CHAPTER II. THE TYROL

Every traveller in the Tyrol must have remarked, that, wherever the way

is difficult of access, or dangerous to traverse, some little shrine or

statue is always to be seen, reminding him that a higher Power than his

own watches over his safety, and suggesting the fitness of an appeal to

Him who is “A very present help in time of trouble.”

Sometimes a rude painting upon a little board, nailed on a tree,

communicates the escape and gratitude of a traveller; sometimes a still

ruder fresco, on the very rock, tells where a wintry torrent had swept

away a whole family, and calling on all pious Christians who pass that

way to offer a prayer for the departed. There is an endless variety in

these little “Votive Tablets,” which are never more touching than when

their very rude poverty attests the simplest faith of a simple people.

The Tyrolers are indeed such. Perhaps alone, of all the accessible parts

of Europe, the Tyrol has preserved its primitive habits and tastes for

centuries unchanged. Here and there, throughout the continent, to be

sure, you will find some little “Dorf,” or village, whose old-world

customs stand out in contrast to its neighbours; and where in their

houses, dress, and bearing, the inhabitants seem unlike all else around

them. Look more closely, however, and you will see that, although the

grandmother is clothed in homespun, and wears her leathern pocket at her

girdle, all studded with copper nails, that her grandaughter affects a

printed cotton or a Swiss calico; and instead of the broad-brimmed and

looped felt of the old “Bauer,” the new generation sport broad-cloth and

beaver.

Such hamlets are, therefore, only like the passengers left behind by

their own coach, and waiting for the next conveyance that passes to

carry them on their journey.

In the Tyrol, however, such evidences of progress--as it is the fashion

to call it--are rare. The peasantry seem content to live as their

fathers have done, and truly he must be sanguine who could hope to

better a condition, which, with so few prorations, comprises so many of

life’s best and dearest blessings. If the mountain peaks be snow-clad,

even in midsummer, the valleys (at least all in South Tyrol) are rich in

vineyards and olive groves; and although wheat is seldom seen, the maize

grows every where; the rivers swarm with trout; and he must be a poor

marksman who cannot have venison for his dinner. The villages are large

and well built; the great wooden houses, with their wide projecting

roofs and endless galleries, are the very types of comfort. Vast

piles of fire-wood, for winter use, large granaries of forage for the

cattle--the cattle themselves with great silver bells hanging to their

necks--all bespeak an ease, if not an actual affluence, among the

peasantry. The Tyrolers are, in a word, all that poets and tourists say

the Swiss are, and of which they are exactly the reverse.

It would be difficult to find two nations so precisely alike in all

external circumstances, and so perfectly dissimilar in every feature

of character. Even in their religious feelings, Romanism, generally so

levelling, has not been able to make them of the same measure here.

The Swiss Catholic--bigotted, overbearing, and plotting--has nothing in

common with the simple-minded Tyroler, whose faith enters into all the

little incidents of his daily life, cheering, exalting, and sustaining,

but never suggesting a thought save of charity and good will to all.

That they have interwoven, so to say, their religious belief into all

their little worldly concerns, if not making their faith the rule, at

least establishing it as the companion of their conduct, is easily seen.

You never overtake a group, returning from fair or market, that all are

not engaged in prayer, repeating together some litany of the Church; and

as each new arrival joins the party, his voice chimes in, and swells the

solemn hum as naturally as if prearranged or practised.

If you pass a village, or a solitary farmhouse, at sunset, the same

accents meet your ears, or else you hear them singing some hymn in

concert. Few “Bauer” houses, of any pretension, are without the effigy

of a patron saint above the door, and even the humblest will have a

verse of a psalm, or a pious sentence, carved in the oaken beam. Their

names are taken from the saintly calendar, and every thing, to the

minutest particular, shews that their faith is an active working

principle, fashioning all their actions, and mingling with all their

thoughts. Their superstitions, like all simple-minded and secluded

people’s, are many; their ignorance is not to be denied; mayhap the

Church has fostered the one, and done little to enlighten the other:

still, if Romanism had no heavier sin to account for, no darker score to

clear up, than her dealings in these mountains, there would be much to

forgive in a creed that has conferred so many good gifts, and sowed the

seeds of so few bad ones.

These pious emblems find their way, too, into places where one would

scarce look for them--over the doors of village inns, and as signs to

little wine and beer-houses: and frequently the Holy personages are

associated with secular usages, strangely at variance with the saintly

character. Thus I have seen, in the village beside me, a venerable St.

Martin engaged in the extraordinary operation of shoeing a horse;

though what veterinary tastes the saint ever evinced, or why he is so

represented, I can find no one to inform me. On the summit of steep

passes, where it is usual, by a police regulation, to prescribe the

use of a drag to all wheel carriages, the board which sets forth the

direction is commonly ornamented by a St. Michael, very busily applying

the drag to a heavy waggon, while the driver thereof is on his knees

hard by, worshipping the saint, in evident delight at his dexterity. In

the same way many venerable and holy men are to be seen presiding over

savoury hams and goblets of foaming beer, and beaming with angelic

beatitude at a party of hard-drinking villagers in the distance. Our

present business is, however, less with the practice in general, than

a particular instance, which is to be met with in the Bavarian Tyrol,

mid-way between the villages of Murnou and Steingaden, where over the

door of a solitary little way-side inn hangs a representation of the

Virgin, with a starling perched upon her wrist. One has only to remark

the expression of unnatural intelligence in the bird’s look, to be

certain that it was not a mere fancy of the artist to have placed

her thus, but that some event of village tradition, or history, is

interwoven with her presence.

The motto contributes nothing to the explanation. It is merely a line

from the Church Litany, “Maria, Mutter Grottes, hülf uns,--Mary, Mother

of God, help us!”

There is then a story connected with the painting, and we shall, with

your leave, tell it; calling our tale by the name of the little inn,

“MARIA HULF!”

Has our reader ever heard, or read, of those strange gatherings, which

take place at the early spring in the greater number of southern German

cities and are called, “Year Markets?” The object is simply to assemble

the youth of the mountain districts in Tyrol and Vorarlbreg, that they

may be hired, by the farmers of the rich pasture countries, as herds.

Thither they go---many a mile--some children of ten or eleven years

old, and seeming even still younger, away from home and friends, little

adventurers on the bleak wide ocean of life, to sojourn among strangers

in far-off lands; to pass days long in lonely valleys or deep glens,

without a sight or sound of human life around them; watching the bright

sun and counting the weary minutes over, that night and rest may come,

per* chance with dreams of that far-off home, which, in all its

poverty, is still cheered by the fond familiar faces! Some, ruddy and

stout-looking, seem to relish the enterprise, and actually enjoy the

career so promising in its vicissitudes; others, sad and care-worn, bear

with them the sorrows of their last leave-taking, and are only comforted

by the thought that autumn will come at last, and then the cattle must

be housed for the winter: and then they shall be free to wend their way

over mountain and plain, far, far away beyond Maltz--high in the wild

peaks of the Stelvio, or deep in the lovely glens below Meran.

It was in one of these “Markets” at Inspruck that a little boy was

seen, not standing with the groups which usually gather together under a

single leader, but alone and apart, seemingly without one that knew him.

His appearance bespoke great poverty; his clothes, originally poor,

were now in rags; his little cap, of squirrel skin, hung in fragments

on either side of his pallid cheeks; his feet--a rare circumstance--were

bare, and bloodstained from travel; want and privation were stamped in

every feature: and his eyes, which at that moment were raised with

eager anxiety as some Bauer drew nigh, grew wan, and filling at each new

disappointment to his hopes, for this was his third day to stand in the

market, and not one had even asked his name. And yet he heard that name;

ever and anon it met his ears in sounds which stirred his feeble heart,

and made it throb faster. “Fritzerl! ah, Fritzerl, good fellow!” were

the words; and poor Fritzerl would stoop down when he heard them and

peep into a little cage where a Starling was perched--a poor, emaciated

little thing it was, as way-worn and poverty struck, to all seeming, as

himself: but he did not think so: he deemed it the very paragon of the

feathered tribe, for it had a little toppin of brown feathers on its

head, and a little ring of white around its neck, and would come when

he called it; and, better than all, could sing, “Good Fritzerl--nice

Fritzerl!” when it was pleased, and “Potztausend!” when angry. This was

all its education; his master, poor little fellow, had not much more.

How could he? Fritzerl’s mother died when he was a baby; his father was

killed by a fall from a cliff in the Tyrol Alps, for he was by trade a

bird-catcher, and came from the Engadine, where every one loves birds,

and in the pursuit of this passion met his fate.

Fritzerl was left an orphan at eleven years old, and all his worldly

wealth was this little Starling; for although his father had left

a little cabin in the high Alps, and a rifle, and some two or three

articles of house gear, they all were sold to pay the expenses of his

funeral, and feast the neighbours who were kind enough to follow him to

the grave: so that poor Fritz kept open house for two days; and when he

walked out the third, after the coffin, he never turned his steps back

again, but wandered away--far, far away--to seek in the year-market of

Inspruck some kind peasant who would take him home to herd his cattle,

and be a father to him now.

Fritzerl knew not that the children, who desire to be hired out,

assemble together in little groups or gangs, electing some one to

bargain for them with the Bauers, setting forth in vehement language

their various excellencies and good gifts, and telling where they have

served before, and what zeal and fidelity they have shewn to their

trust. Fritz, I say, knew not this; perhaps, if he had, it would have

availed him but little; for he was so poorly clad and so weak-looking,

and so ignorant of all about tending cattle besides, that he would soon

have been driven from the fraternity with disgrace. It was, then, as

fortunate for him that he did not know the custom of the craft, and that

he took his stand alone and apart beside the fountain in the main street

of Inspruck.

And a lovely object is the same fountain; and a beautiful street it

stands in, with its stately houses, all rich in stuccoed arabesques,

and gorgeously carved doors and gates! And bright and cheerful, too,

it looks, with its Tyroler people clad in their gay colours and their

gold-banded hats!

Fritz saw little of these things, or, if he saw, he marked them not.

Cold, hunger, and desolation, had blunted the very faculties of his

mind; and he gazed at the moving crowd with a dreamy unconsciousness

that what he saw was real.

The third day of his painful watching was drawing to a close. Fritz had,

several hours before, shared his last morsel of black bread with his

companion; and the bird, as if sympathising with his sorrow, sat

moody and silent on his perch, nor even by a note or sound broke the

stillness.

“Poor Jacob!”* said Fritz, with tears in his eyes, “my hard luck should

not fall on thee! If no one comes to hire me before the shadow closes

across the street, I’ll open the cage and let thee go!”

* Every Starling in Germany is called Jacob.

The very thought seemed an agony, for scarcely had he uttered it when

his heart felt as if it would break, and he burst into a torrent of

tears.

“Potztausend!” screamed Jacob, alarmed at the unusual

cries--“Potztausend!” And as Fritz sobbed louder, so were the Starling’s

cries of “Potztausend!” more shrill and piercing.

There were few people passing at the moment, but such as were, stopped;

some to gaze with interest on the poor little boy--more, far more,

to wonder at the bird; when suddenly a venerable old man, with a

wide-leaved bat, and a silken robe reaching down to his feet, crossed

over towards the fountain. It was the Curate of Lenz, a pious and good

man, universally respected in Inspruck.

“What art thou weeping for, my child?” said he, mildly.

Fritz raised his eyes, and the benevolent look of the old man streamed

through his heart like a flood of hope* It was not, however, till the

question had been repeated, that Fritz could summon presence of mind to

tell his sorrow and disappointment.

“Thou shouldst not have been here alone, my child,” said the curate;

“thou shouldst have been in the great market with the others. And now

the time is well-nigh over: most of the Bauers have quitted the town.”

“Potztausend!” cried the bird, passionately.

“It will be better for thee to return home again to thy parents,” said

the old man, as he drew his little leathern purse from between the folds

of his robe--“to thy father and mother.”

“I have neither!” sobbed Fritz.

“Potztausend!” screamed the Starling--“Potztausend!”

“Poor little fellow! I would help thee more,” said the kind old priest,

as he put six kreutzers into the child’s hand, “but I am not rich

either.”

“Potztausend!” shrieked the bird, with a shrillness excited by Fritz’s

emotion; and as he continued to sob, so did the Starling yell out his

exclamation till the very street rang with it.

“Farewell, child!” said the priest, as Fritz kissed his hand for the

twentieth time; “farewell, but let me not leave thee without a word of

counsel: thou shouldst never have taught thy bird that idle word. He

that was to be thy companion and thy friend, as it seems to me he is,

should have learned something that would lead thee to better thoughts.

This would bring thee better fortune, Fritz. Adieu! adieu!”

“Potztausend!” said the Starling, but in a very low, faint voice, as

if he felt the rebuke; and well he might, for Fritz opened his little

handkerchief and spread it over the cage--a sign of displeasure, which

the bird understood well.

While Fritz was talking to the Curate, an old Bauer, poorly but cleanly

clad, had drawn nigh to listen. Mayhap he was not overmuch enlightened

by the Curate’s words, for he certainly took a deep interest in the

Starling; and every time the creature screamed out its one expletive, he

would laugh to himself, and mutter,--

“Thou art a droll beastie, sure enough!”

He watched the bird till Fritz covered it up with his handkerchief, and

then was about to move away, when, for the first time, a thought of the

little boy crossed his mind. He turned abruptly round, and said,--

“And thou, little fellow!--what art doing here?”

“Waiting,” sighed Fritz, heavily--“waiting!”

“Ah, to sell thy bird?” said the old man;--“come, I’ll buy him from

thee. He might easily meet a richer, but he’ll not find a kinder master.

What wilt have?--twelve kreutzers, isn’t it?”

“I cannot sell him,” sobbed Fritz; “I have promised him never to do

that.”

“Silly child!” said the Bauer, laughing; “thy bird cares little for

all thy promises: besides, he’ll have a better life with me than thee.”

“That might he, easily!” said Fritz: “but I’ll not break my word.”

“And what is this wonderful promise thou’st made, my little man?--come,

tell it!”

“I told him,” said Fritz, in a voice broken with agitation, “that if the

shadow closed over the street down there before any one had hired me,

that I would open his cage and let him free; and look! it is nearly

across now--there’s only one little glimpse of sunlight remaining!”

Poor child! how many in this world live upon one single gleam of

hope--ay, and even cling to it when a mere twilight, fast fading before

them!

The Bauer was silent for some minutes; his look wandered from the child

to the cage, and back again from the cage to the child. At last he

stooped down and peeped in at the bird, which, with a sense of being in

disgrace, sat with his head beneath his wing.

“Come, my little man,” said he, laying a hand on Fritz’s shoulder, “I’ll

take thee home with me! ‘Tis true I have no cattle--nothing save a few

goats--but thou shalt herd these. Pack up thy bird, and let us away,

for we have a long journey before us, and must do part of it before we

sleep.”

Fritz’s heart bounded with joy and gratitude. It would have been, in

good truth, no very splendid prospect for any other to be a goatherd to

a poor Bauer--so poor that he had not even one cow; but little Fritz was

an orphan, without a home, a friend, or one to give him shelter for a

single night. It may be believed, then, that he felt overjoyed; and it

was with a light heart he trotted along beside the old Bauer, who never

could hear enough about the starling--where he came from? how he was

caught? who taught him to speak? what he liked best to feed upon? and

a hundred other questions, which, after all, should have been far more

numerous ere Fritz found it any fatigue to answer them. Not only did it

give him pleasure to speak of Jacob, but now he felt actually grateful

to him, since, had the old Bauer not taken a fancy to the bird, it was

more than likely he had never hired its master.

The Bauer told Fritz that the journey was a long one, and true enough.

It lay across the Zillerthal, where the garnets are found, and over

the great mountains that separate the Austrian from the Bavarian

Tyrol--many a long, weary mile--many, I say, because the Bauer had come

up to Inspruck to buy hemp for spinning when the evenings of winter are

long and dark, and poor people must do something to earn their bread.

This load of hemp was carried on a little wheeled cart, to which the old

man himself was harnessed, and in front of him his dog--a queer-looking

team would it appear to English eyes, but one meets them often enough

here; and as the fatigue is not great, and the peasants lighten the

way by many a merry song--as the Tyrol “Jodeln”--it never suggests the

painful idea of over-hard or distressing labour. Fritzerl soon took his

place as a leader beside the dog, and helped to pull the load; while the

Starling’s cage was fastened on the sheltered side of the little cart,

and there he travelled quite safe and happy.

I never heard that Fritz was struck--as he might possibly, with reason,

have been--that, as he came into Bavaria, where the wide-stretching

plains teem with yellow corn and golden wheat, the peasants seemed far

poorer than among the wild mountains of his own Tyrol; neither have

I any recollection that he experienced that peculiar freedom of

respiration, that greater expansion of the chest, travellers so

frequently enumerate as among the sensations whenever they have

passed over the Austrian frontier, and breathed the air of liberty, so

bounteously diffused through the atmosphere of other lands. Fritz, I

fear, for the sake of his perceptive quickness, neither was alive to the

fact nor the fiction above quoted; nor did he take much more notice

of the features of the landscape, than to mark that the mountains

were further off and not so high as those among which he lived--two

circumstances which weighed heavily on his heart, for a Dutchman loves

not water as well as a Tyroler loves a mountain.

The impression he first received did not improve as he drew near the

Dorf where the old Bauer lived, The country was open and cultivated; but

there were few trees: and while one could not exactly call it flat,

the surface was merely a waving tract that never rose to the dignity of

mountain. The Bauer houses, too, unlike the great wooden edifices of

the Southern Tyrol--where three, ay, sometimes four, generations may be

found dwelling under one roof--were small, misshapen things, half

stone, half wood. No deep shadowing eave along them to relieve the

heat of a summer sun;--no trellised vines over the windows and the

doorway;--no huge yellow gourds drying on the long galleries, where

bright geraniums and prickly aloes stood in a row;--no Jâger either,

in his green jacket and gold-tas-selled hat, was there, sharing his

breakfast with his dog; the rich spoils of his day’s sport strewed

around his feet--the smooth-skinned chamois, or the stag with gnarled

horns, or the gorgeously-feathered wild turkey, all so plentiful in the

mountain regions. No; here was a land of husbandmen, with ploughs, and

harrows, and deep-wheeled carts, driven along by poor-looking, ill-clad

peasants, who never sung as they went along, scarce greeted each other

as they passed.

It was true, the great plains were covered with cattle, but to Fritz’s

eyes the prospect had something mournful and sad. It was so still and

silent. The cows had no bells beneath their necks like those in the

Alpine regions; nor did the herds jodeln to each other, as the Tyrolers

do, from cliff to cliff, making the valleys ring to the merry sound.

No, it was as still as midnight; not even a bird was there to cheer the

solitude with his song.

If the aspect without had little to enliven Fritz’s spirits, within

doors it had even less. The Bauer was very poor; his hut stood on a

little knoll outside the village, and on the edge of a long tract of

unreclaimed land, which once had borne forest-trees, but now was covered

by a low scrub, with here and there some huge trunk, too hard to split,

or too rotten for firewood. The hut had two rooms; but even that was

enough, for there was nobody to dwell in it but the Bauer, his wife, and

a little daughter, Gretchen, or, as they called her in the Dorf,

“Grettl’a.” She was a year younger than Fritz, and a good-tempered

little “Mädle;” and who, but for over-hard work for one so young, might

have been even handsome. Her eyes were large and full, and her hair

bright-coloured, and her skin clear; yet scanty food and continual

exposure to the air, herding the goats, had given her a look of being

much older than she really was, and imparted to her features that

expression of premature cunning which poverty so invariably stamps upon

childhood. It was a happy day for Grettl’a that brought Fritz to the

cottage; not only because she gained a companion and a playfellow, but

that she needed no longer to herd the goats on the wild, bleak plain,

rising often ere day broke, and never returning till late in the

evening. Fritz would do all this now; and more, he would bring in the

firewood from the little dark wood-house, where she feared to venture

after nightfall; and he would draw water from the great deep well, so

deep that it seemed to penetrate to the very centre of the earth. He

would run errands, too, into the Dorf; and beetle the flax betimes;--in

fact, there was no saying what he would not do. Fritz did not disappoint

any of these sanguine expectations of his usefulness; nay, he exceeded

them all, shewing himself daily more devoted to the interests of his

humble protectors. It was never too early for him to rise from his bed--

never too late to sit up when any work was to be done; always willing to

oblige--ever ready to render any service in his power. Even the Bauer’s

wife, a hard-natured, ill-thinking creature, in whom poverty had

heightened all the faults, nor taught one single lesson of kindliness to

others who were poor,--even she felt herself constrained to moderate the

rancour of her harshness, and would even at times vouchsafe a word or a

look of good humour to the little orphan boy. The Bauer himself, without

any great faults of character, had no sense of the fidelity of his

little follower. He thought that there was a compact between them,

which, as each fulfilled in his own way, there was no more to be said of

it. Gretchen more than made up for the coldness of her parents. The

little maiden, who knew by hard experience the severe lot to which Fritz

was bound, she felt her whole heart filled with gratitude and wonder

towards him. Wonder, indeed; for not alone did his services appear so

well performed, but they were so various and so numerous. He was every

where and at every thing; and it was like a proverb in the house--

“Fritz will do it.” He found time for all; he neglected--stay, I am

wrong--poor little fellow, he did neglect something--something that was

more than all; but it was not his fault. Fritz never entered the village

church--he never said a prayer; he knew nothing of the Power that had

created him, and all that he saw around him. If he thought on these

things, it was with the vague indecision of a mind without guidance or

direction. Why, or how, and to what end, he and others like him, lived

or died, he could not, by any effort, conceive. Fritz was a bondman--as

much a slave as many who are carried away in chains across the seas, and

sold to strange masters. There was no bodily cruelty in his servitude;

he endured no greater hardships than poverty entails on millions; his

little sphere of duties was not too much for his strength; his humble

wants were met, but the darkest element of slavery was there! The daily

round of service over, no thought was taken of that purer part which in

the Peasant claims as high a destiny as in the Prince. The Sunday saw

him go forth with his flock to the mountain like any other day; and

though from some distant hill he could hear the tolling bell that called

the villagers to prayer, he knew not what it meant. The better dresses

and holiday attire suggested some notion of a fete-day; but as he knew

there were no fête-days for him, he turned his thoughts away, lest he

should grow unhappy.

If Fritz’s companion, when within doors, was GrettFa, when he was away

on the plain, or among the furze hills, the Starling was ever with him.

Indeed he could easier have forgotten his little cap of squirrel-skin,

as he went forth in the morning, than the cage, which hung by a string

on his back. This be unfastened when he had led his goats into a

favourable spot for pasturage, and, sitting down beside it, would talk

to the bird for hours. It was a long time before he could succeed in

obeying the Curate’s counsel, even in part, and teach the bird not to

cry “Potztausend!” Starlings do not unlearn their bad habits much easier

than men; and, despite all Fritz’s teaching, his pupil would burst out

with the forbidden expression on any sudden emergency of surprise;

or sometimes as it happened, when he had remained in a sulky fit for

several days together without uttering a note, he would reply to Fritz’s

caresses and entreaties to eat by a sharp, angry “Potztausend!” that

any one less deeply interested than poor Fritz would have laughed at

outright. They were no laughing matters to him. He felt that the work

of civilisation was all to be done over again. But his patience was

inexhaustible; and a circumstance, perhaps, not less fortunate--he had

abundant time at his command. With these good aids he laboured on, now

punishing, now rewarding, ever inventing some new plan of correction,

and at last--as does every one who has that noble quality,

perseverance--at last succeeding,--not, indeed, all at once perfectly;

for Star’s principles had been laid down to last, and he struggled hard

not to abandon them, and he persisted to cry “Potz------” for three

months after he had surrendered the concluding two syllables; finally,

however, he gave up even this; and no temptation of sudden noise, no

riotous conduct of the villagers after nightfall, no boiling over of the

great metal pot that held the household supper, nor any more alarming

ebullition of ill-temper of the good Fran herself, would elicit from him

the least approach to the forbidden phrase. While the Starling was thus

accomplishing one part of his education by unlearning, little Fritz

himself, under Grettl’a’s guidance, was learning to read. The labour was

not all to be encountered, for he already had made some little progress

in the art under his father’s tuition. But the evening hours of winter,

wherein he received his lessons, were precisely those in which the poor

bird-catcher, weary and tired from a day spent in the mountains, would

fall fast asleep, only waking up at intervals to assist Fritz over a

difficulty, or say, “Go on,” when his blunders had made him perfectly

unintelligible even to himself. It may be well imagined, then, that

his proficiency was not very great. Indeed, when first called upon by

Grettl’a to display his knowledge, his mistakes were so many, and his

miscallings of words so irresistibly droll, that the little girl laughed

outright; and, to do Fritz justice, he joined in the mirth himself.

The same persistence of purpose that aided him while teaching his bird,

befriended him here. He laboured late and early, sometimes repeating

to himself by heart little portions of what he had read, to familiarise

himself with new words; sometimes wending his way along the plain, book

in hand; and then, when having mastered some fierce difficulty, he would

turn to his Starling to tell him of his victory, and promise, that when

once he knew how to read well, he would teach him something out of

his book--“Something good;” for, as the Curate said, “that would bring

luck.”

So long as the winter lasted, and the deep snow lay on the hills, Fritz

always herded his goats near the village, seeking out some sheltered

spot where the herbage was still green, or where the thin drift was

easily scraped away. In summer, however, the best pasturages lay further

away among the hills near Steingaden, a still and lonely tract, but

inexpressibly dear to poor Fritz, since there the wild flowers grew in

such abundance, and from thence he could see the high mountains above

Reute and Paterkirchen, lofty and snow-clad like the “Jochs” in his own

Tyrol land. There was another reason why he loved this spot. It was here

that, in a narrow glen, where two paths crossed, a little shrine

stood, with a painting of the Virgin enclosed within it--a very rude

performance, it is true; but how little connexion is there between the

excellence of art and the feelings excited in the humble breast of a

poor peasant child! The features, to his thinking, were beautiful; never

had eyes a look so full of compassion and of love. They seemed to greet

him as he came, and follow him as he lingered on his way homeward.

Many an hour did Fritz sit upon the little bench before the shrine, in

unconscious worship of that picture. Heaven knows what fancies he may

have had of its origin; it never occurred to him to think that human

skill could have achieved any thing so lovely.

He had often remarked that the villagers, as they passed, would kneel

down before it, and with bowed heads and crossed arms seem to do it

reverence; and he himself, when they were gone, would try to imitate

their gestures, some vague sentiment of worship struggling for utterance

in his heart.

There was a little inscription in gilt letters beneath the picture; but

these he could not read, and would gaze at their cabalistic forms

for hours long, thinking how, if he could but decipher them, that the

mystery might be revealed.

How he longed for the winter to be over and the spring to come, that he

might lead the goats to the hills, and to the little glen of the shrine!

He could read now. The letters would be no longer a secret; they would

speak to him, and to his heart, like the voice of that beauteous image.

How ardently did he wish to be there! and how, when the first faint sun

of April sent its pale rays over the plain, and glittered with a sickly

delicacy on the lake, how joyous was his spirit and how light his step

upon the heather!

Many a little store of childish knowledge had Grettl’a opened to his

mind in their winter evenings’ study; but somehow, he felt as if they

were all as nothing compared to what the golden letters would reveal.

The portrait, the lonely glen, the solemn reverence of the kneeling

worshippers, had all conspired to create for him a mass of emotions

indescribably pleasurable and thrilling. Who can say the secret of such

imaginings, or bound their sway?

The wished-for hour came, and it was alone and unseen that he stood

before the shrine and read the words, “Maria, Mutter Gottes, hulf uns.”

If this mystery were unrevealed to his senses, a feeling of dependent

helplessness was too familiar to his heart not to give the words a

strong significance. He was poor, unfriended, and an orphan: who could

need succour more than he did? Other children had lathers and mothers,

who loved them and watched over them; their little wants were cared for,

their wishes often gratified. His was an uncheered existence: who was

there to “_help him?_”

Against the daily load of his duties he was not conscious of needing

aid; his burden he was both able and willing to bear. It was against his

thoughts in the long hours of solitude--against the gloomy visions of

his own free-thinking spirit, he sought assistance; against the sad

influence of memory, that brought up his childhood before him, when

he had a father who loved him--against the dreary vista of an unloved

future, he needed help. “And could _she_ befriend him?” was the question

he asked his heart.

“He must ask Grettl’a this; she would know it all!” Such were the

reflections with which he bent his way homeward, as eagerly as in the

morning he had sought the glen. Grettl’a did know it all, and more too,

for she had a prayer-book, and a catechism, and a hymn-book, though

hitherto these treasures had been unknown to Fritz, whose instructions

were always given in a well-thumbed little volume of fairy tales, where

“Hans Däumling” and “The Nutz-cracker” figured as heroes.

I am not able to say that Grettl’a’s religious instruction was of the

most enlightened nature--not any more than it was commensurate with the

wishes and requirements of him who sought it; it went, indeed, little

further than an explanation of the “golden letters.” Still, slight and

vague as it was, it comforted the poor heart it reached, as the most

straggling gleam of sunlight will cheer the dweller in some dark

dungeon, whose thoughts soar out upon its rays to the gorgeous luminary

it flows from. Whatever the substance of his knowledge, its immediate

effect upon his mind was to diffuse a hopeful trust and happiness

through him he had never known till now. His loneliness in the world was

no longer the solitary isolation of one bereft of friends. Not only with

his own heart could he commune now. He felt there was One above who read

these thoughts, and could turn them to his will. And in this trust his

daily labour was lightened, and his lot more happy.

“Now,” thought he, one day, as he wandered onward among the hills, “now,

I can teach thee something good--something that will bring us luck. Thou

shalt learn the lesson of the golden letters, Starling--ay, truly, it

will be hard enough at first. It cost me many a weary hour to learn to

read, and thou hast only one little line to get off by heart--and such

a pretty line, too! Come, Jacob, let’s begin at once.” And, as he spoke,

he opened the cage and took out the bird, and patted his head kindly

and smoothed down his feathers. Little flatteries, that Starling well

understood were preparatory to some educational requirement; and he

puffed out his chest proudly, and advanced one leg with an air of

importance; and drawing up his head, seemed as though he could say,

“Well, what now, Master Fritz?--what new scheme is this in thy wise

head?”

Fritz understood him well, or thought he did so, which in such cases

comes pretty much to the same thing; and so, without more ado, he opened

his explanation, which perhaps, after all, was meant equally for himself

as the Starling--at least I hope so, for I suspect he comprehended it

better.

He told him that for a long time his education had been grossly

neglected; that having originally been begun upon a wrong principle, the

great function of his teacher had been to eradicate the evil, and, so to

say, to clear the soil for the new and profitable seed. The ground, to

carry out the illustration, had now lain long enough in fallow--the time

had arrived to attend to its better culture.

It is more than probable Fritz had never heard of the great controversy

in France upon the system of what is called the “Secondary Instruction,”

nor troubled his head on the no less active schism in our own country

between the enemies and advocates of National Education. So that he has

all the merit, if it be one, of solving a very difficult problem for

himself without aid or guidance; for he resolved that a religious

education should precede all other.

“Now for it,” said he, at the close of a longer exposition of his

intentions than was perhaps strictly necessary, “now for it, Starling!

repeat after me--‘Maria, Mutter Gottes, hülf uns!’”

The bird looked up in his face with an arch drollery that almost

disconcerted the teacher. If a look could speak, that look said, as

plainly as ever words could,--

“Why don’t you ask me to say the whole Litany, Fritz?”

“Ay, ay,” replied Fritz, for it was a reply, “I know that’s a great deal

to learn all at once, and some of the words are hard enough, too; but

with time, Star, time and patience--I had to use both one and the other

before I learned to read; and many a thing that looks difficult and

impossible even at first, seems quite easy afterwards. Come, then, just

try it: begin with the first word--‘Maria’.”

It was in vain Fritz spoke in his most coaxing accents, in vain did he

modulate the syllables in twenty different ways; all his entreaties and

petting», all his blandishments and caresses, were of no avail, Star

remained deaf to them all. He even turned his back at last, and seemed

as if no power on earth should make a Christian of him. Fritz had had

too much experience of the efficacy of perseverance in his own case to

abandon the game here; so he went to work again, and with the aid of a

little lump of sugar returned to the lecture.

Had Star been a Chancery lawyer he could not have received the fee more

naturally, though, for the honour of the equity bar, I would hope

the similitude ends there, for he paid not the slightest heed to the

“instructions.”

It would, perhaps, be rash in us “featherless bipeds” to condemn Star

all at once; there is no saying on what grounds he may have resisted

this educational attempt. How do we know that his reasoning ran not

somewhat in this strain?--

“What better off shall I be when I have learned all your hard words?--or

how is it that you, my teacher, knowing them so well, should be the

poor, half-fed, half-naked thing I see there before me?”

These very conjectures would seem to have crossed Fritz’s mind, for he

said,--

“It is not for a mere whim that I would have thee learn this; these

words will bring us luck, Star! Ay, what I say is true, though thou

mayst shake thy head and think otherwise. I tell thee, ‘Good words bring

luck.’”

Whether it was that Star assumed an air of more than ordinary conceit

and indifference, or that Fritz had come to the end of patience, I

cannot affirm; but he hastily added, and in a voice much louder and more

excited than was his wont,--“It is so; and thou shalt learn the words

whether thou wilt or no--that I tell thee!”

“Potztausend!” cried the bird, frightened by his excitement, and at once

recurring to his long unused exclamation: “Potztausend!”

“Hush, shameless thing!” said Fritz, angrily; “there is nothing for it

but punishment!” And so he replaced him in the cage, covered him close

on every side with his handkerchief, and trudged sorrowfully towards

home.

For several days Fritz never spoke to Starling, even one word. He

brought him his food in silence; and instead of taking him, as of old,

along with him into the fields, he hung his cage in a gloomy corner of

the hut, whence he could see little or nothing of what went on in the

house--no small privation for a bird so alive to inquisitiveness. At

length, when he believed punishment had gone far enough, he took him

down and hung him on his back as usual, and brought him a long, long way

into the hills. The day was fine, a fresh but balmy spring breathed over

the young flowers, and the little stream danced and rippled pleasantly;

and the clouds moved along overhead in large soft masses, bordered with

a silvery edge. Star never noticed these things; he was indignant at the

neglect, as he deemed it, which had been shewn him of late. His pride

and spirit--and Starlings are not deficient in either--had sustained

grievous injury; and he felt that, without due reparation made to him,

he could not, consistently with honour, sign a treaty of reconciliation.

Fritz mistook these indications altogether--and who can blame him? What

the world calls dignity is not unfrequently mere sulk. How should

poor Fritz make distinctions great Ministers and Princes are sometimes

incapable of?

The end of all this was a struggle, a long and violent struggle, on each

side for the ascendancy. Fritz, however, had the advantage, for he could

starve out the enemy--a harsh measure, no doubt, but greater folks

have adopted even more severe ones to enforce their principles. Fritz,

besides, had all the stern enthusiasm of a fanatic in the cause. The

dark zeal of the Holy Office itself never enforced its decrees with more

inflexible purpose than did he his. “Accept this creed, or die in your

sins,” was, if not exactly his dictum, certainly his full meaning.

Star stood out long, so long that Fritz began at last to fear that the

creature meditated martyrdom, and in this dread he relaxed somewhat of

his prison discipline.

It would scarcely be instructive--not any more than amusing--to recount

the painful progress of this long contest--a contest, after all, in

which there is nothing new to any reader of history; for when force is

on one side and weakness on the other, the result may be deferred but is

never doubtful. It is enough that we say, Star made submission. True, it

was the submission of coercion--no matter for that, it was submission;

for after three weeks of various successes on either side, the creature

greeted Fritz one morning as he arose with a feint cry of “Maria,

Maria!”

This was enough, more than enough, and Fritzerl could have hugged him to

his heart.

His authority recognised, his will acknowledged, he was but too happy

to take his rebellious subject into full favour again. Whether Star felt

the benefits of his changed conduct so very satisfactory to his comfort,

or that he was really disposed to please his master, I cannot say; but,

from that hour out, he laboured strenuously to learn his new profession

of faith, and screamed “Maria!” from day-dawn to dusk. The two

following words were, however, downright puzzles; “Mutter-Gottes” was

a combination that no Starling--even a German one, bred up among strong

gutturals and flat labials--could master. He worked hard, however, and

so did Fritz. If life depended upon it, neither of them could have

exerted themselves more zealously; but it was no use. In any other

language, perhaps, Star might have been able to invoke the Virgin, but

here it was out of the question. The nearest approach the poor

fellow could make was something like a cry of “Mörder--Mörder”

(Murder--murder); so unfortunate a change that Fritz abandoned the

lesson with the best grace he could, betaking himself to the concluding

words, which happily presented no such unseemly similitudes.

His success here was such as to obliterate all memory of his former

defeat. Starling made the most astonishing progress, and learned the

words so perfectly, with such accuracy of enunciation, that to hear

him at a little distance any one would say it was some pious Catholic

invoking the Virgin with all his might. The “Hülf uns” was not a mere

exclamation, but a cry for actual aid, so natural as to be perfectly

startling.

So long as the bird’s education was incomplete, Fritzerl carefully

screened him from public observation. He had all the susceptibility of

a great artist, who would not let his canvass be looked upon before the

last finishing touch was laid on the picture. No sooner, however, had

full success crowned his teaching, than he proudly displayed him in a

new cage made for the occasion at the door of the Bauer’s hut.

It was Sunday, and the villagers were on their way to mass; and what

was their astonishment to hear themselves exhorted as they passed by

the fervent cry of “Maria, hülf uns! Hülf uns, Maria!” Group after group

stood in mute amazement, gazing at the wonderful bird, some blessing

themselves with a pious fervour, others disposed to regard the sounds as

miraculous, and more than either stood in dumb astonishment at this new

specimen of ghostly counsel.

All this while Fritzerl lay hid beneath the window, enjoying his triumph

with a heart full almost to bursting. Never did singing-master listen

to the syren notes of his pupil, while as the _prima donna_ of a

great opera she electrified or entranced a crowded audience, with more

enthusiastic rapture than did Fritz at his Starling’s performance. Poor

little fellow! it was not merely vanity gratified by public applause--it

was a higher feeling was engaged here. A sense of religious exaltation

worked within him, that he had laboured in a great cause; a thrill of

ecstasy trembled at his heart that another voice than his own was asking

aid for him, and incessantly invoking the Virgin’s protection on his own

head. Happy had it been for him that no other sentiment had intervened,

and that he had not also indulged a vain pride in the accomplishment of

his pupil!

It so chanced, that among those who passed the hut and stood to wonder

at this astonishing creature, was a tall, ragged-looking, swarthy

fellow, whose dress of untanned leather, and cap ornamented with the

tail of many a wood squirrel, told that he was an “Engadiner,” one from

the same land Fritz came himself. A strange wild land it is! where in

dress, language, custom, and mode of life, there is no resemblance to

any thing to be seen throughout Europe. A more striking representative

of his strange country need not have been wished for. His jacket was

hung round with various tufts of plumage and fur for making artificial

birds, with whistles and birdcalls to imitate every note that ever

thrilled through a leafy grove; his leathern breeches only reached to

the knee, which was entirely bare, as well as the leg, to below the

calf, where a rude sandal was fastened; his arms, also, copper-coloured

as those of an Indian, were quite naked, two leathern bracelets

enclosing each wrist, in which some metal hooks were inserted: by these

he could hang on the branch of a tree, or the edge of a rock, leafing

his hands at liberty. He wore his coal-black hair fer down on his back

and shoulders, and his long moustache drooped deep beneath his lank jaw.

If there was something wild almost to ferocity in his black and flashing

eyes, the mouth, with its white and beautifully regular teeth, had a

look of almost womanly delicacy and softness,--a character that was

well suited to the musical sounds of his native language ~one not less

pleasant to the ear than Italian itself. Such was he who stopped to

listen to the bird, and who, stealing round to the end of the hut, lay

down beneath some scattered branches of firewood to delight his ear to

the uttermost.

It may be doubted whether a connoisseur ever listened to Orisi or Jenny

Lind with more heartfelt rapture than did the Engadiner to the Starling;

for while the bird, from time to time, would break forth with its newly

acquired invocation, the general tenor of its song was a self-taught

melody--one of those wild and delicious voluntaries in which conscious

power displayed itself; now, astounding the ear by efforts the wildest

and most capricious, now subduing the sense by notes plaintive almost to

bring tears. In these latter it was that he mingled his cry of “Maria,

hülf--hülf--hülf uns, Maria!”--words so touching and so truthful in

their accents that at every time the Engadiner beard them he crossed

himself twice on the forehead and the breast; which devout exercise, I

am constrained to say, had in his case more of habit than true piety, as

the sequel proved.

I forget whether it is not Madame de Seuderi has built a little theory

upon the supposition that every mind has within it the tendency to yield

to some one peculiar temptation. The majority, I fancy, have not limited

their weakness to units. Poverty has so many wants to be supplied,

wealth so many seductions to offer, that it may be affirmed he is not

worse than his fellows whose heart has only one undefended bastion. I am

not anxious to claim for my Engadiner any more than ordinary powers of

resistance: neither his race nor his country, the habits of his life,

nor his principles--if it be permitted to use the word--had taught him

such self-control; but, if they had--if they had steeled his nature

against every common seduction, they could not have stifled within him

the native passion for bird-catching, or, what is very much akin to it,

bird-stealing. He would as soon have thought it needful to restrict his

lungs in their requisite quantity of atmospheric air, as to curb what

he regarded as a mere human instinct. If Engadiners were made for any

thing, it was for bird-catching: no one did any thing else, thought,

spoke, or dreamt of any thing else, in the Engadine. It was not a

pastime, or a caprice; it was not that the one was skilful, or that the

other was adroit at it, but the whole population felt that birds were

their natural prey, and that the business of their life was comprised

in catching, feeding, training, sending, and selling them all over

the globe--not only in Europe, but over the vast continent of America.

Wherever birds had fanciers, wherever men cared for the tints of plumage

or the warbling mellowness of their notes, there an Engadiner was sure

to be found. And who has ever studied their nature like one of these

mountaineers, who knows all their habits and their tastes, their seasons

of migrating and returning, how they build their nests, and all

their likings and their antipathies--the causes which influence their

selection and abandonment of a peculiar locality, the meaning of their

songs--ay, and they are full of meaning--of welcome, of sorrow, of love,

and of despair? None like an Engadiner for all this! Few would have the

patience, fewer still the requisite gifts of acuteness, with uncommon

powers of eye and ear--of eye to discern the tints of plumage among the

dark leaves of the pine-forest--of ear to catch and imitate the notes of

each tribe, so that birds themselves should answer to the sounds.

The Engadiner stirred not from his hiding-place the whole day; he

watched the moving throng passing to and from the village church; he

saw the Bauers pass by, some in the Sunday “waggons,” their horses gaily

caparisoned, with huge scarlet tassels beneath their necks, and great

wide traces all studded with little copper nails; and the more humble,

on foot, the men dressed in their light Bavarian blue, and the women

clad in a coarser stuff of the same colour, their wealth being all

centred in one strange head-dress of gold and silver filigree, which,

about the size and shape of a peacock’s tail when expanded, is attached

to the back of the head--an unwieldy contrivance, which has not the

merit of becomingness; it neither affords protection against sun or

rain, and is so inconvenient, that when two peasant women walk together

they have to tack and beat, like ships in a narrow channel; and not

unfrequently, like such craft, run foul of each other after all.

The Engadiner watched these evidences of affluence, such as his wild

mountains had nothing to compare with, and yet his heart coveted none of

them. They were objects of his wonder, but no more; while every desire

was excited to possess the little bird, whose cage hung scarcely three

yards from where he lay.

As evening drew nigh, the Engadiner became almost feverish in

excitement: each stir within the house made him fear that some one was

coming to take the bird away; every step that approached suggested the

same dread. Twice he resolved to tear himself from the spot, and pursue

his journey; but each time some liquid note, some thrilling cadence,

fell like a charm upon his ear, and he sank down spell-bound. He sat for

a long time with eyes rivetted on the cage, and then at length, stooping

down, he took from the ground beside him a long branch of pine-wood; he

measured with his eye the distance to the cage, and muttered to himself

an assent. With a dexterity and speed which in his countrymen are

instincts, he fastened one handle of his scissors to the branch, and

tied a string to the other, making an implement like that used by the

grape-gatherers in the wine season. He examined it carefully, to try its

strength, and even experimented with it on the jessamine that grew over

the front of the cottage. His dark eyes glistened like burning coals as

the leaves and twigs were snapped off at a touch. He looked around him

to see that all was still, and no one near. The moment was favourable:

the Angelus was ringing from the little chapel, and all the Dorf was

kneeling in prayer. He hesitated no longer, but, lifting the branch,

he cut through three of the little bars in the cage; they were dry

and brittle, and yielded easily: in a moment more he had removed them,

leaving a little door wide enough for the bird to escape. This done, he

withdrew the stick, detached the scissors, and in its place tied on a

small lump of maple sugar--the food the bird loves best. Starling, at

first terrified by the intrusion, soon gained courage and approached

the bait. He knew not that a little noose of horse-hair hung beneath it,

which, no sooner had he tasted the sugar, than it was thrown over his

neck and drawn tight. Less practised fingers than the Engadiner’s could

scarcely have enclosed that little throat sufficiently to prevent even

one cry, and yet not endanger life.

Every step of this process was far more rapid than we have been in

telling it. The moment it was effected, the Engadiner was away. No

Indian ever rose from his lair with more stealthy cunning, nor tracked

his enemy with a fleeter step: away over the wide plain, down through

the winding glens, among the oak-scrub, and into the dark pine-wood, who

could trace his wanderings?--who could overtake him now?

With all his speed, he had not gone above a mile from the Dorf when

Fritz missed his treasure. He went to take his bird into the house for

the night, when the whole misfortune broke full upon him, For a few

seconds, like most people under sudden bereavement, his mind could not

take in all the sorrow: he peered into the cage, he thrust his fingers

into it, he tumbled over the moss at the bottom of it; and then, at

length, conscious of nis loss, he covered his face with his hands, and

sobbed as though his heart was breaking.

Men and women may find it hard to sympathise with such sorrow. A child,

however, can understand a child’s grief, for Fritz had lost every thing

he had in the world. This little bird was not only all his wealth, all

his ambition, his daily companion in solitary places, his hope, his

friend, but somehow it was linked mysteriously with the memories of his

own home--memories that every day, every hour, was effacing--but these,

Star still could call up in his heart: to lose him was, therefore, to

cut the last slender cord that tied him to the past and linked him to

the future.

His violent sobbing brought Grettl’a to him, but he could tell her

nothing--he could only point to the cage, which now hung on its side,

and mutter the one word,--

“Hin! hin!”--Away! away!

The little girl’s grief was scarcely less poignant than his own. She

wrung her hands in all the passion of sorrow, and cried bitterly.

The Bauer and his wife now came to the spot, the one to join in, the

other to rebuke, their afflictions. How little the children noticed

either! Their misery filled up every corner of their minds--their

wretchedness was overwhelming.

Every corner of the little hut was associated with some recollection of

the poor “Star.” Here, it was he used to feed--here, he hopped out

to greet Fritz of an evening, when the bad weather had prevented him

accompanying him to the fields. There, he was accustomed to sit while

they were at supper, singing his merry song; and here, would he remain

silently while they were at prayers, waiting for the moment of their

rising to utter the cry of “Maria, hülf uns!”

Each time the children’s eyes met, as they turned away from looking

at any of these well-known spots, they burst into tears: each read the

other’s thoughts, and felt his sorrows more deeply in the interchange.

What a long, long night was that! They cried themselves to sleep,

to awake again in tears!--now, to dream they heard “Star” calling to

them--now, to fancy he had come back again, all wayworn and ruffled,

glad to seek his usual shelter, and be with friends once more--and then

they awoke to feel the bitterness of disappointment, and know that he

was gone!

“And he told me, Grettl’a--he told me ‘A good word brings luck!’” sobbed

Fritz, whose despair had turned to scepticism.

Poor Grettl’a had no argument wherewith to meet this burst of

misery--she could but mingle her tears with his.

We frequently hear of the hard-heartedness of the poor--how steeled they

are against the finer affections and softer feelings of the world; but

it might be as well to ask if the daily business of life--which to them

is one of sheer necessity--does not combat more powerfully against

the indulgence of sorrow than all the philosophy that mere wisdom ever

taught?

Poor Fritzerl awoke with a heart almost weighed down with affliction,

but still he went forth with his goats to the pasture, and tended and

watched after them as carefully as ever. The next day, and the day after

that again, he went about his accustomed duties; but on the third day,

as he sat beside Grettl’a under the old linden-tree before the door, he

whispered to her,--

“I can bear it no longer, Grettl’a! I must away!--away!” And he pointed

to the distance, which, vague and undefined as his own resolves,

stretched out its broad expanse before them.

Grettl’a did her best to persuade him against his rash determination:

she reasoned as well as she could reason; she begged, she even cried to

him; and at last, all else failing, she forgot her pledge, and actually

ran and told her father.

The Bauer, sorry to lose so faithful a servant as Fritz, added his

influence to the little maiden’s tears; and even the Bauer’s wife tried

to argue him out of his resolve, mingling with her wise suggestions

about a “wide world and a cold one” some caustic hints about ingratitude

to his friends and protectors.

Fritz was deaf to all: if he could not yield to Grettl’s prayers and

weeping eyes, he was strong against the old wife’s sarcasms.

He cried all night through, and, arising before the dawn, he kissed

Grettl’a as she lay sleeping, and, cautiously opening the latch, slipped

out unheard. A heavy dew was on the grass, and the large, massive clouds

rested on the mountains and filled the plain. It was cold, and

gloomy, and cheerless---just such as the world is to the wanderer who,

friendless, alone, and poor, would tempt his fortunes in it!

Fritz wandered on over the plain--he had no choice of paths--he had

nothing to guide, no clue to lead him. He took this, because he had

often gone it with “Star” when he was happy and contented. As he went

along, the sun rose, and soon the whole scene changed from its leaden

grey to the bright tint of morning. The hoar-frost glittered like

thousands of spangles scattered over the grass; the earth sent up a

delicious odour; the leaves, as they opened, murmured softly in the air;

and the little brooks rustled among the stones, and rippled on with a

sound like fairy laughter. There was gladness and joy every where, save

in that heart which was now bereft of all.

“What could he mean?” said he, again and again to himself: “‘A good word

brings luck!’ When had I ever misfortune till now?”

Oh, Fritzerl! take care lest you are not making the common mistake, and

expecting the moral before the end of the story.

Were it my object to dwell on this part of my tale, I might tell you of

Fritz’s long conflict with himself--his doubts, his hesitation, and his

reasonings, before he could decide on what course to take, or whither to

bend his steps. The world was a very wide one to hunt after a Starling

through it: that, he knew, though not very deeply skilled in geography.

Fritz had never heard of those wise inspirations by which knights-errant

of old guided their wanderings; nor, perhaps, if he bad, would he have

benefited by them, seeing that to throw the rein loose on his charger’s

neck was a matter of some difficulty. He did, perhaps, what was the

nearest thing in practice to this: he wandered along, keeping the

straight path, and, neither turning right nor left, found himself at

noon in the opening of the beautiful glen that leads to Reute. He looked

up, and there were great mountains before him--not hills, but real

mountains, with pine-forests beneath, and crags above that, and over

them, again, snow-peaks and glaciers. They seemed quite near, but they

were still many a mile off. No matter: the sight of them cheered and

encouraged him; they reminded him of the old life among the Tyrol

“Jochs,” and the wild cattle sporting about, and the herdsmen springing

from cliff to cliff, rifle in hand. Ob, that was a free and joyous life!

Fritz’s musings on this head were suddenly put a stop to by a severe

pang of hunger, in all likelihood suggested by the odour of a savoury

mess which steamed from the open window of a little hut on the

road-side.

The peasant family were about to sit down to their twelve-o’clock

dinner, when Fritz, unconsciously to himself, drew up at the window, and

looked in at the tempting food.

There is one custom in Germany, which, simple as it is, it would be hard

to praise above its merits: that is, the invariable habit of every one,

so far as his means permit, to help the foot-traveller on his journey.

By an old municipal law of most of the cities, the tradesmen cannot

settle and establish themselves in their native town till they have

travelled and lived in other places; thus learning, as it is supposed,

whatever improvements their several crafts may have obtained in

different and distant cities. These wanderings, which are usually for

one year or two, are accomplished during the period of apprenticeship;

so that you never travel on any of the high-roads without meeting these

Lehr-Junkers, as they are called, who, with a knapsack on their back,

and a spare pair of boots or two depending from it, are either smoking

or singing to beguile the way. As it is not to be supposed that they

are over-abundantly provided with means, it has grown into a recognised

custom to assist them with some trifle: but the good habit ends not

here; it extends to the poor boy returning from the gymnasium, or

school, to see his parents--the discharged or furloughed soldier--the

wayfarer of every class, in fact, whose condition pleads to those more

plenteously endowed than himself.

Fritz was now to reap the benefit of this graceful charity; and scarcely

had his wan features appeared at the window, than a sign from the chief

Bauer invited him to partake. Happily for poor Fritz--happily for all

who give and all who accept such aid--there is no sense of humiliation

in doing so. It is, in fact, less an alms-giving than a remnant of

the ancient hospitality which made the stranger welcome beneath every

roof--a custom that dates before rail-roads and giant hotels.

Fritz ate and drank, and was thankful. The few words he spoke were in

answer to the common questions, as to whence he came--and whither he was

going--and what was his handicraft; inquiries which puzzled him sorely

to reply to. His hesitations were not rendered more embarrassing by the

curiosity of his questioners; they neither cared to push him closely,

nor troubled their heads upon the matter.

“Farewell,” said the Bauer’s wife, as he thanked her gratefully;

“farewell. Be good and pious, young lad; don’t keep naughty company, nor

learn bad ways; and remember ‘A good word brings luck.’”

His eyes filled up with tears as she spoke. Who can tell the conflict of

feelings they called up in his bosom?

“Where does this path lead to?” he asked, in a faint voice*

“To Reute, child.”

“And then, after Rente?”

“To Zillerthal and Inspruck.”

“To Inspruck!” said Fritz, while a sudden hope shot through him. “I’ll

go to Inspruck,” muttered he, lower. “Good-by, Bauer; good-by, Frau. God

bless thee.” And with these words he set out once more.

How little they who roll on their journey with all the speed and

luxury that wealth can purchase, defying climate and distance, know the

vicissitudes that fall to the lot of the weary foot-traveller! From

city to city, from kingdom to kingdom, the rich man glides on, the great

panorama of life revealing itself before him, without an effort on

his part. The Alps--the Pyrenees, scarcely retard him; the luxuries he

requires meet him at every halting-place, as though difference of region

should not trench upon even his daily habits; his patience, perhaps, not

more tried than by the occasional stoppages where fresh horses meet

him. And yet, between two such stations a foot-traveller may spend

the live-long day, wearied, footsore, heavy of heart. What crosses

and trials are his! What strange adventures, too! and what strange

companionships! Each day a new episode of life--but of life over which

Poverty has thrown its shadow.

Fritz was now to experience all this; now, travelling with a company of

wandering apprentices; now, keeping company with a group of peasants

on the way to market; sometimes, partaking of a seat in a Bauer’s

waggon--often, alone and weary, thinking over his future--a future, that

each day seemed to render more doubtful and gloomy.

As he penetrated deeper into the Zillerthal, the journeys of each day

became longer, the resting-places for the night being further apart;

sometimes he was obliged to stop a day, or even two days, at a village,

to recruit strength sufficient for a long march; and then, he would have

to walk from before daylight to late in the night ere he reached his

destination. His was not strength to endure fatigue like this with

impunity; and if he did encounter it, it was from an enthusiasm that

supplied energy, where mere bodily strength had failed. Two hopes buoyed

him up, and carried him along through every opposing difficulty. Whether

Star had escaped by accident, or been taken away by design, he was lame,

and would surely be soon caught; and if so, what more likely than that

he would be sent to Inspruck to be sold, for there was the greatest

bird-market of all the world? at least so Fritz believed. His second

sustaining hope lay in the prospect of once again meeting the old

Priest, and learning from him how was it that a “good word” had not

“brought luck” to him, and whether from any fault of his own.

These thoughts had so far obtained possession of his mind, that he

became almost unconscious of every other; from dwelling on them so much,

and revolving them so frequently and in so many different shapes and

forms, he grew to think that he had no other object and aim than to

reach Inspruck and solve these two doubts. Hunger, cold, and fatigue,

every privation of a long and weary journey, was unregarded by him; and

although it was now late in the autumn, and snow was beginning to fall

on the mountain passes, Fritz, poorly clad, and scarcely fed, trudged

on, day after day, his own heart supplying the courage which his weak

frame denied.

As winter drew near the days grew shorter; and the atmosphere, loaded

with snow ready to drop, darkened the earth, and made night come on, as

it seemed, many hours before sunset. This left very little time to Fritz

for his long journeys, which, just at this very period, unfortunately,

were longer than ever. The way, too, had become far more dreary and

deserted, not only because it led through a little-travelled district,

but that the snow being too deep for wheeled carriages, and not hard

enough for sledges, the travellers were fain to wait till either rain or

frost should come on, to make the road practicable. Hence it happened,

that not unfrequently, now, Fritz journeyed the live-long day, from

dawn to dark, and scarcely met a single traveller, Sometimes, too, not

a hut would be seen in a whole day’s march, and he would never taste a

morsel of food till he reached his halting-place for the night.

All this was bad enough, but it was not the only difficulty; the worst

of all was, how to find out the way in the mountain passes, where the

snow lay so deep, that the balustrades or parapets that flanked the

road, and often guarded it from a precipice, were now covered, and

no wheel-track could be seen to guide the traveller. Fritz, when he

journeyed this road before, remembered the awe and terror with which he

used to peep over the little stone railing, and look down hundreds of

feet into the dark valley beneath, where a great river was diminished

to the size of a mere brawling rivulet; and now, where was that

parapet?--on which side of him did it lie? A deep gorge was near--that

he well knew; the unfrozen torrent beneath roared like thunder, but a

waving surface of untrodden snow stretched away on either side of him,

without foot-track or aught to mark the way.

For a long time did the poor child stand uncertain which way to turn;

now thinking he heard the heavy plash of wheels moving through the snow,

and then discovering it was merely the sound of falling masses, which,

from time to time, slipped from their places, and glided down the steep

mountain sides» What desolate and heart-chilling solitude was there! A

leaden, greyish sky overhead--not a cloud, nor even a passing bird, to

break its dreary surface--beneath, nothing but snow; snow on the wild

fantastic mountain peaks; snow in waving sweeps between them. The rocks,

the fir-trees, all covered.

Fritz stood so long, that already the thin drift settled on his head

and shoulders, and clothed him in the same wintry livery as the objects

around; his limbs were stiff, his fingers knotted and frozen; the little

tears upon his blue cheeks seemed almost to freeze; his heart, that till

now bore bravely up, grew colder and heavier. He felt as if he would

be happy if he could cry, but that even grief was freezing within him.

Despair was near him then! He felt a drowsy confusion creeping over him.

Clouds of white snow-drift seemed to fall so thickly around, that every

object was hidden from view. Crashing branches and roaring torrents

mingled their noises with the thundering plash of falling snow-masses.

Oh! if he could but sleep, and neither hear nor see these wearying

sounds and sights--sleep, and be at rest! It was just at this instant

his eye caught sight of a little finger-post, from which a passing gust

of wind had carried away the snow. It stood at some distance beneath

him, in the midst of a waving field of snow. Had poor Fritz remarked its

leaning attitude, and the depth to which it was covered, scarcely more

than three feet appearing above the surface, he would have known it must

have been carried away from its own appointed spot; but his senses were

not clear enough for such simple reasonings, and with a last effort he

struggled towards it. The snow grew deeper at every step; not only did

it rise above his foot, and half his leg, but it seemed to move in a

great mass all around him, as if a huge fragment of the mountain had

separated, and was floating downwards. The post, too, he came not nearer

to it; it receded as he advanced;--was this a mere delusion? had his

weakened faculties lost all control of sense? Alas! these sensations

were but too real! He had already crossed the parapet which flanked the

road--already was he in the midst of a great “wraith” of fallen snow,

which, descending from the mountain peak, by a storm in the night,

had carried away the finger-post, and now only waited the slightest

impulse--the weight of that little child--to carry it down, down into

the depth below! And down, indeed, it went; at first, slowly--moving

like a great unbroken wave; then growing more hurried as it neared the

edge of the precipice, thickening and swelling with fresh masses: it

rose around him--now, circling his waist, now, enclosing his shoulders:

he had but time to grasp the little wooden cross, the emblem of hope and

succour, when the mass glided over the brink, and fell thundering into

the dark abyss.

I would not risk any little credit I may, perchance, possess with the

reader, by saying how deep that gorge actually was; but this will I say,

when standing on the spot, in a very different season from this I

have described--when the trees were in full leaf, the wild flowers

blossoming, and both sky above and river beneath, blue as the bluest

turquoise; yet even then, to look down the low parapet into the narrow

chasm, was something to make the head reel and the heart’s blood chill.

But to my story.--It was the custom in this season, when the snow fell

heavily on the high passes, to transmit the little weekly mail between

Reute and Inspruck by an old and now disused road, which led along

the edge of the river, and generally, from its sheltered situation,

continued practicable and free from snow some weeks later than the

mountain road. It was scarce worthy to be called a road--a mere

wheel-track, obstructed here and there by stones and masses of rock

that every storm brought down, and not unfrequently threatened, by the

flooding of the river, to be washed away altogether.

Along this dreary way the old postilion was wending--now, pulling up

to listen to the crashing thunders of the snow, which, falling several

hundred feet above, might at any moment descend and engulf him--again,

plying his whip vigorously, to push through the gorge, secretly vowing

in his heart that, come what would, he would venture no more there that

year. Just as he turned a sharp angle of the rock, where merely space

lay for the road between it and the river, he found his advance barred

up by a larch-tree, which, with an immense fragment of snow, had fallen

from above. Such obstacles were not new to him, and he lost no time in

unharnessing his horse and attaching him to the tree. In a few minutes

the road was cleared of this difficulty; and he now advanced, shovel in

hand, to make a passage through the snow.

“Saperlote!” cried he; “here is the finger-post! This must have come

down from the upper road.”

Scarcely were the words uttered, when a cry of horror broke from him. He

trembled from head to foot; his eyes seemed bursting from their sockets:

and well might they, for, close around the wood, just where it emerged

from the snow, were two little hands clasped tightly round the timber.

He threw himself on the spot, and tore up the snow with his fingers.

An arm appeared, and then the long yellow hair of a head resting on it.

Working with all the eagerness of a warm and benevolent nature, he soon

disinterred the little body, which, save one deep cut upon the

forehead, seemed to have no other mark of injury; but it lay cold and

motionless--no sign of life remaining.

He pressed the little flask of brandy--all that he possessed--against

the wan, white lips of the child; but the liquor ran down the chin and

over the cheek--not a drop of it was sucked. He rubbed the hands, he

chafed the body, he even shook it; but, heavy and inert, it gave no sign

of life.

“Ach, Gott!” muttered he, “it is all over!” But still, with a hope that

asked no aid from reason, he wrapped the child’s body in his fur mantle,

and, laying him softly down in the cart, continued his way.

The lights, which were glittering here and there through the little

village inns, had been gradually extinguished as the night grew

later, till, at last» none remained, save those around the door of

the post-house, where a little group of loungers was gathered, As they

talked together, one or other occasionally would step out into the road

and seem to listen, and then rejoin his companions. “No sign of him yet!

What can keep him so late as this?” cried the Post-master, holding up

his watch, that the lamp-light should fall on it. “It wants but four

minutes to eleven--his time, by right, is half after nine.”

“He is trying the upper road belike, and the deep snow has detained

him.”

“No, no,” said another, “Old Cristoph’s too knowing for that: bad as

the lower road is, the upper is worse; and with the storm of last night,

there will be drift there deep enough to swallow horse and mail-cart

twice over.”

“There may be fallen snow on the lower road,” whispered a

third; “Cristoph told me last week he feared it would not be safe for

another journey.”

“He’s a daring old fellow,” said the Post-master, as he resumed his walk

up and down to keep his feet warm; “but he’ll try that lower road once

too often. He can’t bear the upper road because it is a new one, and

was not made when he was a boy. He thinks that the world is not half so

wise, or so good, as it was some fifty years back.”

“If he make no greater mistakes than that,” muttered an old white-headed

hostler, “he may be trusted to choose his own road.”

“What’s that Philip is mumbling?” said the Post-master; but a general

cry of “Here he comes! Here he is now!” interrupted the answer.

“See how he drives full speed over the bridge!” exclaimed the

Post-master, angrily. “Potz-Teufel! if the Burgomaster hears it, I shall

have to pay a fine of four gulden; and I would not wonder if the noise

awoke him.”

There was less exaggeration than might be supposed in this speech, for

Old Cristoph, in open defiance of all German law, which requires that

nothing faster than a slow walk should be used in crossing a wooden

bridge, galloped at the full stride of his beast, making every crazy

plank and timber tremble and vibrate with a crash like small arms.

Never relaxing in his speed, the old man drove at his fastest pace

through the narrow old Roman gate, up the little paved hill, round

the sharp corner, across the Platz, into the main street, and never

slackened till he pulled up with a jerk at the door of the post-house:

when, springing from his seat, he detached the lamp from its place,

and thrust it into the waggon, crying with a voice that excitement had

elevated into a scream,--“He’s alive still!--I’ll swear I heard him

sigh! I know he’s alive!”

It is hard to say what strange conjectures might have been formed of

the old man’s sanity, had he not backed his words by stooping down and

lifting from the straw, at the bottom of the cart, the seemingly dead

body of a boy, which, with the alacrity of one far younger, he carried

up the steps, down the long arched passage, and into the kitchen, where

he laid him down before the fire.

“Quick now, Ernest; run for the doctor! Away, Johan; bring the Staats

Physicus--bring two--all of them in the town! Frau Hostess, warm water

and salt--salt, to rub him with--I know he is alive!”

A shake of the head from the old hostess seemed to offer a strong

dissent.

“Never mind that! He is not dead, though he did fall from the

Riesenfels.”

“From the Riesenfels!” exclaimed three or four together in amazement.

“Who was it came galloping at full speed over the Bridge, and passed

the grand guard on the Platz at the same disorderly pace?” said the deep

voice of the Burger-meister, who arose from his bed to learn the cause

of the tumult.

“It was I,” exclaimed Cristoph, ruggedly; “there lies the reason.”

“The penalty is all the same,” growled the man of authority: “four

gulden for one, and two gulden thirty kreutzers for the other offence.”

Cristoph either did not hear or heed the speech.

“Where’s the mail-bag? I haven’t seen that yet,” chimed in the

Post-master; who, like a wise official, followed the lead of the highest

village functionary.

Old Cristoph bustled out, and soon returned, not only with the leathern

sack in question, but with a huge fragment of a wooden cross over his

shoulders.

“There’s the bag, Herr Post-meister, all safe and dry,” said he; “and

here Herr Burger-meister, here’s your fine finger-post that the Governor

ordered to be stuck up on the Riesenfels. I suppose they’ll need it

again when the snow melts and the road is clear: though to be sure,”

added he, in a lower tone, “he must have worse eyes than Old Cristoph

who could not see his way to Imst from that cliff without a finger-post

to guide him.”

The Burgermeister was not disposed to suffer this irony in silence; but

the occasion to exert his authority with due severity was not at that

moment, when the whole attention of the bystanders was directed to

the proceedings of the three village doctors--one of them no less a

personage than the Staats Physicus--who, with various hard terms of art,

were discussing the condition of the senseless form before them.

Were I to recount one half of the learned surmises and deep

prognostications of these wise Esculapians, the chances are, my reader

would grow as weary of the recital as did poor old Cristoph of the

reality. For at last, unable to endure any longer active controversies

about the pia mater and the dura mater, the vitreous table and the

cerebellum, with vague hints of “congestion,” “depression,” “effusion,”

and so on, he broke in with, “In God’s name, dear gentlemen, let him be

kept warm and have a good glass of ‘schnaps’ down his poor throat;

and when he shews a chance of living, fight away about the name of the

malady to your hearts’ content.”

I am far from defending, Old Cristoph’s rude interruption. The learned

faculties should always be treated with becoming deference; but he was a

rude, unpolished old fellow, and the best one can say is, that he meant

it well. Certain it is they seemed to acknowledge the force of his

suggestion; for they at once removed the child to a warm bed, while they

ordered the hostess to administer a very comfortable cordial of her

own devising; and, to shew their confidence in the remedy, had three

likewise provided for their own individual comfort and support.

It is not my wish to dwell on the sad portions of our tale, wherever the

recital would elicit nothing of our little hero’s character: and such

was the period which now ensued. Fritz was conveyed, early on the

following morning, to the village hospital, where his case was

pronounced of the very gravest nature. The dangers from cold, inanition,

and exposure, were all inferior to the greater one resulting from

some injury to the brain. I cannot be expected to be clearer and more

explicit on this theme than were his doctors; and they, with proverbial

propriety, did differ most amazingly: one advocating a fracture, another

a concussion, and a third standing out for both, and something more.

They agreed, however, on two points; one of which was, that he would

die--and the other, that as he was evidently very poor and had no

friends, his death was of less consequence. I would not be here

understood, by any malevolent critic, as wishing to infer that the

doctors’ neglect of him was a strong point in Fritz’s favour. I merely

desire to relate a simple fact--that he continued to live from day

to day, and from week to week, gaining in strength, but never once

evidencing, by even the slightest trait, a return to his faculty of

reasoning. Alas, poor child!--the intellect which, in all his sorrow and

poverty, had been his happiness and his comfort, was now darkened, and

he awoke from that long dream of death--an idiot!

Perhaps I may not have used the fitting word; but how shall I speak of

his state? He seemed sad and sorrow-struck; never spoke, even to answer

a question; moved listlessly and slowly about, as if in search of

something, and muttering lowly to himself. No one ever saw him smile,

and yet he did not weep. He looked more like one in whom reason was,

by some terrible shock, suspended and held in abeyance, than actually

routed or annihilated. Unlike most others similarly afflicted, he slept

very little, remaining usually, the night long, sitting beside his bed,

gesticulating with his hands in a strange way, and suddenly ceasing if

observed.

His eye, for some minutes, would often seem bright with intelligence;

but on looking more closely, it would be discovered that the gaze was

fixed on vacancy, and it might be conjectured that no image of any near

object was presented to the mind, since no expression of pain, pleasure,

or astonishment would follow, when different substances were displayed

before him. One might say, that the faculties were entirely absorbed

by their own operations, and neither took note of those recorded by

the senses, nor had any sympathy with their workings--volition wad at a

stand-still. But why dwell on so sorrowful a picture?

Spring came, and Fritz, who ever obeyed each command of those over

him, was suffered to walk daily in the little garden of the asylum.

One day--it was the first bright one of the new season--the birds were

singing sweetly in the trees when he went forth, and they who came some

time after to fetch him to the house, found him in tears. His sorrow

seemed, however, to have brought some sense of relief with it, for that

night he slept more calmly and longer than usual. From this time out it

was remarked that his appearance varied with the weather of each day.

When the air was clear, and the sun shone bright, and the birds gathered

together in the blossoming branches of the fruit-trees, he seemed

happier; but when dark skies or rain came on, he would walk impatiently

from place to place--now, as if in search of some missing object--now,

as if suddenly overwhelmed by his loss.

Thus did he continue till about the first week in May, when at the usual

hour of recalling him to the house he was not to be found. Search

was made every where--through the garden--about the neighbouring

buildings--in all the Dorf--but all in vain. No one had seen him.

Poor and unfriended as he was, his little simple ways, his sinless

innocence and gentleness, had made him friends among all who had any

authority in the asylum; and no pains were spared to track him out and

discover him--to no end, however. He was seen there no more. Days and

weeks long, with unwearying zeal, the search continued, and was only

abandoned when all hope seemed gone. By none was this sad termination of

his suffering more poignantly felt than by old Cristoph. Every week he

came to Imst, his first care was to ask after the little boy; and when

he learned his fate, his grief was deep and heartfelt.

I know not if my reader has ever visited Inspruck.

Every one has been every where nowadays; and so the chances are, that

the Tyrol capital is as well known to them as to myself. At all the

hazard of being tedious, however, I must mention one feature of that

beautiful old city--a little street which leads out of the Old Market,

and runs westward down a somewhat steep declivity towards the Inn. It is

one of those narrow, old, gloomy alleys a traveller would scarcely think

of exploring. A low range of arches, supported on pillars of the most

sturdy proportions, runs along either side, furnished with massive stone

seats, worn smooth by the use of some centuries of gossips. The little

shops within this dark arcade are undefended by windows of any kind,

but lie open, displaying to the passer-by, not only the various wares

exposed for sale, but frequently, as the wind, or chance, waves the

folds of an old curtain at the back, the little household of the

merchant himself.

The middle portion of this street, scarcely wide enough for three

to walk abreast, grows even narrower as you look up, by the gradual

encroachment of each story on either side; so that while the denizens

of the first-floors have merely the neighbourly advantages of a near

salutation, they who inhabit the garrets may embrace without any fear

on the score of bodily danger. Our business is only with those beneath,

however, and thither I must ask of your accompanying me.

If the two groined arches--dark with age as well as feint light--the

narrow gloomy-looking alley, might at first deter the stranger

from entering, scarcely would he venture a few steps ere a strange

fascination would lead him onward. Within these little dens--for such

rather than shops do they seem--are objects to be found, the strangest

and the most curious ever exposed for sale. In one, you find a

collection of ancient armour the greatest Ritter Saal would be proud

to choose from:--weapons of every age and country--the chain-mail of

Milan--the plate-armour of Venice--the heavy double-nailed suits of

Regens-bourg--the small conical helmet of the East--the massive

but beautifully fashioned casque of Spanish mould--the blade of

Damascus--the double-handled sword of Appenzell--the jereed--the

Crusader’s lance--the old pike of the Tyrol, with daggers and poniards

of every shape, that luxury or cruelty ever invented. Adjoining this,

perhaps, lives one who deals in rare flowers and shrubs; and, strange as

it may seem in such a place, the orange-tree, the cactus, the camellia,

and the aloe, shed their bloom and perfume through these vaulted cells,

where age, and rust, and decay would appear the most fitting denizens.

Here, lives one who sells the rich brocaded silks and tabourets of a

by-gone century--great flowering waistcoats, stiff and imposing as the

once wearers--huge sweeping trains of costly embroidery--relics of

a time when stateliness was cultivated, and dignified deportment the

distinctive sign of birth. Right opposite to this is a store of ancient

articles of furniture and _virtù_--marquetry and buhl--Dresden and

Sèvres--carved oak and ebony--ivory and box-wood. All that ever fancy

conceived uncomfortable to sit upon, or a diseased imagination ever

inaugurated as the throne of nightmare to sleep in--are here to be

had. Stools to kneel upon and altars to kneel at--Virgins in ivory and

silver--idols of Indian adoration--ancient goblets, and most curiously

carved treasure-boxes of solid iron, massive little emblems of a time

when men put slight faith in bankers.

A little further on you may meet with a jeweller’s, where ornaments the

most rare and costly are to be found: massive old necklaces of amethyst

or emerald, in which the ungainly setting bears such a contrast to the

value of the stone--rich clasps of pink topaz or ruby, for the collar of

a cloak--sword-handles all paved with precious gems--and signet-rings,

that have circled the fingers of proud Counts of the Empire, and,

mayhap, sealed with their impress many a dark and gloomy record.

Some deal in old books and manuscripts, ancient rolls, and painted

missals; some, in curious relics of horse-equipment, brass-mounted

demi-piques and iron-strapped saddles of the sixteenth century, with

spurs of a foot in length, and uncouth bits that would hold an elephant

in check: and one little dusky corner-shop, kept by an old hunchback,

contained the strangest of all stocks-in-trade,--an assemblage of

instruments of torture: chains of every kind hung from the ceiling;

thumb-screws, back-bolts, helmets made to close upon the skull, and

crushed by the action of a vice; racks, hatchets, and pincers; while

conspicuous in the midst, as the support of an old iron lantern, is

the block of a headsman, the surface bearing the shocking record of its

usage. Just where this grim and ghastly cell stands, a little rivulet

of clear water crosses the street, and seems to separate it from the

remaining portion, which, by a steeper declivity, inclined towards the

river.

Separate, indeed, I might well say, for the two portions are as unlike

as the records of all man’s vanity and cruelty are unlike the emblem of

Gods goodness and wisdom. You scarcely cross this tiny stream when the

whole air resounds with the warbling of birds, bright in every tint and

hue of plumage, golden and green, purple and crimson.

From the lordly eagle of the Ortiler to the rich-toned linnet of the

Botzen valley, all are there. There, the paroquet of the Stelvio,

gorgeous as the scarlet bustard in plumage; and here, the golden jay

of the Vorarlberg. Blackbirds, thrushes, finches of a hundred different

races, “Roth kopfs,” and woodpeckers, spring, chirp, flutter, and

scream, on every side. The very atmosphere is tremulous with the sounds,

lifelike and joyous as they are! The very bustle and movement around is

such a relief from the torpid stillness of the other end of the street,

where nothing is heard save the low monotonous tones of some old Jew

reading in his back-shop, or the harsh clank of an iron weapon removed

from its place; while, here, the merry twitter and the silvery-shake

recall the greenwood and the grove, the bright fields and heath-clad

mountains.

Here is the bird-market of Inspruck. It needs but one passing glance

to shew what attractions the spot possesses for the inhabitants. Every

rank, from the well-salaried official of the government to the humblest

burgher--from the richly clad noble in his mantle of Astracan, to the

peasant in his dark jacket of sheep’s skin--the field officer and

the common soldier--the “Frau Grafin” voluminous in furs--the “Stuben

madchen” in her woollen jerkin--the lounging sexagenarian from his

coffee--the loitering school-boy returning from school--all jostle and

meet together here; while the scantiest intimacy with the language

will suffice to collect from the frequently uttered, “_Wie schön!” “Ach

Gott!” “Wie wunderschon!_” that admiration and delight are expressed by

every tongue among them.

It is needless to say, that every corner of this little territory is

familiar to all Inspruckers; not only each shop and its owner, but each

separate treasure. The newly arrived bullfinch, or greywing, having the

notoriety that a Parisian circulates about the last _débutante_ of

the ballet or the opera. If not exactly one of those “lions,” that

guide-books enforce among the duties of wandering sight-seers, it is

at least a frequent resort of the town’s-folk themselves, for whose

gratification it supplies no small proportion of small-talk.

Among the well-known and familiar objects of this small world--for such

the Juden Gasse in reality is--was a poor boy of some twelve years old,

who, clad in the most wretched rags, and with want in every feature,

used to sit the live-long day on one of the stone benches watching the

birds. It needed but one glance at his bright but unsteady eye, his

faint unmeaning smile, his vague and wild expression, to recognise that

he was bereft of reason. Is it necessary to say this was poor Fritzerl?

Whence he came, who were his parents, how he journeyed thither, no one

could tell! He appeared one morning, when the shop-people were removing

the shutters, sitting close by a window, where the early songs of the

birds was audible, his head bent down to listen, and his whole attitude

betokening the deepest attention. Though he offered no resistance

when they bade him leave the spot, he shewed such deep sorrow and

such reluctance, that he was suffered to remain; and this was now his

dwelling-place. He never quitted it during the day, and there did he

pass the night, under the shelter of the deep arches, and protected by

the fragment of a mantle, which some compassionate neighbour had given

him. All endeavours to induce him to speak were in vain; a sickly smile

was his only answer to a question; and, if pressed too closely, the

tears would come, so that none liked to give him further pain, and

the hope of learning any thing about him, even his name, was given up.

Equally fruitless was every effort to make him perform little services.

If the shopkeepers gave him a bird to carry home for a purchaser, he

would at once sit down beside the cage and gaze wistfully,

delightedly, at the occupant; but he could not be persuaded to quit his

abiding-place. Who could rob one so poor of all the happiness his life

compassed? certainly not the good-natured and kindly folk who inhabited

the bird-market.

He became then a recognised part of the place, as much as the bustard

with one eye in the corner shop, or the fat old owl that had lived for

fifty--some said seventy--years, in the little den with the low iron

door. Every one knew him; few passed without a look of kindness towards

him. It was of no use to give him money, for though he took money when

offered, the next moment he would leave it on the stones, where the

street children came and found it. It was clear he did not understand

its meaning. The little support he needed was freely proffered by the

neighbouring shopkeepers, but he ate nothing save a morsel of dry bread,

of which it was remarked that he each day broke off a small portion and

laid it by--not to eat later on, for it was seen that he never missed it

if removed, nor took it again if suffered to remain. It was one of the

secrets of his nature none could rightly account for.

Although many wealthy and benevolent people of the city wished to

provide the poor, boy with a more comfortable home, the shopkeepers

protested against his removal. Some, loved his innocent, childish

features, and would have missed him sorely; others, were superstitious

enough to think, and even say, that he had brought luck to the

bird-market,--that every one had prospered since he came there; and

some, too, asserted, that having selected the spot himself, it would

be cruel to tear him away from a place where accustomed and familiar

objects had made for him a kind of home. All these reasonings were

backed by the proposal to build for him a little shed, in the very

spot he had taken up, and there leave him to live in peace. This was

accordingly done, and poor Fritz, if not a “Burgher of Inspruck,” had at

least his own house in the bird-market.

Months rolled over: the summer went by, and the autumn itself now drew

to a close; and the various preparations for the coming winter might be

seen in little hand-barrows of firewood deposited before each door, to

be split up and cut in fitting lengths for the stoves. Fur mantles

and caps were hung out to air, and some prudent and well-to-do folks

examined the snow-windows, and made arrangements for their adjustment.

Each in his own way, and according to his means, was occupied with the

cares of the approaching season. There was but one unmoved face in

the whole street--but one, who seemed to take no note of time or

season--whose past, and present, and future, were as one. This

was Fritz, who sat on his accustomed bench gazing at the birds, or

occasionally moving from his place to peep into a cage whose occupant

lay hid, and then, when satisfied of its presence, retiring to his seat

contented.

Had the worthy citizens been less actively engrossed by their own

immediate concerns, or had they been less accustomed to this humble

dependant’s presence amongst them, it is likely they would have remarked

the change time had wrought in his appearance. If no actual evidence

of returning reason had evinced itself in his bearing or conduct, his

features displayed at times varieties of expression and meaning very

different from their former monotony. The cheek, whose languid pallor

never altered, would now occasionally flush, and become suddenly

scarlet; the eyes, dull and meaningless, would sparkle and light up; the

lips, too, would part, as if about to give utterance to words. All these

signs, however, would be only momentary, and a degree of depression,

even to prostration, would invariably follow. Unlike his former apathy,

too, he started at sudden noises in the street, felt more interest in

the changes that went on in the shop, and seemed to miss certain birds

as they happened to be sold or exchanged. The most remarkable of all the

alterations in his manner was, that, now, he would often walk down to

the river-side, and pass hours there gazing on the current. Who can say

what efforts at restored reason were then taking place within him--what

mighty influences were at work to bring back sense and intellect--what

struggles, and what combats? It would seem as if the brain could exist

in all its integrity--sound, and intact, and living--and yet some

essential impulse be wanting which should impart the power of thought.

Momentary flashes of intelligence, perhaps, did cross him; but such can

no more suffice for guidance, than does the forked lightning supply the

luminary that gives us day. The landscape preternaturally lit up for a

second, becomes darker than midnight the moment after.

Bright and beautiful as that river is, with its thousand eddies whirling

along,--now, reflecting the tall spires and battlemented towers of the

town--now, some bold, projecting cliff of those giant mountains beside

it--how does its rapid stream proclaim its mountain source, as in large

sheets of foam it whirls round the rocky angles of the bank, and dashes

along free as the spirit of its native home! Fritz, came here, however,

less to gaze on this lovely picture than on a scene which each morning

presented to his eyes, close by. This was à garden, where a little girl

of some seven or eight years old used to play, all alone and by herself,

while the old nurse that accompanied her sat knitting in a little arbour

near.

The joyous river--the fresh and balmy air--the flowers flinging

delicious odours around, and gorgeous in their brilliant tints, only

needed this little infant figure to impart a soul to the scene, and make

it one of ravishing enchantment. Her tiny footsteps on the ground--her

little song, breathing of innocence and happiness--the garlands which

she wove, now, to place upon her own fair brow, now, in childish sport

to throw into the clear current--all imparted to the poor idiot’s heart

sensations of intense delight. Who can say if that infant voice did not

wake to feeling the heart that all the wisdom of the learned could not

arouse from its sleep?

Not only was Fritz happy while he sat and watched this little child,

but, for the entire day after, he would appear calm and tranquil, and

his face would display the placid expression of a spirit sunk in a

pleasing trance.

It was not unusual with him, while he was thus gazing, for sleep to

come over him--a calm, delicious slumber--from which he awoke far more

refreshed and rested than from his night’s repose. Perhaps she was

present in his dreams, and all her playful gestures and her merry tones

were with him while he slept. Perhaps--it is not impossible--that his

mind, soothed by the calming influence of, such slumber, recovered

in part its lost power, and not being called on for the exercise of

volition, could employ some of its perceptive faculties.

Be this as it may, this sleep was deep, and calm, and tranquillising.

One day, when he had watched longer than usual, and when her childish

sport had more than ever delighted him, he dropped oft* almost suddenly

into slumber. Motionless as death itself he lay upon the bank,--a faint

smile upon his parted lips, his chest scarcely seeming to heave, so soft

and quiet was his slumber. The river rippled pleasantly beside him, the

air was balmy as in the early spring, and fanned his hot temples with

a delicious breath, the child’s song floated merrily out--the innocent

accents of infant glee--and Fritz seemed to drink these pleasures in as

he slept.

What visions of heavenly shape--what sounds of angelic sweetness--may

have flitted before that poor distracted brain, as with clasped hands

and muttering lips he seemed to pray a prayer of thankfulness,--the

outpouring gratitude of a pent-up nature finding vent at last! Suddenly

he awoke with a start--terror in every feature--his eyes starting from

their sockets: he reeled as he sprang to his feet, and almost fell. The

river seemed a cataract--the mountains leaned over as though they were

about to fall and crush him--the ground beneath his feet trembled and

shook with an earthquake movement--a terrible cry rang through his ears.

What could it mean? There!--there again he heard it! Oh, what a pang of

heart-rending anguish was that! “Hülf! hülf! hülf!” were the words. The

infant was struggling in the current--her little hand grasped the weeds,

while at every instant they gave way--the water foamed and eddied round

her--deeper and deeper she sank: her hair now floated in the stream, and

her hands, uplifted, besought, for the last time, aid. “Hülf uns! Maria!

hülf uns!” She sank. With a cry of wildest accent, Fritz sprang into the

stream, and seized the yellow hair as it was disappearing beneath the

flood: the struggle was severe, for the strong stream inclined towards

the middle of the river, and Fritz could not swim. Twice had the waves

closed over him, and twice he emerged with his little burden pressed to

his heart; were it not for aid, however, his efforts would have been

vain. The cry for help had brought many to the spot, and he was

rescued--saved from death: saved from that worse than death--the

terrible union of life and death.

He lay upon the bank, wearied and exhausted--but oh, how happy! How

doubly bright the sky!--how inexpressibly soft and soothing the air upon

his brow!--how sweet the human voice, that not only sounded to the ear

but echoed in the heart!

In all his bright dreams of life he had fancied nothing like the bliss

of that moment. Friends were on every side of him--kind friends, who

never in a life-long could tell all their gratitude; and now, with words

of affection, and looks of mildest, fondest meaning, they bent over that

poor boy, and called him their own preserver.

Amid all these sights and sounds of gladness--so full of hope and

joy--there came one shrill cry, which, piercing the air, seemed to

penetrate to the very inmost chamber of Fritz’s heart, telling at once

the whole history of his life, and revealing the secret of his suffering

and his victory. It was Star himself; who, in a cage beneath the

spreading branches of a chestnut-tree, was glad to mingle his wild notes

with the concourse of voices about him, and still continued at intervals

to scream out, “Maria, hülf! hülf uns, Maria!”

“Yes, child,” said a venerable old man, as he kissed Fritz’s forehead,

“you see the fruits of your obedience and your trust. I am glad you have

not forgotten my teaching,--‘A good word brings luck.’”

Every story-teller should respect those who like to hear a tale to its

very end. The only way he can evince his gratitude for their patience is

by gratifying all their curiosity. It remains for me, then, to say, that

Fritz returned to the little village where he had lived with Star for

his companion; not poor and friendless as before, but rich in wealth,

and richer in what is far better--the grateful love and affection

of kind friends. His life henceforth was one of calm and tranquil

happiness. By his aid the old Bauer was enabled to purchase his little

farm rent-free, and buy besides several cows and some sheep. And then,

when he grew up to be a man, Fritz married Grett’la, and they became

very well off, and lived in mutual love and contentment all their lives.

Fritz’s house was not only the handsomest in the Dorf, but it was

ornamented with a little picture of the Virgin, with Star sitting upon

her wrist, and the words of the golden letters were inscribed beneath,--

“Maria, Mutter Gottes, hülf uns!”

Within, nothing could be more comfortable than to see Fritz and Grett’la

at one side of the fire, and the old Bauer reading aloud, and the “Frau”

listening, and Star, who lived to a great age, walking proudly about,

as if he was conscious that he had some share in producing the family

prosperity; and close to the stove, on a little low seat made on

purpose, sat a little old man, with a long pigtail and very shrunken

legs: this was old Cristoph the postilion--and who had a better right?

Fritz was so much loved and respected by the villagers, that they

elected him Vorsteher, or rector of the Dorf; and when he died--very old

at last--they all, several hundreds, followed him respectfully to the

grave, and, in memory of his story, called the village Maria Hülf, which

is its name to this day.