a huge fragment of rock, so nicely balanced that it looks as if a breath might send it over the cliff, is pointed out as having stood still for centuries at the word of S. Benedict, who bid it 'non dannegiare i sudditi miei.' [132] Wolf, Beiträge zur deutschen Mythologie, vol. ii. pp. 17-21. Müller, Niedersächsische Sagen, p. 51. Müllenhoff, Sagen der Herzogthümer Schleswig-Holstein u. Lanenburg, p. 184. [133] So strong is the prejudice in Tirol against Jews, that it is said to be most difficult to find any one who will consent to act the part of Judas in the Passion plays. There is a very strong personal dislike to Judas throughout Tirol, and I have also heard that the custom of burning him in effigy occurs in various places. Karl Blind, in the article quoted above, (p. 3,) accounts for this custom in the following way: 'After the appearance of fermenting matter it was said' (in what he calls the germanic mythology) 'that there rose in course of time--even as in Greek mythology--first a half-human, half-divine race of giants, and then a race of Gods; the Gods had to wage war against the giants and finally vanquished them. Evidently the giants represent a torpid barren state of things in nature, whilst the Gods signify the sap and fulness of life which struggles into distinct and beautiful form. There was a custom among the Germanic tribes of celebrating this victory over the uncouth Titans by a festival, when a gigantic doll was carried round in Guy Fawkes manner and at last burnt. To this day there are traces of the heathen practice. In some parts of Europe, so-called Judas-fires, which have their origin in the burning of the doll which represented the giants or jötun. In some places, owing to another perversion of things and words, people run about on that fête-day shouting 'burn the old Jew!' The jötun was in fact, when Christianity came in, first converted into Judas and then into a Jew, a transition to which the similarity of the sound of the words easily lent itself.' No doubt jötun sounds very like Juden but not all coincidences are consequences, and it is quite possible that the old heathen custom had quite died out before that of burning Judas in effigy began, as it certainly had before Guy Fawkes began to be so treated. The same treatment of Judas' memory occurs, too, in Spain on the day before Good Friday. [134] S. Simeon of Trent is commemorated in the Roman Breviary (on the 25th March). S. Andreas of Rinn has not received this honour. [135] Keller, in his Volkslieder, p. 242, gives an analogous legend of a poor idiot boy, who lived alone in the forest and was never heard to say any words but 'Ave Maria.' After his death a lily sprang up on his grave, on whose petals 'Ave Maria' might be distinctly read. It is a not unusual form of legend; Bagatta, Admiranda orbis Christiani, gives fifteen such. [136] The ballad concerning the analogous English Legend of Hugh of Lincoln seems to demand to be remembered here:-- HUGH OF LINCOLN (SHOWING THE CRUELTY OF A JEW'S DAUGHTER). A' the boys of merry Lincoln, Were playing at the ba', And up it stands him, sweet Sir Hugh, The flower among them a'. He kicked the ba' there wi' his feet, And keppit it wi' his knee, Till even in at the Jew's window, He gart the bonny ba' flee. 'Cast out the ba' to me, fair maid, Cast out the ba' to me;' 'Never a bit,' says the Jew's daughter, 'Till ye come up to me.' 'Come up, sweet Hugh! come up, dear Hugh! Come up and get the ba';' 'I winna come, I minna come, Without my bonny boys a'.' She's ta'en her to the Jew's garden, Where the grass grew long and green; She's pu'd an apple red and white, To wyle the bonny boy in. When bells were rung and mass was sung, And every bairn went home; Then ilka lady had her young son, But Lady Helen had none. She row'd her mantle her about, And sair, sair, 'gan to weep: And she ran into the Jew's house When they were all asleep. 'The lead is wondrous heavy, mither, The well is wondrous deep; A keen penknife sticks in my heart, 'Tis hard for me to speak.' 'Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear, Fetch me my winding-sheet; And at the back of merry Lincoln, 'Tis there we twa shall meet.' Now Lady Helen she's gane hame, Made him a winding-sheet; And at the back o' merry Lincoln, The dead corpse did her meet. And a' the bells o' merry Lincoln Without men's hands were rung; And a' the books o' merry Lincoln, Were read without men's tongue; Never was such a burial Since Adam's days begun. [137] There is a carriage-road reaching nearly to the top of the Lanserkopf. [138] The best shops are in the Franziskanergruben. [139] Grimm, Deutsche Sagen, No. 139. [140] Under four pillars. [141] See p. 69. [142] Of the earlier history of Tirol we shall have to speak when we come to Schloss Tirol and Greifenstein. [143] Consult Zoller, Geschichte der Stadt Innsbruck; and Staffler, das Deutsche Tirol. [144] See p. 146. [145] For the convenience of the visitor to Innsbruck, but not to interrupt the text, I subjoin here a list of the subjects. (1.) The marriage of Maximilian (then aged eighteen) with Mary of Burgundy at Ghent. (2.) His victory over the French at Guinegate, when he was twenty. (3.) The taking of Arras thirteen years later; not only are the fighting folk and the fortifications in this worthy of special praise, but there is a bit of by-play, the careful finish of which must not be overlooked; and the figure of one woman in particular, who is bringing provisions to the camp, is a masterpiece in itself. (4.) Maximilian is crowned King of the Romans. The scene is the interior of the Cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle: the Prince is seated on a sort of throne before the altar; the Electors are busied with their hereditary part in the ceremony; the dresses of the courtiers in the crowd, and the ladies high above in their tribune, are a perfect record for the costumier, so minute are they in faithfulness. (5.) The battle of Castel della Pietra, or Stein am Calliano, the landscape background of which is excellent; the Tirolese are seen driving the Venetians with great fury before them over the Etsch (Adige). (6.) Maximilian's entry into Vienna (1490), in course of the contest for the crown of Hungary after the death of Matthias Corvinus; the figure of Maximilian on his prancing horse is drawn with great spirit. (7.) The siege of Stuhlweissenburg, taken by Maximilian the same year; the horses in this tableau deserve particular notice. (8.) The eighth represents an episode which it must have required some courage to record among the acts of so glorious a reign; it shows Maximilian receiving back his daughter Margaret, when, in 1493, Charles VIII. preferred Anne of Brittany to her. The French envoys hand to the Emperor two keys, symbols of the suzerainty of Burgundy and Artois, the price of the double affront of sending back his daughter and depriving him of his bride, for Anne had been betrothed to him. [Margaret, though endowed with the high qualities of her race, was not destined to be fortunate in her married life: her hand was next sought by Ferdinand V. of Spain for his son Don Juan, who died very shortly after the marriage. She was again married, in 1508, to Philibert Duke of Savoy, who died without children three years later. As Governor of the Netherlands, however, her prudent administration made her very popular.] (9.) Maximilian's campaign against the Turks in Croatia. (10.) The League of Maximilian with Alexander VI., the Doge of Venice, and the Duke of Milan, against Charles VIII. of France; the four potentates stand in a palatial hall joining hands, and the French are seen in the background fleeing in dismay. (11.) The investiture at Worms of Ludovico Sforza with the Duchy of Milan. The portraits of Maximilian are well preserved on each occasion that he is introduced, but in none better than in this one: Maria Bianca is seen seated to the left of the throne, Sforza kneels before them; on the waving standard, which is the token of investiture, the ducal arms are plainly discernible. (12.) The marriage at Brussels, in 1496, of Philip der Schöne, Maximilian's son, with Juana of Spain; the Archbishop of Cambrai is officiating, Maximilian stands on the right side of his son: Charles Quint was born of this marriage. (13.) A victorious campaign in Bohemia in 1504. The 14th represents the episodes of the siege of Kufstein, recorded in the second chapter of these Traditions (1504). (15.) The submission of Charles d'Egmont to Maximilian, 1505. The Kaiser sits his horse majestically; the Duke of Gueldres stands with head uncovered; the battered battlements of the city are seen behind them. (16.) The League of Cambrai, 1508. The scene is a handsome tent in the camp near Cambray; Maximilian, Julius II., Charles VIII., and Ferdinand V., are supposed to meet, to unite in league against Venice. (17.) The Siege of Padua, 1509, the first result of this League; the view of Padua in the distance must have required the artist to have visited the place. (18.) The expulsion of the French from Milan, and reinstatement of Ludovico Sforza, 1512. (19.) The second battle of Guinegate: Maximilian fights on horseback; Henry VIII. leads the allied infantry, 1515. (20.) The conjunction of the Imperial and English forces before Terouenne: Maximilian and Henry are both on foot, 1513. (21.) The battle of Vicenza, 1513. (22.) The Siege of Marano, on the Venetian coast. The 23rd represents a noble hall at Vienna, such details as the pictures on the walls not being omitted: Maximilian is treating with Uladisaus, King of Hungary, for the double marriage of their offspring--Anna and Ludwig, children of the latter, with Ferdinand and Maria, grandchildren of the former--an alliance which had its consequence in the subsequent incorporation of Hungary with the Empire. (24.) The defence of Verona by the Imperial forces against the French and Venetians. [146] Called by the French Philippe 'le Beau,' in distinction from their own 'Philippe le Bel.' [147] This monument earned Ferdinand the title of the Lorenzo de' Medici of Tirol. [148] St. Anthony being the patron invoked against accidents by fire; also against erisypelas, which in some parts of England even is called 'St. Anthony's fire.' [149] Weber, Das Land Tirol, vol. i. p. 218. [150] Zoller Geschickte der Stadt Innsbruck, p. 272; and Weiesegger, vol. vi. p. 61. [151] I have met the same hyperbole in a piece of homely Spanish poetry. [152] 'Now he knows how the just monarch is beloved of Heaven; his beaming countenance yet testifies his joy.' [153] Nork, Mythologie der Volkssagen, p. 419. [154] Exactly the story of the fisherman and the Genius in the copper vessel of the Arabian Nights. It is found also in Grimm's story of the Spirit in the bottle, in the Norse tale of the Master Smith; in that of the Lad and the Devil (Dasent); and in the Gaelic tale of the Soldier (Campbell). [155] Von Alpenburg, Mythen u. Sagen Tirols. [156] See pp. 194, 270, 324-5. [157] They accepted their position with the usual Tirolese loyalty, and never attempted to found any claims to power on the circumstance of their birth. [158] Holy Trinity Church. [159] Patron saints against pestilence: viz. SS. Martha (because according to her legend she built a hospital and ended her life tending the sick), Sebastian (because a plague was stayed in Rome at his intercession), and Rocchus (because of the well-known legend of his self-devotion to the plague-stricken). [160] Mentioned in the chapter on Vorarlberg, p. 23. [161] Thirteen volumes were filled with the narrations of such 'answers' received between 1662 and 1665. [162] Picture of Mary 'Help of Christians'--Auxilium Christianorum. [163] Inglis says that Schor was the architect of this church, and that he had assisted in building the Vatican. [164] It is painted on panel, thirty inches by twenty-one; the figure of our Lady is three quarter-length, but appears to be sitting, as the foot of the Divine Infant seems to rest upon her knee. The tradition concerning it is, that it represents an episode of the Flight into Egypt, when, as the Holy Family rested under a palm-grove, they were overtaken by a band of robbers, headed by S. Demas, the (subsequently) penitent thief. The Holy Child is indeed represented clinging to His Mother--not as in fear, or even as if need were to suggest courage to her, but simply as if an attack sustained in common impelled a closer union of affection. [165] See pp. 123-4. [166] She was on her way to Rome, where she spent the rest of her life. Alexander VII. commissioned Bernini to rebuild the Porta del Popolo, and adorned it with its inscription, Felici, faustoque ingressui, in honour of her entry. [167] See p. 280. [168] Kreidenfeuer--alarm fires, from Krei, a cry. [169] A leading spiritualist, who has also a prominent position in the literary world, tells the story that one day he had missed his footing in going downstairs, and was within an ace of making as fatal a fall as Professor Phillips, when he distinctly felt himself seized, supported, and saved by an invisible hand. The analogy between the two convictions is curious. [170] Consult Cesare Cantù Storia Universale, § xvii. cap. 21. [171] Since writing the above, I have been assured by one who has frequently conversed with her, that the concealment of her name arose from her own modesty; it was Katharina Lanz. To avoid public notice, she went to live at a distance, and up to the time of her death in 1854, bore an exemplary character, living as housekeeper to the priest serving the mountain church of S. Vigilius, near Rost, the highest inhabited point of the Enneberg. When induced to speak of her exploits, she always made a point of observing that, though she brandished her hay-fork, she neither actually killed or wounded anyone. She had heard that the French soldiers were nothing loth to desecrate sacred places, and she stationed herself in the church porch determined to prevent their entrance; the churchyard had become the citadel of the villagers. From her post of observation she saw with dismay that her people were giving way. It was then she rushed out and rallied them; in her impetuosity she was very near running her hay-fork through a French soldier, but she was saved from the deed by her landlord, who, encouraged by her ardour, struck him down, pushing her aside. The success of her sally and her subsequent disappearance cast a halo of mystery round her story, and many were inclined to believe the whole affair was a heavenly apparition. [172] Celebration of the Resurrection. [173] Spare your bread for the poor, and escape the fate of Frau Hütt. See some legends forming a curious link between this, and that of Ottilia Milser in Stöber Sagen des Elsasses, pp. 257-8. [174] The dog's church or chapel. [175] His well-known daring, emulating that of the chamois and the eagle, was of no avail now; for straight under him sinks the Martin's Wall, the steepest cliff of the whole country-side. He gazes down through that grave of clouds. He gazes abroad over that cloud-ocean. He glances around, and his gaze recoils. With only the thunder-roll of the people's voices beneath, there stands the Kaiser's Majesty. But not raised aloft to receive his people's homage. A son of sorrow, on a throne of air, the great Maximilian all at once finds himself isolated, horror-stricken, and small. [176] 'With him,' says a Hungarian ballad, 'Righteousness went down into the grave: and the Sun of Pest-Ofen sank towards its setting.' [177] Primisser, who took great pains to collect all the various traditions of this event, mentions a favourite huntsman of the Emperor, named Oswald Zips, whom he ennobled as Hallaurer v. Hohenfelsen. This may have been the actual deliverer, or may have been supposed to be such, from the circumstance of the title being Hohenfelsen, or Highcliff; and that a patent of nobility was bestowed on a huntsman would imply that he had rendered some singular service: the family, however, soon died out. [178] See chapter on Schwatz. [179] To the Editor of the 'Monthly Packet.' Sir,--I think it possible that R. H. B. (to whom we owe the very interesting Traditions of Tirol), and perhaps others of your readers, may care to hear some of the particulars, as they are treasured by his family, of the defence of Scharnitz by Baron Swinburne. R. H. B. speaks of it in your number of last month. That defence was so gallant as to call forth the respect and admiration even of his enemies, and Baron Swinburne was given permission to name his own terms of surrender. He requested for himself, and those under him, that they might be allowed to retain their swords. This was granted, and the prisoners were sent to Aix-la-Chapelle, where everyone was asking in astonishment who were 'les prisonniers avec l'épée a côté.' The Eagles of Austria, that had been so nobly defended by the Englishman and his little band, never fell into the hands of the French. One of the Tirolese escaped, with the colours wrapped round his body under his clothes, and though he was hunted among the mountains for months, he was never taken; and some years after he came to his commander in Vienna and gave him the colours he had so bravely defended. They are now in possession of Baron Edward Swinburne, the son of the defender of Scharnitz, who himself won, before he was eighteen, the Order of 'the Iron Crown,' by an act that well deserves to be called 'a golden deed;' and ere he was twenty he had led his first and last forlorn hope, when he received so severe a wound as to cost him his leg, which has incapacitated him for further service. His father received the highest military decoration of Austria, that of 'Maria Teresa;' he fought at Austerlitz and Wagram; on the latter occasion he was severely wounded. Later in life, he was for many years Governor of Milan. Hoping that a short record of true and faithful services performed by Englishmen for their adopted country, may prove of some interest to your readers, and with many thanks to R. H. B. for what has been of so much interest to us, I am, Sir, yours faithfully, September, 1870. A. Swinburne. [180] Häusergruppe. [181] Such offerings are met with in other parts of Tirol; in one place we shall find a candle offered of equal weight to an infant's body. They present a striking analogy with the Sanskrit tulâdâna or weight-gift; the practice of offering to a temple or Buddhist college a gift of silver or even gold of the weight of the offerer's body appears not to have been infrequent and tolerably ancient. Lassen (Indische Alterthumskünde, vol. iii. p. 810) mentions an instance of the revival of the custom by a king named Shrikandradeva, who offered the weight of his own body in gold to the temple at Benares (circa 1025); and (vol. iv. p. 373) another in which Aloungtsethu, King of Birmah, in 1101, made a similar offering in silver to a temple which he built at Buddhagayâ. He refers also to earlier instances 'in H. Burney's note 19 in As. Res. vol. xx. p. 177, and one by Fell in As. Res. vol. xv. p. 474.' [182] I have occasion to give one of the most remarkable legends of the Oetzthal in the chapter on Wälsch-Tirol. [183] See a somewhat similar version in Nork's Mythologie der Volksagen, pp. 895-7. [184] Circle. [185] The sunnier and less thoughtful tone of mind in which the Italian particularly differs from the German character, is often to be traced in their legendary stories. Those of the Germans are nearly always made to convey some moral lesson; this is as often wanting in those of the Italians, who seem satisfied with making them means of amusement, without caring that they should be a medium of instruction. [186] The Passion Plays of the Brixenthal, however, are reckoned the best. The performers gather and rehearse in the spring, and go round from village to village through the summer months, only, as amphitheatres are improvised in the open. [187] It may be worth mentioning, as an instance of how the contagion of popular customs is transmitted, that on enquiring into some very curious grotesque ceremonies performed in Trent at the close of the carneval, and called its 'burial,' I learnt that it did not appear to be a Tirolean custom, but had been introduced by the soldiers of the garrison who, for a long time past, had been taken from the Slave provinces of the Austrian Empire, and thus a Slave popular custom has been grafted on to Tirol. Wälsch-Tirol, however, has its own customs for closing the carneval, too. In some places it is burnt in effigy; in some, dismissed with the following dancing-song (Schnodahüpfl) greeting, Evviva carneval! Chelige manca ancor el sal; El carneval che vien Lo salerem più ben! [188] A centenary celebration of the Council was held at Trent in 1863, at which the late lamented Cardinal von Reisach presided as legate a latere. [189] This chapel has lately been restored by Loth of Munich. [190] A variant of this tradition takes the more usual form of applying it to the architect of the edifice, as with the Kremlin. As Stöber gives it from Strasburg, it was there the maker of the great clock. [191] Laste is dialectic for a smooth, steep, almost inaccessible chalk cliff. [192] Hence Kaiser Max was wont to call Tirol 'the heart' and 'the shield' of his empire. [193] St. Ingenuin was Bishop of Säben or Seben, A.D. 585. The See, founded by St. Cassian, had been long vacant, and great errors and abuses had taken root among the people, who in some places had relapsed towards heathen customs. His success in reforming the manners of his flock was most extraordinary. He built a cathedral at Seben, where he is honoured on February 5, the anniversary of his death. St. Albuin, one of his successors, was a scion of one of the noblest families of Tirol; he removed the See to Brixen, A.D. 1004. [194] This is a local application of the widespread myth of the tailor, who kills 'seven at one blow,' identified by Vonbun (p. 71-2) with the Sage of Siegfried. Prof. Zarncke has also written a great deal to show Tirol's place in the Nibelungenlied. [195] Anciently Anaunium, and still by local scholars called Annaunia, a possession of the Nonia family, not unknown to Roman history. [196] The white mulberry, whose leaves feed the silkworm, rearing which forms one great industry of Wälsch-Tirol, is called the Seidenbaum, the silk tree. [197] Stammort, Cradle of his race. [198] See Un processo di Stregheria in Val Camonica, by Gabriele Rosa, pp. 85, 92; and Il vero nelle scienze occulte, by the same author, p. 43; and Tartarotti Congresso delle Lammie. lib. ii. § iv. It is one of the only four such spots anywhere existing where Italian is spoken. [199] A mithraic sacrifice with several figures, sculptured in bas-relief, in white Carrara marble, in very perfect preservation, bearing the inscription: ILDA MARIVS L. P. has just been found at this very spot. [200] See pp. 164-6. [201] Too many such remnants, which the plough and the builder's pick are continually unearthing, have been thus dispersed. It has been the favourite work of Monsignor Zanelli, of Trent, to stir up the local authorities to take account of such things, and so form a museum with them in Trent. [202] Padre Tarquini--one of the rare instances of a Jesuit being made a Cardinal--died, it may be remembered, in February last, only about two months after his elevation. He had devoted much time to the study of Etruscan antiquities; he published The Mysteries of the Etruscan Language Unveiled in 1857, and later a Grammar of the language of the Etruscans. [203] '(1.) Or it might be 'ad introductionem viri.' (2.) 'Vulcano' here (precisely as in another Etruscan inscription found a few years before at Cembra, and translated by Professor Giovanelli) for 'ignis.' (3.) An allusion to the custom of first piercing (sforacchiare) the bodies of persons to be burnt in sacrifice, which appears from the inscription found at S. Manno, near Perugia, and again from the appearance of the figures of human victims represented in the Tomba Vulcente. (4.) The deity of the place to which the key belonged, probably, therefore, Saturn.' [204] A Tag-mahd, or 'day's mowing,' is a regular land measure in North Tirol. [205] There is no record of her summit ever having been attained before the successful ascent of Herr Grohmann, in 1864. Mr. Tucker, an Englishman, accomplished it the next year. [206] I have given some of the most curious of these in a collection of Household Stories from the Land of Hofer. [207] There is no tradition more universally spread over Tirol than that which tells of judgments falling on non-observers of days of rest. They are, however, by no means confined to Tirol. Ludovic Lalanne, Curiosités des Traditions, vol. iv. p. 136, says that the instances he had collected showed it was treated as a fault most grievous to heaven. 'Matthieu Paris, à l'année 1200, raconte qu'une pauvre blanchisseuse ayant osé travailler un jour de fête fut punie d' une étrange façon; un cochon de lait tout noir s'attacha à sa mamelle gauche.' He relates one or two other curious instances--one of a young girl who, having insisted on working on a holiday, somehow got the knot of her thread twisted into her tongue, and every attempt to remove it gave intolerable pain. Ultimately she was healed by praying at the Lady-altar at Noyon, and here the knot of thread was long shown in the sacristy. I well remember the English counterpart in my own nursery. There were, indeed, two somewhat analogous stories; and I often wondered, without exactly daring to ask, why there was so much difference in the tone in which they were told, for the one seemed to me as good as the other. The first, which used to be treated as an utter imposture, was that a woman and her son surreptitiously obtained a consecrated wafer for purposes of incantation (we have had a Tirolean counterpart of this at Sistrans, supra pp. 221-2), and in pursuit of their weird operation had pierced it, when there flowed thereout such a prodigious stream of blood that the whole place was inundated, and all the people drowned. The second, which was told with something of seriousness in it, ('and they say, mind you, that actually happened,') was of a young lady who, having persisted in working on Sunday in spite of all her nurse's injunctions, pricked her finger. No one could stop the bleeding that ensued, and she bled to death for a judgment; and whether it was true or not, there was a monument to her in Westminster Abbey. Dean Stanley, who seems to have missed nothing that could possibly be said about the Abbey, finds place, I see, to notice even this tradition (pp. 219-20 and note), and identifies it with the monument of Elizabeth Russell (born 1575) in St. Edmund's Chapel. Madame Parkes-Belloc tells me she has often seen a wax figure of a lady (in the costume of two centuries later than Elizabeth Russell) under a glass case in Gosfield Hall, Essex (formerly a seat of the Buckingham family), of which a similar tradition is told. [208] It is significant of a symbolical intention that the story should thus allude to the Valle del Orco; the more so as I cannot hear of any such actual locality in Val Sugana, though 'Orco' has lent his name to more than one spot, as we shall see later. There is, however, a Val d'Inferno between this valley and Predazzo. [209] Settepergole--Seven Pergolas--the name of several farms in Wälsch-Tirol. Pergola is the name for a vine trellised to form an arbour, all over Italy. [210] This effect has often been noticed here by travellers. [211] Two bronze statuettes of Apollo were found here in June 1869. [212] Very like and very unlike the legend of S. Giuliano I met in Rome (Folklore of Rome), where he was supposed to be a native of Albano, and to have passed his penitential time at Compostella. G. Schott, Wallächische Märchen, pp. 281 and 375, gives a similar legend applied to Elias in place of St. Julian. [213] Folklore of Rome, p. 320. [214] I need not repeat the characteristics of the Tirolean Norg, which I have given in the translation of the 'Rose-garden' in Household Stories from the Land of Hofer. [215] Thorp's Northern Mythology, vol. ii. pp. 20-2. [216] Though of course mere similarity of sound may lead one absurdly astray; as if any one were to say that the old fables of rubbing a ring to produce the 'Slave of the ring' was the origin of the modern substitute of ringing to summon a servant! [217] Again, Mr. Cox (Mythology of the Aryan Nations, vol. ii. p. 221 et seq.) says, 'the Maruts or storm winds who attend on Indra ... became the fearful Ogres in the traditions of Northern Europe ... they are the children of Rudra, worshipped as the destroyer and reproducer and ... like Hermes, as the robber, the cheat, the deceiver, the master thief.' [218] Etruscan Researches, p. 376 and note. [219] Stöber, Sagen des Elsasses, p. 30. [220] Cities of Etruria, vol. ii. p. 65-8. [221] Selvan, at all events, is a word which, Mr. Isaac Taylor observes, is of frequent occurrence in Etruscan inscriptions (Et. Res. pp. 394-5), and its signification has not yet been fixed. And may not Gannes have some relation with Kan or Khan (p. 322)? [222] It is very disappointing that he has translated the great bulk of his vast collection of fiabe ('fiaba' in North Italian answers to the 'favola' of Rome) so utterly into German that, though we find all our old friends among them, all the distinctive expressions are translated away, and they are rendered valueless for all but mere childish amusement. Thus it is interesting to find in Wälsch-Tirol a diabolical counterpart of the Roman story of 'Pret' Olivo,' but it would have rendered it infinitely more interesting had the collector told us what was the word which he translates by 'Teufel,' for it is the rarest thing in the world for an Italian to bring the personified 'Diavolo' or 'Demonio' into any light story. In the same way it is interesting to find all the other tales with which we are familiar turn up here, but the real use of printing them at length would have been to point out their characteristics. What was the Italian used for the words rendered in the German by 'Witch?' Was it 'Gannes' or 'strega?' or for 'Giant' and 'Wild man:' was it 'l'om salvadegh' or 'salvan' or 'orco?' I cannot think it was 'gigante.' But all is left to conjecture. Among the few bits of Italian he does give are two or three 'tags' to stories, among them the one I met so continually in Rome 'Larga la foglia'--(it was still 'foglia' and not 'voglia') word for word. [223] Dr. Steub, in his Herbsttagen in Tirol, shows that the Beatrick may be identified with Dietrich von Bern. [224] Though nothing would seem simpler than to suppose the word derived from the Euganean inhabitants who left their name to Val Sugana. [225] It is curious to observe the story pass through all the stages of the supernatural agency traditional in the locality; first the good genius of the Etruscans merging next into the Germanic woodsprite, then assuming the vulgar characteristics of later imaginings about witchcraft, and then the Christian teaching 'making use of it,' as Professor de Gubernatis says, 'for its own moral end.' [226] A collection of the 'Costumi' of Tuscany I have, without a title-page, but I think published about 1835, laments the growing disuse in Lunigiana (i.e. the country round the Gulf of Spezia, so called from Luna, an Etruscan city, but 'not one of the twelve,' and including Carrara, Lucca, and Pisa) of the practice of recounting popular traditions at the Focarelli there. These seem to be autumn evening gatherings round a fire, but in the open air, often on a threshing-floor; while the able-bodied population is engaged in the preparation of flax, and some are spinning, the boys and girls dance, wrestle, and play games, and the old crones gossip; but now, says the writer, they begin to occupy themselves only with scandalous and idle reports, instead of old-world lore. [227] My readers will perhaps not recognize at first sight that this is a corruption of Frau Bertha, the Perchtl whom we met in North Tirol. In the Italian dialects of the Trentino she is also called la brava Berta and la donna Berta. [228] 'Your servant! Mistress Bertha of the long nose.' Such was supposed to be the correct form of addressing the sprite. [229] Many of these concern the earthly wanderings of Christ and his apostles. I have given one of the most sprightly and characteristic of Schneller's, too long to be inserted here, in The Month for September, 1870, entitled 'The Lettuce-leaf Barque.' [230] Gathered for the above-named collection by Herr Zacchea of the Fassathal, in the Val di Non, Lederthal, and Val Arsa. [231] I have mentioned the only other wolf-stories that I have met with in the chapter on Excursions round Meran; and at p. 31 of this volume. [232] Cox's Aryan Mythology, vol. i. p. 405. [233] I have thought this one of the best specimen tales, as the two stories of the Three Wishes and the Three Faithful Beasts are leading ones in every popular mythology. I have named a good many variants in connexion with their counterparts in the Folklore of Rome, and a more extensive survey of them, together with a most interesting analysis of their probable origin, will be found in Cox's Mythology of Aryan Nations, vol. i. pp. 144 and 375. I had thought that these, being strung together in the text version, was owing to a freak of memory of some narrator who, having forgotten the original conclusion of the former story, takes the latter one into it; but, curiously enough, in the note to the last-named page of Mr. Cox's work, he happens actually to establish an intrinsic identity of origin in the two stories. The Three Wishes story has also a strangely localized home in the Oetzthal, which, though properly belonging to the division of North Tirol, I prefer to cite here, for the sake of its analogies. Its particular home is in the so-called Thal Vent, on the frozen borders of the Gletscher described by Weber, as appalling to a degree in its loneliness, and in the roaring of its torrents, and the stern rugged inaccessibility of its peaks. Here, he says, three Selige Fräulein (Weber, like Schneller, translates everything inexorably into German; this may have been an Enguana) have their abode in a sumptuous subterranean palace, which no mortal might reach. They are also called die drei Feyen, he says, forming a further identification with the normal legend, but he does not account for the penetration of the French word into this unfrequented locality. They were kind and ancillary to the poor mountain folk, but the dire enemies of the huntsman, for he hunted as game the creatures who were their domestic animals (here we have the nucleus of a heap of various tales and legends of the pet creatures of fairies and hermits becoming the intermediaries of supernatural communication). The Thal Vent legend proceeds that a young shepherd once won the regard of the drei Feyen; they fulfilled all his wishes, and gave him constant access to their palace under the sole condition that he should never reveal its locality to any huntsman. After some years the youth one day incautiously let out the secret to his father, and from thenceforth the drei Feyen were inexorable in excluding him from their society. He pleaded and pleaded all in vain, and ultimately made himself a huntsman in desperation. But the first time he took aim at one of their chamois, the most beautiful of the three fairies appeared to him in so brilliant a light of glory, that he lost all consciousness of his actual situation and fell headlong down the precipice. [234] They are called 'Lustige Geschichte,' 'Storielle da rider.' The Germans have a saying that 'in jeder Sage haftet eine Sache;' the 'Sache' is perhaps more hidden in these than in others. I have pointed out counterparts of the following at Rome and elsewhere in Folklore of Rome. [235] Capitello, in Wälsch-Tirol, is the same as Bildstöcklein in the German provinces--a sacred image in a little shrine. [236] Bears exist to the present day in Tirol. Seven were killed last year. A prize of from five-and-twenty to fifty florins is given for killing one by various communes. [237] A distinct remnant of Etruscan custom. It is singular, too, that Mr. I. Taylor finds 'faba' to have been taken by the Romans from the Etruscans for a bean, but though the custom of connecting beans with the celebration of the departed is common all over Italy, I do not think the Etruscans provided their dead with beans except along with all other kinds of food (supra p. 130-1 note). [238] The little book of Costumi spoken of above, mentions the 'Zocco del Natale' as in use also in Lunigiana; it is generally of olive-tree, and household auguries are drawn from the crackling of leaves and unripe berries. It cites a letter of a certain Giovanni da Molta, dated 1388, showing that the custom has not undergone much change in five hundred years. [239] Two travellers, two prosperous ones, and a cardinal?--Answer. Sun and moon; earth and heaven; and the ocean. [240] There is a meadow overblown with carnations, yet if the Pope came with all his court, not one sole carnation would he be able to carry off?--Answer. The heaven beaming with stars. [241] Plate upon plate; a man fully armed; a lady well dressed; a stud well appointed?--Answer. Heaven and earth; the sun; the moon; the stars. [242] There is a palace with twelve rooms; each room has thirty beams, and two are ever running after each other through them without ever catching each other?--Answer. The palace is the year, the rooms the months, the beams the days, and day and night are always following each other without overlapping. [243] The simplicity of the people of this valley is celebrated in many 'Men of Gotham' stories. [244] Dennis, Cities and Cemeteries of Etruria, vol. 1, pp. xxxiv-v, mentions the Etruscan remains that had been found at Mattrey (of which he gives a cut) and other places in Tirol up to his time. [245] It is noteworthy that so prominent an enquirer into Etruscan antiquities should bear a patronymic so connected with Etruria as Tarquini. [246] In Abbé Dubois' introduction to his translation of the Pantcha Tantra, is a story called 'La fille d'un roi changé en garçon,' in which mention is made of a Brahman hermit who fixed his residence in a hollow tree.