Produced by David Widger
DIARY AND NOTES OF HORACE TEMPLETON,
Late Secretary Of Legation At --------.
By Charles Lever,
Author Of “Harry Lorrequer,” “Knight Of Gwynne,” Etc. Etc.
In Two Volumes. Vol. II.
Second Edition.
London: Chapman And Hall, 186 Strand.
HORACE TEMPLETON.
CHAPTER I.
The Ortl’er is the Mont Blanc of the Tyrol, and seen from Nauders, a
village on a green, grassy table land, more than four thousand feet
above the sea, can well bear comparison with the boldest of the Swiss
Alps. Nauders itself, a type of a Tyroler village, is situated in a wild
and lonely region; it has all the picturesque elegance and neat detail
of which Tyrolers are so lavish in their houses, and, like every other
Dorf in this country, has its proud castle standing sentry over it.
The Barons of the Naudersberg were men of station in olden times, and
exacted a tribute over a tract extending deep into the Engadine; and
now, in this great hall, whose chimney would contain the heaviest
diligence that ever waddled over the Arlberg, a few Nauders notabilities
are squabbling over some mysterious passage in a despatch from Vienna,
for it is the high court of the district, while I wait patiently without
for some formality of my passport. To judge from their grave expressions
and their anxious glances towards me, one would say that I was some
dangerous or suspected personage--some one whose dark designs the
government had already fathomed, and were bent on thwarting. If they did
but know how few are, in all likelihood, the days I have yet to linger
on, they would not rob me of one hour of them in this wild mountain.
And yet I have learned something while I wait. This little dorf,
Nauders, is the birthplace of a very remarkable man, although one whose
humble name, Bartholomew Kleinhaus, is little known beyond Tyrol. Left
an orphan at five years old, he lost his sight in the small-pox, and
was taken into the house of a carpenter who compassionated his sad
condition. Here he endeavoured to learn something of his protector’s
trade; but soon relinquishing the effort, he set to work, forming little
images in wood, at first from models, and then self-designed, till,
at the age of thirteen, he completed a crucifix of singular beauty and
elegance.
Following up the inspiration, he now laboured assiduously at his new
craft, and made figures of various saints and holy personages, for his
mind was entirely imbued with a feeling of religious fervour; and to
such an extent that, in order to speak his devotion by another sense, he
actually learned to play the organ, and with such a proficiency, that he
performed the duties of organist for nearly a year in the village church
of Kaltenbrunnen. As sculptor, his repute is widely spread and great in
Tyrol. A St. Francis by his hand is at present in the Ambras collection
at Vienna; many of his statues adorn the episcopal palaces of Chur and
Brixen, and the various churches throughout the province.
Leaving the sculptor and his birthplace, which already a mountain mist
is shrouding, I hasten on, for my passport is at last discovered to be
in order, and I am free to pursue my road to Meran.
Of all spots in the Tyrol, none can compare with Merah, the wildest
character of mountain uniting with a profusion of all that vegetation
can bring. The snow peak, the glacier, the oak forest, the waving fields
of yellow corn, the valley, one vast vineyard--where have such elements
of grandeur and simple beauty in scenery been so gloriously commingled?
And then the little town itself--what a strange reminiscence of
long-buried years! The street--there is properly but one--with its deep
arched passages, within which the quaint old shops, without windows,
display their wares; and the courtyards, galleried around, story above
story, and covered at top by a great awning to keep off the sun; for
already Italy is near, and the odour of the magnolia and oleander is
felt from afar.
I wandered into one of these courts last night; the twilight was
closing, and there was a strange, mysterious effect in the dim distances
upwards, where figures came and went along the high-perched galleries.
Beyond the court lay a garden, covered over with a vine-roofed trellis,
under whose shade various tables were placed. A single light, here and
there, shewed where one or two guests were seated; but all so still and
silently, that one would have thought the place deserted. It seemed as
if the great charm was that mellow air softened by silence, for none
spoke.
I walked for some time through the alleys, and at last sat down to rest
myself at a little table, over which a wide-leaved fig-tree spread its
dark canopy.
At first I did not remark that another person was seated near the table;
but as my eyes became more accustomed to the shade, I descried a figure
opposite to me, and immediately rising, I offered my apology in German
for intruding. He replied in French, by politely requesting I would be
seated; and the tone and manner of his words induced me to comply.
We soon fell into conversation; and although I could barely distinguish
his shadow as the night fell thicker, I recognised that he was an old
man; his accent proclaimed him to be French. We chatted away, the topics
ranging, with that wilfulness conversation always inclines to, from the
“Wein-cur “--the “Grape cure”--for which Meran is celebrated, to the
present condition and the past grandeur of the ancient town. With its
bygone history my companion seemed well acquainted, and narrated with
considerable skill some of its illustrious passages, concluding one by
saying, “Here, in this very garden, on a summer morning of 1342, the
Emperor and the Margrave of Brandenburg sat at breakfast, when a herald
came to announce the advance of the procession with the future bride of
the Duke, Margaretta, while the Bishops of Augsburg and Regensberg,
and all the chivalry of the Tyrol, rode beside and around her. In
yonder little chapel, where a light now glitters over a shrine, was the
betrothal performed. From that day forth Tyrol was Austrian. Of all this
gorgeous festivity, nothing remains but an iron horse-shoe nailed to
the chapel door. The priest who performed the betrothal somewhat
indiscreetly suggested that, with such a dowry as the bridegroom
received, he might well be generous towards the Church; on which the
Duke, a man of immense personal strength, at once stooped down and
wrenched a fore-shoe from the bride’s white palfrey, saying, with
sarcastic bitterness, ‘Here, I give thee iron for stone!’ in allusion to
the rocks and precipices of the Tyrol land.
“Ungratefully spoken at the time,” continued the stranger, “and equally
false as a prophecy. These wild fastnesses have proved the best and
last defences of that same Austrian Empire. Indeed, so well aware was
Napoleon of the united strength and resources of the Tyrol, that one
of his first measures was to partition the country between Bavaria,
Austria, and Illyria. And yet this Tyrol loyalty is inexplicable. They
are attached to the house of Haps-burgh, but they are not Austrian in
feeling. The friends of free trade need not go far in Meran to find
disciples to their doctrine. Every one remembers the time that an aume
of Meraner wine was worth seventy-five gulden, which now is to be had
for five; but then they were Bavarian, and might barter the grape-juice
for the yellow produce of the Baierisch corn-fields. At the present day
they are isolated, shut up, and imprisoned by custom-houses and toll;
and they are growing daily poorer, and neglecting the only source they
possessed of wealth.”
We talked of Hofer, and I perceived that my companion was strongly
imbued with an opinion, now very general in the Tyrol, that his merits
were much less than foreigners usually ascribe to him. Sprung from the
people, the host of a little wayside inn, a man with little education,
and of the very roughest manner, it is somewhat singular that his claims
are most disputed among the very class he came from. Had he been an
aristocrat, in all likelihood they had never ventured to canvass the
merits they now so mercilessly arraign. They judge of his efforts by the
most unfair of tests in such matters--the result. They say, “To what
end has Tyrol fought and bled? Are we better, or richer, or freer than
before?” They even go further, and accuse him of exciting the revolt
as a means of escaping the payment of his debts, which assuredly were
considerable. What a terrible price is paid for mob popularity, when the
hour of its effervescence is past!
We fell to chat over the character of revolutions generally, and the
almost invariable tendency to reaction that ensues in all popular
commotions. The character of the Three Days and the present condition
of France, more despotically governed than ever Napoleon dared, was
too palpable an example to escape mention. I had the less hesitation in
speaking my opinion on this subject, that I saw my companion’s leanings
were evidently of the Legitimist stamp.
From the Revolution we diverged to the struggle itself of the Three
Days; and being tolerably familiar, from various personal narratives,
with the event, I ventured on expressing my concurrence with the opinion
that a mere mob, unprepared, unarmed, and undisciplined, could never
have held for an hour against the troops had there not been foul play.
“Where do you suspect this treachery to have existed?” asked my
companion.
The tone of the question, even more than its substance, confused me, for
I felt myself driven to a vague reply in explanation of a direct charge.
I answered, however, that the magnitude of the danger could scarcely
have been unknown to many men highly placed in the service of
Charles X.; and yet it was clear the King never rightly understood that
any real peril impended. The whole outbreak was treated as an
“échauffourée”.
“I can assure you of your error, so far,” replied my companion. “The
greatest difficulty we encountered----” There was a slight pause here,
as if by use of the word “we” an unwitting betrayal had escaped him. He
speedily, however, resumed:--“The greatest difficulty was to persuade
his Majesty that the entire affair was any thing but a street brawl. He
treated the accounts with an indifference bordering on contempt; and at
every fresh narrative of the repulse of the troops, he seemed to
feel that the lesson to be inflicted subsequently would be the most
efficacious check to popular excess in future. To give an instance,--a
very slight one, but not without its moral, of the state of feeling of
the court,--at four o’clock of the afternoon of the third day, when the
troops had fallen back from the Place du Carrousel, and with great loss
been compelled to retreat towards the Champs Elysées, Captain Langlet,
of the 4th Lancers, volunteered to carry a verbal message to Versailles,
in doing which he should traverse a great part of Paris in the
occupation of the insurgents. The attempt was a bold and daring one,
but it succeeded. After innumerable hairbreadth dangers and escapes, he
reached Versailles at half-past seven. His horse had twice fallen,
and his uniform was torn by balls; and he entered the courtyard of the
Palace just as his Majesty learned that his dinner was served. Lang-let
hastened up the great staircase, and, by the most pressing entreaties to
the officer in waiting, obtained permission to wait there till the king
should pass. He stood there for nearly a quarter of an hour; it seemed
an age to him, for though faint, wounded, and weary, his thoughts were
fixed on the scene of struggle he had quitted, and the diminishing
chances of success each moment told. At last the door of a salon was
flung wide, and the Grand Maréchal, accompanied by the officers in
waiting, were seen retiring in measured steps before the King. His
Majesty had not advanced half-way along the corridor when he perceived
the splashed and travel-stained figure of the officer. ‘Who is that?’
demanded he, in a tone of almost asperity. The officer on guard stepped
forward, and told who he was and the object of his coming. The king
spoke a few words hastily and passed on. Langlet awaited in breathless
eagerness to hear when he should have his audience--he only craved time
for a single sentence. What was the reply he received?--an order to
present himself, ‘suitably dressed,’ in the morning. Before that morning
broke there was no King in France!
“Take this--the story is true--as a specimen of the fatuity of the
Court. _Quem Deus vult perdere_;--so it is we speak of events, but we
forget ourselves.”
“But still,” said I, “the army scarcely performed their _devoir_--not,
at least, as French troops understand _devoir_--where their hearts are
engaged.’’
“You are mistaken again,” said he. “Save in a few companies of the line,
never did troops behave better: four entire squadrons of one regiment
were cut to pieces at the end of the Rue Royale; two infantry regiments
were actually annihilated at the Hôtel de Ville. For eight hours, at the
Place du Carrousel, we had no ammunition, while the insurgents poured in
a most murderous fire: so was it along the Quai Voltaire.”
“I have heard,” said I, “that the Duc de Raguse lost his head
completely.”
“I can assure you, sir, they who say so calumniate him,” was the calm
reply. “Never before that day was a Marshal of France called upon to
fight an armed host, without soldiers and without ammunition.”
“His fate would induce us to be superstitious, and believe in good luck.
Never was there a man more persecuted by ill fortune!”
“I perceive they are shutting the gates,” said my companion, rising;
“these worthy Meranersare of the very earliest to retire for the night.”
And so saying, and with a “Good night,” so hastily uttered as to forbid
further converse, my companion withdrew, while I wandered slowly back
to my Inn, curious to learn who he might be, and if I should ever chance
upon him again.
*****
I heard a voice this morning on the bridge, so exactly like that of my
companion of last night, that I could not help starting. The speaker was
a very large and singularly handsome man, who, though far advanced in
life, walked with a stature as erect, and an air as assured, as he could
have worn in youth. Large bushy eye-brows, black as jet, although his
hair was perfectly white, shaded eyes of undimmed brilliancy--he was
evidently “some one,” the least observant could not pass him without
this conviction. I asked a stranger who he was, and received for answer,
“Marshal Marmont--he comes here almost every autumn.”