I wish my travelling countrymen--and what land tarns ont such myriads
of wanderers?--would betake themselves, in their summer rambles, to the
Tyrol, rather than Switzerland. If the use of German be not as frequent
with us as French, still very little suffices for the every-day
necessities of the road; and while, in point of picturesque beauty,
the tour is little, if any thing, inferior to Switzerland in all
that regards the people, the superiority of the Tyrolese is without a
question.
Switzerland--save in some few remote spots of the German cantons, and
these not generally worth the visiting--is a land of extortion and
knavery. The whole country is laid out pretty much as St. Paul’s in
London used to be, some years back--so much for the Aisle, so much for
the Whispering Gallery, so much for the Ball, &c. Each mountain, each
glen, every glacier and snow-peak, has its corps of guides, farming out
by a tariff the wild regions of the roe and the chamois, and vulgarising
the features of nature to the level of the Colosseum in London, and its
pasteboard avalanches.
This may be all very delightful for those junket-ting parties who steam
up the Rhine on a three weeks’ excursion, and want to “do Switzerland”
before they reach home--jogging to Chamouni in an omnibus, and riding up
the Rigi in an ass-pannier. But to enjoy mountains--to taste really of
the exquisite sense of impressive solemnity a wild mountain-scene
can suggest,--give me the Tyrol--give me the land where the crashing
cataract is heard in the midst of unbroken stillness--where, in the deep
valleys, the tinkling bell of the herd sounds for miles afar--where,
better than all, the peasant is not degraded from his self-respect
to become a hanger-on of each stranger that he sees, but is still a
peasant, stout of heart and limb, ready to do the honours of his humble
_châlet_ if you cross his threshold, but not bartering his native
hospitality for gold! What a fine national character is made up of that
sturdy independence--that almost American pride of equality--with the
devoted loyalty to their sovereign! How admirably does the sense of
personal freedom blend with obedience to the Kaiser! How intimately is
love of country bound up with fealty to the country’s king! O
Austria! if all thy subjects were like these, how little need you fear
revolutionary Poles or reforming Popes! The sounds of the national sign,
“_Gott erhalte unser Kaiser!_” would drown the wildest cry that ever
Anarchy shouted.
The gifted advocates of Progress and Enlightenment, who write in Penny
Magazines and People’s Journals, may sneer at the simple faith of a
people who recognise a father in their monarch--who are grateful for
a system of government that secures to them the peaceful enjoyment
of their homes and properties, with scarcely the slightest burden of
taxation.
Such travellers as Inglis may record conversations with individuals
disposed to grumble at the few opportunities for social convulsion
and change; but, taking the mass of the people, judging from what is
palpable to every sojourner in the land, where does one see less of
poverty--where so much contentment, so much of enjoyment of life, such
a general feeling of brotherhood in every rank and class?--where are the
graceful virtues of charity and kindliness more conspicuous?--and, above
all, where is there so little of actual crime?
It may be said, the temptations are not so great to breaches of law
where a general well-being prevails, where each has enough for his
daily wants, and life displays no inordinate ambitions. I am willing to
acknowledge all this; I cavil not for the cause--I only ask acceptance
for the fact. If one would wish to see the boldest spirit of personal
freedom united to implicit obedience to a ruler, the most stubborn
independence of character with & courteous submission to the will of him
recognised as superior, a manly self-reliance with a faithful trust that
there are others better, wiser, and more far-seeing than himself,--then
let him come to the Tyrol!
The Tyrol is, perhaps, the only part of Europe where any portion of
romance still dwells--where the little incidents of daily life are
tinctured with customs that derive from long ago--where facts of bygone
days, traditions of their fathers’ time, are interwoven with the passing
hour--and where primitive habits and tastes are believed to carry
with them a blessing, as to those who honour their fathers’ memories.
National gratitude is far more closely allied with individual gratitude
than is usually believed. Under the shade of the great tree the little
plant is often nurtured. It is easy to imagine well of the individual,
where the masses are moved by noble aspirations.
Scarcely a valley, not a single defile here, is without Us historic
glories--many of them as of yesterday, and yet, in their simple
heroism, recalling a time when personal valour was of greater worth than
strategic skill and science. I always regret that Scott, who understood
mountains and those who dwell thereon so thoroughly, should never have
made the Tyrol the scene of a romance.
Even among the “simple annals of the poor” here are little incidents
eminently romantic in their character, while so distinctly national that
they tell, in every detail, the mind of the people who enacted them.
How I should like once more to be young of heart and limb, and able to
travel these winding glens and climb these mountain steeps as once I
could have done! Even now, as I sit here in this little “Wirth’s-Haus,”
how the old spirit of wandering comes back ‘again as I watch the
peasant, with his long staff in hand, braving the mountain side, or
standing for a second on some rocky peak, to gaze down into the steep
depth below--that narrow valley filled by road and river.
“Gott hat sein plan Für Jedenmann.”
What a road is that from Landeck to Meran!--at once the most beautiful
and the grandest of all the Tyrol passes. The gorge is so narrow, that
it seems rather like a deep channel cut by the river itself; where, on
either side, hundreds of feet in height, rise the rocks--not straight,
but actually impending above the head, leaving, in some places, the
ravine narrower above than beneath.
Escarped in this rock, the road winds on, protected by a little parapet
along the edge of the precipice. Beneath, at a depth to make the
head dizzy to gaze at, is seen the river, whose waters are of a pale
sky-blue, the most delicate and beautiful colour I ever beheld. As the
necessities of the road require, you have to cross the river; more
than once, on wooden bridges, which in themselves are curious for their
ingenuity of construction, if one could think of aught save the grandeur
of the scene around them.
At the second of these bridges, called the Pontlatzer
Brücke, the ravine grows wider, and open, a distant prospect of the
“Kaunser-Thal,” backed by the tremendous glacier of Gebatsch. A glorious
valley is it, with its grouped cottages and village spires studded along
the plain, through which the Inn winds its rapid stream, its surface
still ruffled and eddying from the deep descent of the Fünstermünze.
Above the Pontlatzer Brücke, high upon a little table-land of the
mountain, stands a small village--if even that humble name be not too
dignified for the little group of peasant-houses here assembled. This,
called the “Kletscher,” derives its title from a mountain torrent which,
leaping from cliff to cliff, actually divides the village into two
portions, over each of which, with pretty fair equality, it distributes
its spray and foam, and then plunges madly down, till, by a succession
of bounds and springs, it reaches the river Inn beneath. The Kletscher,
it must be owned, deserves its name: it is at once the most boisterous
and foam-covered torrent of the whole region, and, as frequently in
its course it pierces the soft rock of the mountain, the roaring stream
echoes more loudly still beneath these natural bridges. These, however,
are not the only sounds which greet the ear on nearing the spot:
the whole air is tremulous with the thumping and crashing noise
of saw-mills, every second cottage having one of these ingenious
contrivances at work; and thus, between the roaring torrent itself
and its forced labour, such a tremendous uproar is created, that the
uninitiated are completely stunned.
It is, indeed, a curious transition from the deathlike stillness of the
pine forest, the unbroken silence of the steep path by which you wend
your way upward, to emerge at once into this land of active life and
turmoil, to see here, high amidst the Alps, where the roe and chamois
are wild and free--to see here a little colony busied in all the arts
of life, and carrying their industry into the regions of cataract and
glacier.
What animation and movement on every side does that bright flowing
torrent carry with it! The axe of the wood-cutter--the rustling branches
sweeping, as twenty or thirty peasants tug some mighty pine-tree
along--the hacking clink of the bark adzes--the voices of the children
gathering and peeling the bark, and, above and through all, the heavy
throbbing of the mill-timbers, shaking the frail sheds and even the very
cottages with their giant strokes! There is a character of enterprise in
the selection of such a wild spot irresistibly captivating. One cannot
look upon those hardy peasants without a sense of respect and admiration
for those who have braved climate and danger--and such there is--to
seek a livelihood and a home, rather than toil in indigence and
dependence in the valley beneath.
The Kletscher is not picturesque for situation only. Its houses, built
of the pine-wood, are covered over with a kind of varnish, which,
while it preserves the colour, protects the timber from the effects of
weather. Each story is flanked externally by a little gallery, whose
ornamental balustrades display their native skill in carpentry, and are
often distinguished by grotesque carvings, executed with an ability that
none but a Tyroler could pretend to. The door and window-frames, too,
are finished in the same taste; while, instead of other designation,
each cottage is known by some animal of the owner’s selection, which
stands proudly above the door-porch: and thus some old white-headed
Bauer of eighty winters is called the Chamois; a tart-looking,
bitter-faced Frau, his neighbour, being known as the Lamb; a merry
little cheerful-eyed peasant being a Buffalo; and the schoolmaster--I
blush to write it--diffusing “Useful Knowledge” under the sign of a
braying Donkey.
Animated and cheerful as the scene is by day, alive with all the
instincts and sounds of happy labour, I like bettor to look upon it
by night, when all is calm and still, and nothing but the plash of the
waterfall stirs the air--to see these quaint old houses, with their
sculptured pinnacles and deep-shadowing eaves sleeping in the mellow
moonlight--mill and miller sunk in slumber--not a footstep nor a voice
to be heard, save one, the village watchman, going his nightly round,
chanting his little verse of assuring comfort to the waking ear, and
making the sleeper’s dream a peaceful one.
See how he moves along, followed by his little dog, sleepy-looking and
drowsy as its master! He stands in front of that cottage--it belongs to
the Vorsteher, or ruler of the Dorf. Power has its privileges even here,
and the great man should know how the weather fares, and what the hour
is, if, perchance, the cares of state have kept him waking, as Homer
tells us that they can. Now he has ended his little song, and he wends
his way over the bridge of a single plank that spans the torrent; he
slowly descends the flight of stone steps, slippery with falling spray,
and, guided by the wooden railing, he treads the narrow path along the
edge of the cliff, which, nearly perpendicular, stands over the valley
of the Inn. There is a little hut here--a very poor and humble one, the
very poorest of the whole village--and yet it is before the door of this
lowly dwelling that the “Nachtwachter” stands at midnight each night
throughout the year, and then, as he calls the hour, he cries, “Hans
Jörgle, good night!--rest soundly, Hans Jörgle!”
Who can be this Hans Jörgle, for whose peaceful slumber authority is
watchful? If you care for the answer of the question, you must listen
to a story--if I dare to call by so imposing a name the following little
narrative--which, for want of better, I shall call
HANS JÖRGLE
Something short of forty years ago, there came to dwell at the Kletscher
a poor widow with one child, a boy of about nine years old. She never
told much of her history to the neighbours, and merely accounted for her
choice of this secluded spot from the circumstance that she had known
it when a child, her grandfather having been many years an inhabitant of
the “Dorf;” and that, from dwelling on the pleasant days she had known
there once, and talking over them so often with her little Hans, she at
last determined to gratify him and herself by revisiting the cherished
spot, hoping to end her days there in peace.
The grandfather of whom she spoke--long since dead--had been well known
and respected in the village; so that, at first on his account, and
subsequently on her own, the widow was welcomed kindly amongst them. Her
subsistence was derived principally from a small pension she received
from the Government, for her husband had been a grenadier of the
Austrian Imperial Guard, and fell on the field of Austerlitz. This
little pittance would not have sufficed for wants even humble as hers,
without the aid of her own industry; but she was clever at her needle,
and could accomplish many a triumph in millinery above village
skill; and by the exertion of this art she contrived to eke out a
subsistence--in poverty, it is true, but in contentment also.
If little Hans Jörgle could not contribute to the common stock by
any efforts of his labour, his gentle, quiet nature, his guileless
innocence, won for him the love of all the village. Old and young were
pleased to see him, and to talk to him; for, child as he was, Hans had
read a great many books, and could tell the most wonderful stories about
the Swedes in the Thirty Years’ War, and also what happened in the long
wars between Frederic of Prussia and the Austrians--stories that, if
Hans were fond of telling, his audience were far more delighted to
listen to. This amusing gift, joined to the claims of infirmity--for he
was lame, the effect of a fall in his infancy--made him a favourite with
every one; for even they--and the number was a small one--who could
not relish his stores of narrative could feel compassion for the little
fatherless boy, bereft of the means of earning a livelihood, and wholly
dependent on one whose frail health gave little promise of long life.
Hans was tall and slight, and, but for his lameness, would haye been as
remarkable for the symmetry of his form, as, even with it, he was for
agility. His countenance was eminently handsome; the brow lofty, and the
eyes, which were of the darkest blue, were set deeply; their habitual
expression was one of great melancholy--not the sorrow of infirm health,
or the depression of a heart in conflict with itself, but the sadness of
a spirit too finely attuned for its daily associations--above,
immeasurably above, all around in its ambitions, and yet an object of
actual pity and compassion! The prevailing tone of his mind, though
sorrowful, did not prevent his joining the village children at their
play; nor was he, perhaps, the less welcome amongst them for those
strange fits of absence which, seizing him in the midst of some rural
sport, would make him forget all around, and burst out with some
exciting anecdote of heroic daring, some bold achievement of the
Austrians in their memorable battles with the Turks. Then, would the day
cease; gradually gathering around him, the children would form a circle,
soon to be strengthened by their elders, who took the most lively
pleasure in these recitals,--tales which many a setting sun and rising
moon shone upon.
It may have been remarked by the reader, that Hans’ literary stores
were all military. Such was the case. Battles and sieges, campaigns and
marches, were a passion so exclusive, that he had no interest left for
any other form of reading. This may seem strange in one so young, and
in one, too, whose nature was gentleness itself; his very infirmity,
besides, might have turned his thoughts away from themes in which he
never could be a participator: but how little have material influences
power over the flight of a highly imaginative nature! His father’s
stories as he sat at the fireside, his earliest lessons in reading,
implanted the impulse, which the very events of the time served to
strengthen and mature.
It was just the period when the Tyrol, crushed by the oppression of
Bavaria, insulted and outraged in every feeling, had begun to think of
vengeance. The transient success of the Austrians on the Danube animated
the brave mountaineers, and cheered them with the hope of freedom.
Already the low muttering of the distant storm was heard. Wherever a
group of peasants gathered, their low whisperings, their resolute looks,
their clenched hands, denoted some stern purpose. Secret Masses were
said in the chapels for the “rescue of the Vaterland;” the ancient
legends of the land were all remembered; sights and sounds of ominous
meaning were reported to have been observed; all indicative of a
speedy convulsion, all suggesting hope and courage. Rumour had told of
conferences between the Archduke John of Austria and the Tyrol leaders;
not failing to exaggerate the aid proffered by the Imperial Government
in the event of a struggle. The ancient spirit of the land was up, and
only waited the signal for the fight.
Remote and secluded as the little village of my story lay, the news of
the coming conflict did not fail to reach it. Little Hans formed the
link which bound them to the world of the valley beneath; and daily
did he, in despite of lameness, descend the steep path that led to the
Pontlatzer Brucke, bringing back with him towards nightfall the last
rumours of the day. Vague and uncertain as they were, they were listened
to with breathless eagerness. Sometimes, the intelligence merely
announced a gathering of the peasants in a mountain glen; sometimes, the
arrival of a messenger with secret despatches from Vienna. Now, Hofer
had passed through Maltz the night before; now, it was a Bavarian
reinforcement was seen arriving at Landeck.
These simple tidings had seemed of little meaning to their ears if Hans
were not there to give them significance, filling up all the blanks by
wise surmises, and suggesting reasons and causes for every thing. He had
his own theory of the war--where the enemy should be met, and how; in
what manner certain defiles should be defended, and how, in case of
defeat, the scattered forces might re-unite; little views of strategy
and tactics, that seemed like inspiration to the simple ears who beard
him.
Hans’ tidings grew daily more important; and one evening he returned to
the Kletscher with a sealed note for the Curate--a circumstance
which excited the most intense curiosity in the Dorf. It was not long
ungratified, for the old priest speedily appeared in the little square
before the Vorsteher’s House, and announced that each evening, at
sunset, a Mass would be said in the chapel, and a prayer invoked on all
who loved “Gott, der Kaiser, und das Vaterland.” Hans was pressed on
every side; some asking what was going on in the valley, others eager to
hear if the Austrians had not been defeated, and that the Mass was for
the slain. Hans knew less than usual; he could only tell that large
bodies of the peasantry were seen ascending the mountain towards
Landeck, armed with saws and hatchets, while kegs of blasting powder
were borne along between others. “We shall know more, soon,” added Hans;
“but come! the chapel is lighted already; the Mass has begun.”
How picturesque was the effect the chapel presented! The sun was
setting, and its long golden rays, mingled with the red light of the
tapers, tipping the rich draperies of the altar and its glittering
vessels with a parti-coloured light; the kneeling figures of the
peasantry, clad in all the varied colours of Tyrol taste; the men
bronzed by sun and season, dark-bearded, stern, and handsome; the women
fairer, but not less earnest in expression; the white-haired priest,
dressed in a simple robe of white, with a blue scarf over it--the
Bavarians had stripped the chapels even of the vestments of the
clergy--the banners of the little volunteer battalion of the mountain
waving overhead,--all, made up a picture simple and unpretending, but
still solemn and impressive.
The Mass ended, the priest addressed a few words on the eventful
position of the Vaterland--at first, in terms of vague, uncertain
meaning; but growing warmer as he proceeded, more clearly and more
earnestly, he told them that the “Wolves”--none needed to be told that
Frenchmen were meant--that the “Wolves” were about to ravage the flocks
and overrun the villages, as they had already done twice before; that
the Bavarians, who should be their friends, were about to join their
bitterest enemies; that although the “Gute Franzerl”--for so familiarly
did they ever name the Emperor--wished them well, he could help them but
little. “The Tyroler’s hand alone must save Tyrol,” he exclaimed. “If
that cannot be, then God pity us; for there is no mercy to be looked for
from our enemies!”
If many a bold and patriotic heart sorrowed over these things, not one
felt them with a more intense sense of anguish than little Hans Jörgle.
The French, who had crushed his country, had killed his father; and now
they were coming to bring fire and sword among those lonely glens, where
his widowed mother had hoped to live her last years peacefully. Oh! if
he had been a man to stand beside his father in the day of battle, or if
even now he could hope to see the time when he should be strong of limb
as he was of heart... a burst of tears was the ever-present interruption
to utterings which, in the eagerness of his devotion, he could not
resist from making aloud.
These thoughts now took entire possession of his mind. If the clatter
of horses’ hoofs was heard unusually loud over the wooden bridge in
the valley, Hans would start up and cry, “Here they are!--the cavalry
picquets are upon us!” If a Bauer-house in the plain caught fire, it was
the French were approaching and burning the villages. The rumbling of
heavily-laden sledges over the hard snow was surely “the drums of the
advanced guard;” and never could the ring of jäger’s rifle be heard,
that he did not exclaim, “Here come the skirmishers!” If the worthy
villagers were indifferent to these various false alarms, the epithets
and terms of war employed by Hans realised no small portions of its
terror; and while they could afford to smile at his foolish fears,
they exchanged very grave looks when he spoke of cavalry squadrons,
and looked far from happy at the picture of a brigade of artillery in
position on the bridge, while the tirailleurs ascended the face of the
mountain in scattered parties.
While the winter continued, and the snow lay deep upon the roads, and
many of the bridges were removed for safety from the drifting ice, the
difficulties to a marching force were almost insurmountable; but as the
spring came, and the highways cleared, the rumour again grew rife that
the enemy was preparing his blow: the great doubt was, by which of the
Alpine passes he would advance.
Staff-officers and engineers had been despatched from Vienna to visit
the various defiles, and suggest the most efficient modes of defence.
Unhappily, however, all their counsels were given with a total ignorance
of the means of those by whom they were to be executed. To speak of
fortifying Landeck, and entrenching here and stockading there, sounded
like an unknown tongue to these poor chamois-hunters, whose sole idea of
defence lay in the cover of a crag and the certainty of a rifle bullet.
Disappointed, then, in their hope of aid, they betook themselves to
their own devices, and hit upon a plan the most perfectly adapted to
the crisis, as well as the most suitable to their own means of
accomplishment. Is it necessary that I should speak of what is so
familiar to every reader? the rude preparations of the Tyrolers to
defend their native defiles, by trunks of trees and fragments of rocks,
so disposed that at a word they could be hurled from the mountains down
into the valleys beneath.
The pass I here speak of was eminently suited for this, not only from
its narrowness and the precipitate nature of its sides, but that the
timber was large and massive, and the rocks, in many cases, so detached
by the action of the torrents, that little force was required to move
them. Once free, they swept down the steep sides, crushing all before
them; loosening others as they went, and with a thunder louder than
any artillery, plunging into the depths below. Simple as these means of
defence may seem--it is but necessary to have once seen the country to
acknowledge how irresistible they must have been--there was positively
no chance of escape left. The road, exposed in its entire length, lay
open to view; beneath it, roared a foaming torrent, above, stood cliffs
and crags the hardiest hunter could not clamber; and if, perchance, some
little path led upwards to a mountain _chalet_ or a Dorf, a handful of
Tyrol riflemen could have defended it against an army.
All was arranged early in the year, and it was determined that the
revolt should break forth a week or ten days before the time when the
Bavarians were to march the reliefs to the various garrisons--a movement
which, it was known, would take place in the spring. By signal-fires in
the mountain-tops, intimation was to be given to those who inhabited the
Alpine regions; while for those in the plains, and particularly in the
valley of the Inn--the great line of operations--the signal was to be
given by sawdust thrown on the surface of the stream. A month, or
even more, was to elapse from the time I have just spoken of ere the
preparations would be fully made. What an interval of intense anxiety
was that to poor Hans!
A small detachment of Bavarian infantry, now stationed at the Pontlatzer
Brücke, made it unsafe to venture often, as before, into the valley.
Such frequent coming and going would have excited suspicion; and the
interval between suspicion and a drum-head tribunal was a short one, and
generally had a bloody ending. Hans could do little more, then, than
sit the livelong day on the brow of the cliff, watching the valley,
straining his eyes along the narrow glen towards Landeck, or gazing
over the wide expanse to the Kaunser-Thal. How often did his imagination
people the space beneath with an armed host! and how did he build
up before his mind’s eye the glitter of steel, the tramp and dust of
mounted squadrons, the long train of ammunition waggons, the gorgeous
staff--all the “circumstance of glorious war!” And how strangely did it
seem, as he rubbed his eyes and looked again, to see that silent valley
and that untrodden road, the monotonous tramp of the Bavarian sentry the
only sound to be heard! On the chapel door the previous Sunday some one
had written in chalk, “_Ist zeit?_--Is it time?” to which another had
written for answer, “_Bald zeit_--It will soon be!” “Oh,” thought Hans,
“that it were come at last!” And a feverish eagerness had so gained
possession of him, that he scarcely could eat or sleep, starting from
his bed at night to peep out of the window and see if the signal fire
was not blazing.
The devotional feeling is, as I have remarked, the most active and
powerful in a Tyroler’s heart; and deeply intent as each was now on the
eventful time that drew nigh, the festival of Easter, which intervened,
at once expelled all thoughts save those pertaining to the solemn
season. Not a word, not a syllable, fell from any lip evincing an
interest in their more worldly anxieties. The village chapel was crowded
from before daybreak to late in the evening; the hum of prayer sounded
from every cottage; and scarcely was there time for the salutations of
friends, as they met, in the eagerness to continue the works of some
pious ritual.
I know not if Hans Jörgle was as deeply impressed as his neighbours by
these devout feelings; I only can tell that he refrained as rigidly
as the others from any allusion to the coming struggle, and never by a
chance word shewed that his thoughts were wandering from the holy theme.
A very prying observer, had there been such in the Dorf, might perhaps
have detected that the boy’s eyes, when raised in prayer, rested
longer on the spot where the striped banners of Tyroler chivalry
waved overhead, or that an expression of wild excitement rested on his
features as the different groups, before entering the church, deposited
their broadswords and rifles in the porch,--every clank of the weapons
seemed to thrill through Hans’ heart.
The devotional observances over, Easter Monday came with all the joyous
celebrations with which the villagers were wont to _fête_ that happy
day. It was a time for families to assemble their scattered members, for
old and attached friends to renew the pledges of their friendship, for
those at variance with each other to become reconciled; little children
paid visits to their grandfathers and grandmothers, with bouquets of
spring flowers, repeating the simple verses of some village hymn to
welcome in the morning; garlands and wreaths hung from every door-porch;
lovers scaled up the galleries to leave a rose, or an Alp daisy, plucked
some thousand feet high among the snow-peaks, at their sweethearts’
window. Pious souls made little presents to the Curé in the chapel
itself. The cattle were led through the village in a great procession,
with garlands on their heads and fresh flowers fastened to their horns;
the villagers accompanying them with a Tyrol song, descriptive of
the approaching delights of summer, when they could quit their dark
dwellings and rove free and wild over their native hills. It was joy
every where: in the glad faces and the glancing eyes, the heartfelt
embraces of those who met and saluted with the well-known “_Gott
grilse dich_--God greet thee!” in the little dwellings pranked with
holly-boughs and wild flowers; in the chapel glittering with tapers on
every altar, pious offerings of simple hearts; in the tremulous accents
of age, in the boisterous glee of childhood, it was joy.
It was the season of gifts, too. And what scenes of pleasure and delight
were there, as some new arrival from the valley displayed before the
admiring eyes of a household some little toy, the last discovery of
inventive genius: Bauer-houses, that took to pieces and exhibited all
their interior economy at will; saw-mills, that actually seemed to
work, so vigorously did they perform the incessant time that mark their
labour; dolls of every variety of attraction, but all in Tyrol taste;
nutcrackers that looked like old men, but smashed nuts with the activity
of the youngest; soldiers of lead, stout-looking fellows, that
never quitted the posts committed to them, if the wire was not too
powerful--all were there; appearing, besides, with a magic in true
keeping with their wonderful properties. Some emerged from unknown
pockets in the cuff of a jacket; others, from the deep waistband of
particoloured leather; some, from the recesses of a hat: but all in some
wonderful guise that well became them.
In one cottage only this little festive scene was not enacted. Hanserl’s
mother, who for some time back had been in declining health, was unable
to contribute, as she was wont, to their support. Too proud to confess
her poverty in the village, she contrived to keep up all the externals
of their condition as before. She and her son were seen on Sunday
as well dressed as ever; perhaps, if any thing, a more than ordinary
attention in this respect could be detected. Her offering to the curate
rather exceeded than fell short of its customary amount, These were,
however, costly little sacrifices to pride; for these, their meal was
made scantier and poorer; for these, the hours of the wintry night were
made longer and drearier, as, to save the cost of candle-light, they sat
in darkness beside the stove; a hundred little privations, such as only
poverty knows or can sympathise with, fell to their lot; all, borne with
fortitude and patience, but in their slow process chilling and freezing
up the hope from which these virtues spring.
“Hanserl, my love,” said the poor widow, and her eyes swam and her
tongue faltered as she spoke, “thou hast had none of the pleasures of
this joyous day. Take these twelve kreutzers and buy thyself something
in the Dorf. There be many pretty things cost not more than twelve
kreutzers.”
Hanserl made no answer; his thoughts were wandering far away. Heaven
knows whether they had strayed back to the bold days of Wallenstein,
or the siege of Prague, or were now, with the stormy cataract of the
Danube--at the iron gate, as it is called, the desperate scene of many a
bloody meeting between Turks and Austrians.
“Hans, love, dost hear me? I say, thou canst buy a bow with arrows;
thou hast long been wishing for one. But bring no more books of battles,
child,” added she, more feelingly; “strife and war have cost us both
dearly. If thy father had not served the Kaiser, he would not have
fallen at Elchingen.”
“I know it well,” said the boy, his features flashing as he spoke.
“He would not have stood beside the ammunition-waggons when the French
dragoons bore down, and with a loud voice called out, ‘Halt! these
tumbrels are powder; another step and I’ll explode the train!’ How they
reined up and fled! My father saved the train; didn’t he, mother?”
“He did,” sobbed the widow; “and fell under the wall of the citadel as
the last waggon entered the gate.’’
“God preserve Franz the Emperor!” said the boy, with a wild enthusiasm;
“he has given many a brave soldier a glorious grave. But for this,” here
he struck his shrunken limb violently with his hand, “I, too, had been
able to serve him. But for this--” a passion of sorrow, that found vent
in tears, checked his words, and he buried his head in his hands and
sobbed hysterically.
The poor mother did everything she could think of to console her son.
She appealed to his piety for submission under a visitation of God’s own
making; she appealed to his affection for her, since, had it not been
for his helplessness, he might one day have left her to be a soldier.
“The conscription is so severe now, Hanserl that they take only sons
away, like the rest--ay, and when they are but thirteen years of age!
Take them away, and leave the mothers childless! But they cannot take
thee, Hans!”
“No, that they cannot,” cried the boy, in a burst of grief. “The cripple
and the maimed have not alone to weep over their infirmity, but to feel
themselves dishonoured before others.”
The widow saw the unhappy turn her consolations had taken, and tried in
different ways to recall her error. At last, yielding to her entreaties,
Hans left the cottage, taking the twelve kreutzers in his hand to buy
his Easter gift.
It was from no want of affection to his mother he acted, nor was it
from any deficiency of gratitude that when he left the hut he forgot all
about the toy, and the twelve kreutzers, and the _fête_ itself. It was
that a deeper sentiment had swallowed up every other, and left no place
in his heart for aught else.
Hans then sauntered along, and at last found himself on the little
projecting point of rock from which he usually surveyed the valley
of the Kaunser-Thal. There, he sat down and watched till the darkness
thickened around and hid out every thing.
When he arose to turn homeward the lights were glittering in every
window of the village, and the merry sounds of rustic music filled the
air. Hans suddenly remembered it was Easter-night, the glad season
of home rejoicings, and he thought of his poor mother, who sat
alone, unfriended and suffering, in her little cabin. A feeling of
self-reproach at once struck him, and he turned speedily toward the
cottage. His shortest way was through the village, and thither he bent
his steps. The night was starlit but dark, and none of the villagers
were in the street; indeed, all were too happy within doors to wander
forth. In the Vorsteher’s house the village band was assembled, and
there the merry notes of a hopsa waltz were accompanied by the tramp of
feet and the sound of mirthful voices. A little farther on was a rich
peasant’s house. Hans stopped to peep through the half-closed shutters,
and there sat the family at their supper. It was a well-filled board,
and many a wine-flask stood around, while the savoury steam rose up and
hung like a feint cloud above the dishes--not sufficiently, however, to
obscure a little larch-tree, which, set in a small bucket, occupied the
centre of the table. On this all the candles were fastened, glittering
like stars through the sprayey branches, and glancing in bright sparkles
over a myriad of pretty toys that hung suspended around. For this was
the Easter-tree, to which every friend of the house attaches some little
present. Many a more gorgeous epergne has not yielded one hundredth part
of the delight. Every eye was fixed upon it; some in pure astonishment
and wonder, others speculating what might fall to their share; and while
the old grandfather tried to curb impatience among the elder children,
the young baby, with the destructive privilege that belongs to infancy,
was permitted to pull and tear from time to time at the glittering
fruit,--little feats which excited as much laughter from the grown
people as anxiety from the younger.
Hans moved on, with a sigh, at these new signs of home happiness in
which he had no share. The next was the Curate’s cabin, and there sat a
pleasant party round the stove, while the old priest read something
from an amusing volume; the lecture never proceeding far without some
interruption to comment upon it, to indulge a laugh, or mayhap clink
their glasses together, as, in token of friendship, they pledged each
other health and long life. Beyond this again was a new cabin, just
taken possession of; and here Hans, peeping in, beheld a young Tyroler
exhibiting to his wife--(they had been married but a few weeks)--his new
rifle. It was strange to see how she admired the weapon, gazing at it
with all the delight most of her sex reserve for some article of dress
or decoration. She balanced it, too, in her hand, and held it to her
shoulder, with the ease of one accustomed to its use.
In every cabin some group, some home picture, met his eye; peaceful age,
happy manhood, delighted childhood, beamed around each hearth and board.
The song, the dance, the merry story, the joyous meal, succeeded each
other, as he went along. He alone, of all, was poor and sad: in his
mother’s hut all was darkness and gloom; the half-suppressed sigh of
pain the only sound. The last cabin of the village, and the poorest too,
belonged to an old peasant, who had been a soldier under the Emperor
Joseph; he was a very old man, and being burdened with a large family of
grandchildren, whose parents were both dead, all he could do by hard
labour was to maintain his household, “Here,” thought Hans, as he
stopped to look in, “here are some poor as ourselves,--I hope they are
happier.” So they seemed to be. They were all seated on the floor of the
cabin, with the grandfather among them on a low stool, while he
performed for them the evolutions of the Grand Army at Presburg--the
great review which Maria Theresa held of all the Imperial troops. The
old man was sorely puzzled to convey a sufficiently formidable notion of
the force, for he had only some twenty little wooden soldiers to fill up
the different arms of the service, and was obliged to plant individuals
to represent entire corps, while walnut-shells answered for field-pieces
and mortars; the citadel of Presburg being performed by the bowl of hit
Meerschaum pipe.
There were many more brilliant displays met Hans’ eyes that evening than
this humble spectacle, and yet not one had the same attraction for him.
What would he not have given to be among that group--to have watched all
the evolutions, many of which were now hidden from his view--perchance
to be permitted to move some of the regiments, and suggest his own ideas
of tactics! Ah, that would have been happiness indeed! How long he might
have watched there is no saying, when a slight incident occurred which
interrupted him--slight and trivial enough was it, and yet in all its
seeming insignificance to be the turning point of his destiny!
It chanced that one of the little soldiers, from some accident or other,
would not stand upright, and a little boy, whose black eyes and sunburnt
cheeks bespoke a hasty temper, in endeavouring to set him on his
legs, broke one of them off. “Ah, thou worthless thing!” cried he
passionately, “thou art no use now to King or Kaiser, for thou art as
lame as Hans Jörgle;” and as he spoke he opened the little pane of the
window, and flung the little figure into the street.
“Shame on thee, Carl!” said the old man reprovingly; “he would have done
for many a thing yet. The best scout we ever had on the Turkish frontier
was so lame, you couldn’t think him able to walk. Besides, don’t you
remember the Tyrol proverb?--
‘Gott hat sein plan Fur Jedenmann:’
God has his plan For every man.
So never despise those who are unfit for thine own duties; mayhap, what
thou deemest imperfection, may fit them for something far above thee.”
Oh, how Hans drank in these words! the grief that filled him, on the
insulting comparison of the child was now changed to gratitude, and
seizing the little soldier, his own sad emblem, he kissed it a hundred
times, and then placed it in his bosom.
Hanserl’s mother was asleep when he reached home, so, creeping silently
to his bed, he lay down in his clothes, dreading lest he might awaken
her; and with what a happy heart did he lie down that night! How full
of gratitude and of love as he thought over the blessed words! How he
wished to remain awake all night long and think over them, fancying,
as he could do, the various destinies which, even to such as him, might
still fall! But sleep, that will not come when wooed, stole over him
as he lay, and in a deep, heavy slumber, he clasped the little wooden
figure in his hands.
The first effect of weariness over, Hans dreamed of all he had seen;
vague and confused images of the different objects passed and re-passed
before his mind, in that disorder and incoherency that belong to dreams.
The scene of the Vorsteher’s house became mingled with the remembrance
of the Pontlatzer bridge, where, until nightfall, he had been watching
the Bavarian sentinel; and the curate’s parlour beside its listening
group, had, now, a merry mob of children dancing around the Easter-tree,
under whose spreading branches a cavalry picquet were lying--the horses
grazing--while the men lay stretched before the watch-fires, smoking and
chattering.
The memory of the soldiers once touched upon, every other fled; and now
he could only think of the evolutions around Presburg: and he fancied
he saw the whole army defiling oyer the bridge across the Danube, and
disappearing within the ancient gates of the city. The white-cloaked
cuirassiers of Austria, gigantic forms, seeming even greater from
the massive folds of their white drapery; the dark Bohemians on their
coal-black horses; the Uhlans with their banners floating from their
tall lances; the prancing Hungarians mounted on their springing white
steeds of Arab blood; the gay scarlet of their chakos, the clink of
their dolmans, all glitter-* ing with gold, eclipsing all around them.
Then came the Jagers of the Tyrol, a countless host, marching like one
man, their dark plumes waving like a vast forest for miles in distance.
These followed again by the long train of guns and ammunition carts.
Fitful glances of distant lands, of which he had once read, passed
before him: the wide-spreading plains of the Lower Danube--the narrow
passes of the Styrian Alps--the bleak, vast tracts of sterile country
on the Turkish frontier, with here and there a low mud-walled village,
surmounted by a minaretted tower;--all, however, were peopled with
soldiers, marching or bivouacking, striking their tents at day-break,
or sitting around their camp-fires by night. The hoarse challenge of the
sentries, the mellow call of the bugle, the quivering tramp of a mounted
patrol, were all vividly presented to his sleeping senses. From these
thoughts of far-away scenes, he was suddenly recalled to home, and his
own Tyrol land. He thought he stood upon the rocky cliff and looked down
into the valley which he had left so tranquil at nightfall, but which
now presented an aspect of commotion and trouble. The inhabitants of
the little village at the head of the Kaunser-Thal were all preparing
to quit their homes and fly up the valley; carts covered with their
furniture and effects crowded the little street; pack-horses and mules
laden with every thing portable; while in the eager and affrighted
gestures of the peasants it was easy to see that some calamity impended.
Now and then some horseman would ride in amongst them, and by his manner
it was plain the tidings he brought were full of disaster. Hans looked
towards the bridge: and there, to his astonishment, he saw the very same
soldiers the old man had manoeuvred with. They had, seemingly, come off
a long march, and with their knapsacks unstrung, and their arms piled,
were regaling themselves with wine from the guard-house.
Hans’ first thought was to hasten back and tell his mother what he
saw; and now he stood up and leaned over her bed, but her sleep was
so tranquil and so happy he could not bear to awaken her. “What can it
mean?” thought he. “Are these the movements of our own people? or are
the French wolves coming down upon us?” As he ruminated thus, he thought
there came a gentle tap at the door of the hut: he opened it cautiously,
and there, who should be standing before him but the lame soldier, his
own poor little fellow, the castaway?
“Come along, Hans,” said he in a friendly voice; “there is little time
to lose. The Wolves are near.” He pressed his finger to his lips, in
token of caution, and led Hans without the door. No sooner were they
outside than he resumed,--
“Thou art maimed and crippled like myself, Hans Jörgle. We should be
but indifferent front-rank men before the enemy: but remember the Tyrol
proverb,--
‘Gott hat sein plan Für Jedenmann.’
Who knows if even we cannot serve the Vaterland? We must away,
Hanserl--away to the top of the Kaiser-fells, where the fagots lie ready
for the signal fire. The Bavarians have found out where it lies, and
have sent a scout party to destroy it, while their battalions are
advancing by forced marches up the Inn Thai. Thou knowest all these
paths well, Hans; so lead the way, my brave boy, and I’ll do my best to
follow.”
Hans waited for no further bidding, but hastily crossing the little
wooden bridge, commenced the ascent of the mountain with an activity
that bore no trace of his infirmity.
“We must light the beacon, Hans,” said the lame soldier. “When it is
seen blazing, the signal will be repeated up the Kaunser-Thal;
Fünstermünze will have it; and then Nauders. Maltz will shew it next,
and then all Tyrol will be up. The war jodeln will resound in every
valley and glen, and then let the Wolves beware!”
Oh, how Hans strained each nerve and sinew to push forward! The path led
across several torrents, many of them by places which, in day, demanded
the greatest circumspection, but Hans cleared them now at a spring.
The deep marshy ground, plashy with rivulets and melted snow, he waded
through ankle deep, climbing the briery rocks and steep banks without a
moment’s halt.
He thought that the lame soldier continued to exhort him, and encourage
his zeal, while gradually his own pace slackened, and at last he cried
out,--“I can do no more, Hans. Thou must go forward alone, my boy,--to
thee all the glory,--I am old and worn out! Hasten, then, my child, and
save the Vaterland. Thou wilt see the tinder-box and the rags in the
hollow pine-tree beside the faggot. It is wrapped in tow, and will light
at once. Farewell, and Gott guide thee!”
I cannot tell a thousandth part of the dangers and difficulties of that
night’s walk: in one place the path, for several yards, is on the brink
of a ravine, eleven hundred feet deep, and so abrupt is the turn at the
end, that an iron hook is inserted in the rock, by which the traveller
must grip; a steep glacier is to be crossed farther on; and lastly, the
torrent of the Kletscher must be traversed on a tree, whose bark, wet
and slippery from the falling spray, would be impossible to all but the
feet of a mountaineer. Each of these did Hans now surmount with all the
precision and care of waking senses; with greater courage, by far, than
in his waking moments he could have confronted them.
Gorges he never gazed on before without a shudder, he passed now in
utter disregard; paths he trembled to tread, he stepped along now in
nimble speed, and at last caught sight of a large dark object that stood
out against the sky--the great heap of fire-wood for the beacon.
As he came nearer, his eagerness grew greater; each minute now seemed an
hour--every false step he made appeared to him as though it might prove
fatal to his mission; and when, by any turn of the way, the beacon pile
disappeared for a moment from his eyes, his heart throbbed so powerfully
as almost to impede his breath. At last he gained the top--the wild
mountain-peak of the Kaiser-fells. The Snow lay deep, and a cold,
cutting wind swept the drift along, and made the sensation far more
intense. Hans cared not for this: his whole soul was on one object;
suffering, torture, death itself, he would have braved and welcomed,
could he only accomplish it. The mist lay heavily on the side by which
he had ascended, but towards Landeck the air was clear, and Hans gazed
down in that direction as well as the darkness would permit; but all
seemed tranquil--nothing stirred, nor shewed the threatened approach.
“What if he should be mistaken?” thought Hans. “What if the lame soldier
should have only fancied this? or could he be a traitor, that would
endeavour by a false alarm to excite the revolt before its time?”
These were torturing doubts, and while he yet revolved them he stood
unconsciously peering into the depth below, when suddenly, close beneath
him--so close that he thought it almost beside him, though still about
eighty yards off--he saw two figures emerge from the shadow of a pine
copse, and commence the steep ascent of the peak. They were followed
by two others, and now a long compact line issued forth, and began to
clamber up pass. Their weapons clinked as they came: there the could be
no doubt of it--they were the enemy!
With one spring he seized the tinder-box and struck the light: the wood,
smeared with tar, ignited when touched, and before a minute elapsed a
bright pillar of flame sprung up into the dark sky. Hans, not content
with leaving any thing to chance, seized a brand and touched the fagots
here and there, till the whole reeking mass blazed out--a perfect column
of fire.
No sooner had the leading files turned the cliff, than with a cry of
horror and vengeance they sprang forward. It was too late: the signal
was already answered from the Kaiser-fells, and a glittering star on the
Gebatsch told where another fire was about to blaze forth. Hans had
but time to turn and fly down the mountain as the soldiers drew up. A
particle of burning wood had touched his jacket, however, and, guided by
the sparks, four bullets followed him. It was at the moment when he
had turned for a last look at the blazing pile. He fell, but, speedily
regaining his feet, continued his flight. His mission was but half
accomplished if the village were not apprised of their danger. All the
dangers of his upward course were now to be encountered in his waking
state; and with the agony of a terrible wound--for the bullet had
pierced him beneath the left breast--half frantic with pain and
excitement, he bounded from cliff to cliff, clearing the torrents by
leaps despair alone could have made, and at length staggered rather than
ran along the village street, and fell at the door of the Vorsteher’s
house.
Already the whole village was a-foot: the signal blazing on the mountain
had called them to arm, but none could tell by whom it was lighted, or
by which path the enemy might be expected. They now gathered around the
poor boy, who, in accents broken and faltering, could scarce reply.
“What! thou hast done it?” cried the Vorsteher, angrily. “So, then,
thou silly fool, it is to thy mad ravings we owe all this terror--a
terror that may cost our country bitter tears! Who prompted thee to
this?”
“The lame soldier told me they were coming,” said Hans, with eyes
swimming in tears.
“The lame soldier!--he is mad!” cried an old peasant: “there is none
such in all the Dorf.”
“Yes, yes,” reiterated Hans; “they flung him away last night, because he
was lame--lame, and a cripple like me: but he told me they were coming;
and I had only time to reach the Kaiser-fells when they gained the top
too.”
“Wretched fool!” said the Vorsteher, sternly; “thy mad reading and wild
fancies have ruined the Vaterland. See, there is the signal from Pfunds,
and the whole Tyrol will be up! If thy life were worth anything, thou
shouldst die for this!”
“So shall I!” said Hans, sobbing; “the bullet is yet here.” And he
opened his jacket, and displayed to their horrified gaze the whole chest
bathed in blood, and the round, blue mark of a gun-shot wound.
This terrible evidence dispelled every doubt of Hans’ story: all its
strange incoherency vanished before that pool of blood, which, welling
forth at every respiration, ran in currents over him. Dreadful, too, as
the tidings were, the better nature of the poor villagers prevailed
over their fears, and in the sorrow the child’s fate excited all other
thoughts were lost.
In a sad procession they bore him home to his mother’s cottage, the
Vorsteher walking at his side; while Hans, with rapid utterance,
detailed the events which have been told. Broken and unconnected as
parts of his recital were--incomprehensible as the whole history of
the lame soldier appeared--the wounded figure--the blazing fires that
already twinkled on every peak,--were facts too palpable for denial;
and the hearers stared at each other in amazement, not knowing how to
interpret the strange story.
The agonising grief of the bereaved mother, as she beheld the shattered
and bleeding form of her child, broke in upon these doubtings; and while
they endeavoured to offer her their consolation, none thought of the
impending danger.
For a while after he was laid in bed, Hans seemed sunk in a swoon; but,
suddenly awakening, he made an effort to rise. Too weak for this, he
called the chief people of the village around, and said,
“They are coming from the Kaiser-fells; they will be down soon, and burn
the village, if you do not cut away the bridges over the Kletscher, and
close the pass on the Weissen Spitze. Throw out skirmishers along the
mountain side, and guard the footpath from the Pontlatzer Brücke.”
Had the words been the dying orders of a general commanding an army,
they could not have been heard with more implicit reverence, nor more
strictly obeyed. From the spot the Vorsteher issued commands for
these instructions to be followed. Hans’ revelations were, to the
superstitious imaginations of the peasants, of divine inspiration:
and many already stoutly affirmed that the lame soldier was St.
Martin himself, their patron saint, at whose shrine a crowd of devout
worshippers were soon after seen kneeling.
The village doctor soon pronounced the case above his skill, but did not
abandon hope. Hans only smiled faintly, and whispered,--
“Be it so! The proverb is always right,--
‘Gott hat sein plan Für Jedenmann.’
“What do you see there, Herr Vorsteher?” cried he, as the old man stared
with astonished eyes from the little window that commanded the valley.
“What is it you see?”
“The Dorf in the Kaunser-Thal seems all in commotion,” answered the
Vorsteher. “The people are packing every thing in their waggons, and
preparing to fly.”
“I know that,” said Hans, quietly; “I saw it already.”
“Thou hast seen it already?” muttered the old man, in trembling awe.
“Yes, I saw it all. Look sharply along the river side, and tell me if
a child is not holding two mules, who are striving to get down into the
stream to drink.”
“God be around and about us!” murmured the Vorsteher; “his power is
great!” He crossed himself three times, and the whole company followed
the pious motion; and a low, murmuring prayer, was heard to fill the
chamber.
“There is a waggon with eight bullocks, too, but they cannot stir the
load,” continued Hans, as, with closed eyes, he spoke with the faint
accents of one half-sleeping.
“Who are these coming along the valley, Hans?” asked the Vorsteher;
“they seem like our own Jagers, as well as my eyes can make out.”
“He is asleep!” whispered his mother, with a cautious gesture to enforce
silence.
It was true. Wearied, and faint, and dying, he had fallen into slumber.
While poor Hans slept, the tidings of which he was the singular
messenger had received certain confirmation. The village scouts had
already exchanged shots with the Bavarian troops upon the mountains,
and driven them back. The guard at the Pontlatzer Brücke was seen to
withdraw up the valley towards Landeck, escorting three field-pieces
which had only arrived the preceding day. Every moment accounts came of
garrisons withdrawn from distant outpost stations, and troops falling
back to concentrate in the open country. It was seen, from various
circumstances, that a forward movement had been intended, and was only
thwarted by the inexplicable intervention of Hans Jörgle.
The Tyrolers could not fail to perceive that their own hour was now
come, and the blow must be struck at once or never! So felt the leaders;
and scarcely had the Bavarians withdrawn their advanced posts, than
emissaries flew from village to village, with little scraps of paper,
bearing the simple words, “_Es ist zeit!_--It is time!” while, as the
day broke, a little plank was seen floating down the current, with
a small flag-staff, from which a pennon fluttered--a signal that was
welcomed by the wildest shouts of enthusiasm as it floated along:--the
Tyrol was up! “_Fur Gott, der Kaiser, und das Vaterland!_” rung from
every glen and every mountain.
I dare not suffer myself to be withdrawn, even for a moment, to that
glorious struggle--one of the noblest that ever a nation carried on to
victory. My task is rather within that darkened room in the little hut,
where, with fast-ebbing life, Hans Jörgle lay.
The wild cheers and echoing songs of the marching peasants awoke him
from his sleep, which, if troubled by pangs of pain, had still lasted
for some hours. He smiled, and made a gesture as if for silence, that
he might hear the glorious sounds more plainly, and then lay in a calm,
peaceful reverie, for a considerable time.
The Vorsteher had, with considerable difficulty, persuaded the poor
widow to leave the bedside for a moment, while he asked Hans a question.
The wretched mother was borne, almost fainting, away; and the old man
sat in her place, but, subdued by the anguish of the scene, unable to
speak. At last, while the tears ran down his aged cheeks, he kissed the
child’s hand, and said,--
“Thou wilt leave us soon, Hans!”
Hans gave a smile of sad, but beautiful meaning, while his upturned eyes
seemed to intimate his hope and his faith.
“True, Hans--thy reward is ready for thee!”
He paused a second, and then went on:--
“But even here, my child, in our own poor village, let thy devotion be
a treasure, to be handed down in memory to our children, that they
may know how one like themselves--more helpless, too--could serve his
Vaterland. Say, Hans Jörgle, will it make thy last moments happier to
think that our gratitude will raise a monument to thee in the Dorf, with
thy father’s name, who fell at Elchingen, above thine own? The villagers
have bid me ask thee this.”
“My mother--my poor mother!” murmured Hans.
“She shall never want, Hans Jörgle. The best house in the Dorf shall not
have a better fireside than hers. But my question, Hans--time presses.”
Hans was silent, and lay with closed eyes for several minutes; then,
laying his hand on the old man, he spoke with an utterance clear at
first, but which gradually grew fainter as he proceeded,--
“Let them build no monument to one poor and humble as I am; mine were
not actions glorious enough for trophies in the noon-day; but let the
‘Nachtwachter’ come here at midnight--at the same hour of my blessed
dream--and let him wish me a good night. They who are sleeping will
dream happier; and the waking will think, as they hear the cry, of Hans
Jörgle!”