Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume I Part 16

'tis she!" I fell fainting to the floor.

Weeks of wild raving and delirium followed. I left Paris!--I returned to Dresden. There, all reminded me of the past. I fled from my home; and now, after years of wandering in solitary and distant lands, I feel deep in my heart the heavy curse that has followed upon my broken oath, and which has made me an outcast and a broken-hearted wanderer in the world for ever.

THE Pa.s.s OF THE ARLBERG.

Before leaving the Vorarlberg, and while now on its very frontier, I would wish to keep some record of two very different but yet very characteristic actions, of which this place was the scene. As you begin the ascent of the Arlberg from the westward the road makes two very abrupt zigzags, being carried along the edge of a deep precipice. On looking down over the low battlements that guard the side of the way, you discover, immediately under you, the spire and roofs of a small village several hundred feet below. The churchyard, the little gardens, the narrow streets, and the open "Platz," where stands a fountain, are all mapped out distinctly. This is the village of Steuben. A strange spot you would deem it for any to have chosen as a dwelling-place, hemmed in between lofty mountains, on whose bleak sides the snow is seen in the very midsummer; surrounded by wild crags and yawning clefts, without even pasturage for any thing save a goat: but your surprise will increase on learning that twice within the last century has this village been swept away by falling avalanches. The first time, the snow meeting in its descent from the mountains on either side actually formed a bridge over a portion of the village; and the houses thus saved were long regarded as under the special favour of the Virgin, with whose image they were most bounteously decorated. The next calamity, however, destroyed the prestige, for they were mingled in the common destruction.

It would be difficult for "Gentlemen of England, who live at home in ease," to fancy any reason for this unaccountable selection of a residence which adds the highest amount of peril to all the woes of poverty. But every traveller has seen many such instances. In every mountain land they are to be met with, and in each of the Alpine pa.s.ses little groups of houses--they can scarcely be called villages--can be detected in spots where access is most difficult, where no feature around indicates any means of supporting life, and where the precautions--simple and ineffectual enough--against avalanches, shew that danger to be among their calculations. How explain this? By what a.s.sociations have these dreary spots become hallowed into homes?

Possibly the isolated lives of these little families of men give them the same distaste to mixing with their brethren of the great world, that is felt by a solitary recluse to entering into society. Mayhap, too, the sense of peril itself has its share in the attraction. There is no saying how far this feeling may go, so strange and wayward are the caprices of human nature.

If you enter any of these villages, the narratives of snow storms, of falling precipices, and "Lavines," as avalanches are called, meet you at every step. They are the great topics of these communities, as the movements of Politics or the vacillations of the Bourse are elsewhere.

Scarcely one who has reached the middle term of life has not been, at least once, in the most imminent peril; and these things are talked of as the common accidents of existence, the natural risks of humanity!

Very strange does it sound to us who discuss so eagerly the perils of a wooden pavement in our thoroughfares!

It is curious, too, to hear, as one may, most authentically, the length of time life can be preserved beneath the snow. Individuals have been buried so long as three entire days, and yet taken out alive. The cold, of which it would be supposed they had suffered dreadfully, seems scarcely very great; and the porous nature of the snow, and possibly the c.h.i.n.ks and crevices left between falling ma.s.ses, have usually left air sufficient for respiration. That individuals in such circ.u.mstances of peril are not, always at least, devoid of their exercise of the faculties, I remember one instance which is sufficiently convincing.

It was in the Via Mala, about five miles from the village of Splugen, where, in the year 1829, the little cabriolet that conveyed the mail was swept away by an avalanche. The calamity was not known for full seven or eight hours afterwards, when some travellers from Andeer reaching the spot, found the road blocked up by snow, and perceived a portion of the wooden rail of the road, and a fragment of a horse-harness adhering to it, half-way down the precipice. The guides of the party, well accustomed to reason from such sad premises, at once saw what had happened. Conceiving, however, that the driver had been carried down over the cliff, and consequently to certain death, they directed their sole care to clearing a pa.s.sage for the travellers. In so doing, they proceeded with long poles to sound the snow, and ascertain to what depth it lay unhardened. It was in one of these "explorations," and when the pole had sunk above ten feet deep into a ma.s.s of soft unfrozen snow, that the man who held it found himself unable to withdraw the staff, and called his comrades to aid him. They soon perceived, however, that the resistance gradually yielded, and from the instinct peculiar to the "hand"--another ill.u.s.tration for Sir Charles Bell--they recognised that it must be the grip of human fingers which held the other end of the pole. They immediately began to excavate on the spot, and in half an hour liberated the poor postilion of the mail car, who, although hearing the shouts and cries of the party for nearly an hour over his head, could not succeed in making his own voice heard, and but for the fortunate accident of the pole must have perished.

Many curious escapes were told to me, but this appeared most singular of all; and now I come back to Steuben, or rather to the wild mountain above it, over which, by a succession of windings, the road leads which joins the Vorarlberg to the Tyrol. About one third of the ascent accomplished, you come upon an abrupt turning of the way, in rounding which a wide carriage can scarcely escape grating on the rock on one side, while from the window on the opposite, the traveller looks down upon * gorge actually yawning at his feet; the low barrier of wall, which does not rise above the nave of the wheel, is a very frail and insignificant protection ok such a spot, but when hid from view, as it is to those seated in a carriage, the effect of the gulf is really enough to shake common nerves. A little inscription upon a stone in this wall records the name of the engineer--Donegani, if I remember aright--who, deeming this spot the triumph of his skill, has selected it whereon to inscribe his achievement. There is another meaning connected with the place, but unrecorded; it could not, indeed, have been transmitted like that of the Engineer, for when the event of which it treats occurred, there was neither wall nor railing, and the road pa.s.sed some twelve feet higher up, over a ledge of rock, and actually seemed to jut out above the precipice. There is, indeed, a memorial of the transaction to which I allude, but it stands about twelve hundred feet down in the gorge below,--a small wooden cross of rudest workmans.h.i.+p, with the equally rudely inscribed words, "Der Vorspann's Grab."

Now for the story, which happily is short.

It was late on a severe evening of winter, as a _caleche_ drawn by two horses drew up to the door of the post-house at Steuben; for then, as now, Steuben was the last post-station before commencing the ascent of the Arlberg. The travellers, two in number, wore military cloaks and foraging caps; but what the precise rank, or to what arm of the service they belonged, not even the prying observations of the host could fathom. Their orders were for fresh horses immediately to cross the mountain, and although the snow-drift was falling fast, and the night dark as pitch, they peremptorily insisted on proceeding. The post regulations of those days were not very stringent and arbitrary; as a post-master may seem nowadays, he was nothing to the autocrat that once ruled the comings and goings of unhappy travellers.

When he averred that his horses had done enough--that it was a saint's-day--that the weather was too bad or his postilions too weary, the case was hopeless, and the traveller was consigned, without appeal, to the consolations of his own philosophy.

It chanced that on this occasion the whole disposable cavalry of the Post consisted of two blind mares, which were both too old and weak to tempt the cravings of the Commissary, who a few days before had seized on all the draught-cattle to convey stores to Feldkirch, at that time menaced by a French force under Ma.s.sena.

The officers, however, were urgent in their demand; it was of the last importance that they should reach Inspruck by the following evening. At last, half by menace, half by entreaty, it was arranged that the two old mares should be harnessed to the carriage, the host remonstrating all the while on the inability of the expedient, and averring that, without a Vorspann, a relay of horses, to lead at the steepest parts of the mountain, the attempt would be fruitless. "Nay," added he, "if you doubt me, ask the boy who is sleeping yonder, and has been driving the Vorspann for years over the Arlberg." The travellers turned and beheld on a heap of straw, in the corner of the kitchen, a poor little boy, whose ragged uniform of postilion had evidently reached him at third or fourth hand, so large and loosely did it hang around his slender figure.

He was sleeping soundly, as well he might, for he had twice crossed the mountain to St. Cristoph on that same day.

"And this book," said one of the travellers, taking a very tattered and well-thumbed volume which had dropped from the sleeper's fingers, "has this poor little fellow time to read?"

"He contrives to do it somehow," said the host, laughing; "nay, more, as you may see there, he has begun to teach himself French. Since he heard that the French army was about to invade us, he has never ceased his studies, sitting up half the night working at that old grammar there, for which he gave all his month's earnings."

"And what maybe his reason for this?" said the elder traveller, evidently interested in the recital.

"He has got the notion, that if the French succeed in forcing the pa.s.s of Feldkirch and enter the Tyrol, that, as he will be constantly engaged as Vorspann on the mountain, his knowledge of French would enable him to discover many secrets of the enemy, as no one would ever suspect a poor creature like him of having learned a foreign language.

"And his motive was then purely a patriotic one?"

"Purely; he is poor as you see, and an orphan, but his Tyrol blood runs warm and thick in his veins."

"And what progress has he made?"

"That I cannot answer you, mein Herr; for no one hereabouts knows any thing of French--nor, I suppose, had he ever the opportunity of testing the acquirement himself. They are driven back, I am told."

"For the present," said the elder stranger, gravely; "but we shall need all the reserves at Inspruck to hold our ground whenever they renew the attack."

The sleeper was now aroused to take the saddle; for in the absence of the regular postilion the Vorspann was obliged to take his place.

Still but half awake, the little fellow stood up, and mechanically b.u.t.toning up his worn jacket, he took down his whip and prepared for the road.

The travellers were soon ready, and ere many minutes elapsed the _caleche_ had left the village, and, with the best pace the old mares could accomplish, was breasting the snow-drift and the first rise of the mountain. After about an hour's driving, during which Joseph had exhibited his utmost skill in taking advantage of every available bit of trotting ground, they came at length to the commencement of the steep ascent; and there, hanging his whip on the saddle-peak, the little fellow got down, to relieve his cattle as they toiled up the precipitous ascent. He had not gone far, when, happening to drop behind beside the _caleche_, what did he hear but the sounds of that very language upon which all his day and night dreams were set! All that he had remarked of the two travellers was, that they wore cloaks of military cut and foraging caps, and now he heard them conversing in French. The whole train of events on which his mind so long had been dwelling came now forcibly before him. "Feldkirch had been forced, the French were already masters of the pa.s.s; in a few days they would be over the Arlberg and in possession of all Tyrol!" Such was the terrible series of events a few words of French revealed to his excited imagination. With this conviction he drew nearer and nearer the door, till he could hear the very words they spoke. Now he returned to accomplish the great purpose he had planned.

This "Zuflucht-Haus" or Hospice of Heinrich "Findelkind"--for he was named the "Foundling," having none to claim or acknowledge him--has been superseded by a more commodious and better endowed edifice under the auspices of the Imperial Government, who have gracefully preserved the memory of the first founder; thus shewing themselves not ashamed to be reminded of their own _devoirs_ by a poor orphan.

And now from the heights of St. Christopher I look down upon the winding glens and bold mountains of Tyrol! The great cross yonder on the rock marks the boundary. And now, adieu! the square fur caps of the Bregenzer Walderin; the huge silver filigree leaves, which look like peac.o.c.ks'

tails of frosted silver, fastened to the back of the head; the short-waisted dresses, gaily embroidered with the wearer's initials upon the stomacher; and the stockings, so piously adorned with saintly emblems; and last, but not least, the peaceful quietude of a primitive people--to have lived among whom is to carry away for life-long a pleasant memory of a simple-minded, kindly peasantry.

On descending the Arlberg by the eastward, or the Tyrol side, there is a little low ruin not far from the road. It stands nestled in a small nook between the hills, and shews the stunted and cattle-cropped remains of a few fruit-trees around. This was an ancient shrine where four monks formerly lived, devoting their lives to aiding the travellers of the pa.s.s; and some say that its foundation dates from that of the establishment of St. Gallen in Switzerland, and that both owe their origin to the same pious hand--an Irish monk. So is it incontestably true that the great monastery of St. Gall, and the s.p.a.cious convents of Mehrer-Au and Loch-Au on the borders of the Lake of Constance, were founded by an Irishman. What a destiny, that the nation whose mission should have been the spread of Christianity in the earliest centuries, should present such a spectacle of crime and G.o.d-forgetfulness in our own!

CHAPTER XII.

I wish my travelling countrymen--and what land tarns ont such myriads of wanderers?--would betake themselves, in their summer rambles, to the Tyrol, rather than Switzerland. If the use of German be not as frequent with us as French, still very little suffices for the every-day necessities of the road; and while, in point of picturesque beauty, the tour is little, if any thing, inferior to Switzerland in all that regards the people, the superiority of the Tyrolese is without a question.

Switzerland--save in some few remote spots of the German cantons, and these not generally worth the visiting--is a land of extortion and knavery. The whole country is laid out pretty much as St. Paul's in London used to be, some years back--so much for the Aisle, so much for the Whispering Gallery, so much for the Ball, &c. Each mountain, each glen, every glacier and snow-peak, has its corps of guides, farming out by a tariff the wild regions of the roe and the chamois, and vulgarising the features of nature to the level of the Colosseum in London, and its pasteboard avalanches.

This may be all very delightful for those junket-ting parties who steam up the Rhine on a three weeks' excursion, and want to "do Switzerland"

before they reach home--jogging to Chamouni in an omnibus, and riding up the Rigi in an a.s.s-pannier. But to enjoy mountains--to taste really of the exquisite sense of impressive solemnity a wild mountain-scene can suggest,--give me the Tyrol--give me the land where the cras.h.i.+ng cataract is heard in the midst of unbroken stillness--where, in the deep valleys, the tinkling bell of the herd sounds for miles afar--where, better than all, the peasant is not degraded from his self-respect to become a hanger-on of each stranger that he sees, but is still a peasant, stout of heart and limb, ready to do the honours of his humble _chalet_ if you cross his threshold, but not bartering his native hospitality for gold! What a fine national character is made up of that st.u.r.dy independence--that almost American pride of equality--with the devoted loyalty to their sovereign! How admirably does the sense of personal freedom blend with obedience to the Kaiser! How intimately is love of country bound up with fealty to the country's king! O Austria! if all thy subjects were like these, how little need you fear revolutionary Poles or reforming Popes! The sounds of the national sign, "_Gott erhalte unser Kaiser!_" would drown the wildest cry that ever Anarchy shouted.

The gifted advocates of Progress and Enlightenment, who write in Penny Magazines and People's Journals, may sneer at the simple faith of a people who recognise a father in their monarch--who are grateful for a system of government that secures to them the peaceful enjoyment of their homes and properties, with scarcely the slightest burden of taxation.

Such travellers as Inglis may record conversations with individuals disposed to grumble at the few opportunities for social convulsion and change; but, taking the ma.s.s of the people, judging from what is palpable to every sojourner in the land, where does one see less of poverty--where so much contentment, so much of enjoyment of life, such a general feeling of brotherhood in every rank and cla.s.s?--where are the graceful virtues of charity and kindliness more conspicuous?--and, above all, where is there so little of actual crime?

It may be said, the temptations are not so great to breaches of law where a general well-being prevails, where each has enough for his daily wants, and life displays no inordinate ambitions. I am willing to acknowledge all this; I cavil not for the cause--I only ask acceptance for the fact. If one would wish to see the boldest spirit of personal freedom united to implicit obedience to a ruler, the most stubborn independence of character with & courteous submission to the will of him recognised as superior, a manly self-reliance with a faithful trust that there are others better, wiser, and more far-seeing than himself,--then let him come to the Tyrol!

The Tyrol is, perhaps, the only part of Europe where any portion of romance still dwells--where the little incidents of daily life are tinctured with customs that derive from long ago--where facts of bygone days, traditions of their fathers' time, are interwoven with the pa.s.sing hour--and where primitive habits and tastes are believed to carry with them a blessing, as to those who honour their fathers' memories.

National grat.i.tude is far more closely allied with individual grat.i.tude than is usually believed. Under the shade of the great tree the little plant is often nurtured. It is easy to imagine well of the individual, where the ma.s.ses are moved by n.o.ble aspirations.

Scarcely a valley, not a single defile here, is without Us historic glories--many of them as of yesterday, and yet, in their simple heroism, recalling a time when personal valour was of greater worth than strategic skill and science. I always regret that Scott, who understood mountains and those who dwell thereon so thoroughly, should never have made the Tyrol the scene of a romance.

Even among the "simple annals of the poor" here are little incidents eminently romantic in their character, while so distinctly national that they tell, in every detail, the mind of the people who enacted them.

How I should like once more to be young of heart and limb, and able to travel these winding glens and climb these mountain steeps as once I could have done! Even now, as I sit here in this little "Wirth's-Haus,"

how the old spirit of wandering comes back 'again as I watch the peasant, with his long staff in hand, braving the mountain side, or standing for a second on some rocky peak, to gaze down into the steep depth below--that narrow valley filled by road and river.

"Gott hat sein plan Fur Jedenmann."

What a road is that from Landeck to Meran!--at once the most beautiful and the grandest of all the Tyrol pa.s.ses. The gorge is so narrow, that it seems rather like a deep channel cut by the river itself; where, on either side, hundreds of feet in height, rise the rocks--not straight, but actually impending above the head, leaving, in some places, the ravine narrower above than beneath.

Escarped in this rock, the road winds on, protected by a little parapet along the edge of the precipice. Beneath, at a depth to make the head dizzy to gaze at, is seen the river, whose waters are of a pale sky-blue, the most delicate and beautiful colour I ever beheld. As the necessities of the road require, you have to cross the river; more than once, on wooden bridges, which in themselves are curious for their ingenuity of construction, if one could think of aught save the grandeur of the scene around them.

At the second of these bridges, called the Pontlatzer