NORTH TIROL--UNTERINNTHAL.
(LEFT INN-BANK.)
The hilles, where dwelled holy saintes,
I reverence and adore
Not for themselfe but for the saincts
Which han been dead of yore.
And now they been to heaven forewent,
Their good is with them goe;
Their sample onely to us lent,
That als we mought doe soe.--Spenser.
We have hitherto been occupied almost exclusively with the right bank
of the Inn. We will now return to Jenbach, as a starting-point for
the beauties of the left bank.
Near the station of Jenbach is a 'Restauration,' which bears the
singular title of 'zum Tolerantz.' In the town, which is at some
little distance on the Käsbach stream, the 'Post' affords very decent
accommodation; The dining-room of the more primitive 'Brau' is a neat
building in the Swiss style, and commands a prospect which might more
than compensate for even worse fare than it affords. Jenbach had its
name from being situated on the further side of the Inn from that
on which the old post-road had been carried. There are extensive
iron-foundries and breweries, which give the place a busy aspect,
and an air of prosperity.
The excursions from Jenbach are countless. Between the stations
of Brixlegg and Jenbach lie only Münster and Wiesing, with nothing
remarkable, except that the church of Wiesing, having been struck by
lightning in 1782, was rebuilt with stones taken from the neighbouring
Pulverthurm, built by the Emperor Maximilian, in 1504, but destroyed
by lightning at the same time as the church. Count Tannenberg's park
(Thiergarten), near here, is a most curious enclosure of natural
rock, aided by masonry, and stocked with deer, fish, and fowl. Then
Kramsach, and in the woods near it the Hilariusbergl, once inhabited
by two hermits, and still held sacred: also the strangely wild
Rettengschöss and its marbles; and several remarkable Alpine peaks,
particularly the Zireinalpe and its little lake, bearing a memory of
Seirens in its traditions as well as in its name. Here another river
Ache runs into the Inn, distinguished from that on the opposite side,
as the Brandenberger Ache. At its debouche stands Voldepp, whence the
Mariathal and the Mooserthal may be visited, and 'the neighbourhood is
rich in marbles used in the churches of Innsbruck.' [82] The Mooserthal
is remarkable for three small lakes, which can be formed and let off
at pleasure; they are the property of the Barons of Lichtenthurm, who
fatten carp in them. The lowest of the three, the Rheinthalersee,
has the prettiest surroundings. Weber says they are all fed by
subterranean currents from the mountains. Ball ('Central Alps')
treats them as overflowings of the Inn.
The most flourishing town of the Mariathal is Achenrain, where there
are extensive brass-works. Mass is said for the out-lying operatives
in the Castle-chapel of Lichtenthurm. The village of Mariathal is
very snugly situated, almost hidden by its woods from the road. Its
chief feature is the deserted convent of Dominicanesses founded in
the thirteenth century by Ulrich and Konrad v. Freundsberg; their
descendant, Georg v. Freundsberg, celebrated in the Thirty Years'
War, whom we learn more about when we come to Schwatz, also endowed
the nuns liberally, bidding them pray for him; his effigy may still
be seen in the church of Mariathal; and the convent, even in its
present condition, is a favourite pilgrimage. Hence a rocky defile
of wild and varied beauty, and many miles in length, leads into
the Brandenbergerthal, which reaches to the Bavarian frontier. Its
highest point is the Steinberg, to be recognized in the distance by its
pyramidal form, which is situated within what the Germans graphically
term a cauldron (Gebirgskessel) of mountains, and is shut off from
all communication with the outer world by the snow during the winter
months. The Brandenbergers have been famous for their patriotism and
defence of their independence during all the various conflicts with
Bavaria, and they love to call their native soil the Heimaththal and
the Freiheitthal. The only tale of the supernatural I have met with
as connected with this locality is the following; it has a certain
wild grasp, but its moral is not easy to trace; it is analogous,
however, to many traditions of other places.
'One of the Jochs surrounding the Brandenbergerthal was celebrated for
its rich grasses; on its "alm" [83] the cattle often found pasturage
even late in the winter. The Senner [84] here watching his flocks was
visited one Christmas Eve by an old man in thick winter clothing,
with a mighty pine-staff in his hand; he begged the Senner on the
coming night to heat his hut as hot as ever he could, assuring him he
would have no cause to regret his compliance. The Senner thought it
was a strange adventure, but congratulated himself that it might be
the means of propitiating the goblins, of whose pranks in the winter
nights he was not without his fears. So he heaped log upon log all
day, till the hut was so hot he could hardly bear it. Then he crept
under a bench in the corner where a little chink gave a breath from
the outer air, and waited to see what would come to pass. Towards
midnight he heard steps approaching nearer and nearer, and then there
was a sound of heavy boots stamping off the snow. Immediately after,
seven men stepped into the room in silence. Their boots and clothes
were all frozen as hard as if they had been carved out of ice, and
their very presence served to cool down the air of the hut to such
an extent that the Senner was now obliged to rub his hands. When
they had stood a considerable space round the fire without uttering
a word, they all seven left the hut as silently and solemnly as they
had entered it. The Senner now crawled out of his hiding-place, and
a loud cry of joy burst spontaneously from his lips, for his hat,
which he had left on the table, was full of bright shining golden
zwanzigers. These seven, the legend goes on to say, 'were never seen
but this once. They were the seven Goldherds of the Reiche Spitze (on
the Salzburg frontier); for up there there are exhaustless treasures,
but whatever a mortal takes of them during life, he must suffer the
Cold Torment and keep watch over it after death; and of such there
have been seven in the course of the world's ages.'
With regard to 'the Cold Torment,' [85] they have the following legend
in the neighbourhood of Innsbruck:--There was once a peasant who
had been very unlucky, and got so deep in debt that he saw no way of
extricating himself. Unable to bear the sight of his starving family,
he wandered out into the forest, until at last he met a strange-looking
man in the old Frankish costume, who came up to him and said, 'You
are poor indeed, and know no means of help.' 'Most true,' replied
the peasant; 'of money and good counsel I can use more than you can
have to bestow.' 'I will help you,' said the strange-looking man;
'I will give you as much money as you can use while you live, and
all you have to do for it will be to bear the Cold Torment for me
after you die; nothing but that, only just to feel rather too cold,
and all that time hence--what does it matter?' The peasant retraced
his steps, and as he drew near home his children came out to meet him
with their pinafores full of gold, and all about the house there were
heaps of gold, more than he could use; and he lived a merry life till
the time came for him to die. Then he remembered what was before him;
so he called his wife to him, and got her to make him a whole suit of
the thickest rough woollen cloth, and stockings, hood, and gloves of
the same. In the night, before they had buried him, his boys saw him,
just as the De profundis bell rang, get up from the bed in all this
warm clothing, and shut the gate behind him, and go out into the
forest to deliver the spirit which had enriched him. [86]
To the north-east of this valley, and still on the left bank of the
Inn, is the favourite pilgrimage of Maria-Stein. I have not learnt
its origin, but there is a tradition that, in 1587, Baron Schurff, to
whom the neighbouring Castle of Stein then belonged, being desirous
to take the precious likeness of the Blessed Virgin honoured there
to his Bavarian dwelling, thrice attempted the removal, and on each
occasion it was found by the next morning restored to its original
sanctuary, which is in a chapel at the top of a high tower. The castle
was a dependency of the Freundsbergers of Schwatz, till the family
died out. It was subsequently bestowed by the Archduke Sigismund
on one of his supporters, to whom he gave also the title of Baron
Schurff. Afterwards it came into possession of Count Paris von Klotz,
who gave it to form a presbytery and school for which it is still
used. Among its treasures was a Slave codex of Homilies of the early
fathers; Count Klotz had a reprint made from it at Vienna. A little
lake (Maria Steinersee) at no great distance affords excellent fish
called Nasen, whence the neighbouring dale is called Nasenthal; and
from several points there are most enjoyable views of the höhe Salve
and the little towns of Wörgl, Kirchbühel, and Häring across the river.
Jenbach affords also numerous mountain walks through the Achenthal:
a favourite one is over the Mauriz Alp, to Maurach, which has many
points of interest to the geologist. For those who are not fond of
pedestrianism, there is a splendid drive along the road--one of the
old highways to Bavaria and the north of Europe. An accident is of very
rare occurrence; but some parts of it are rather frightful. For those
whose nerves are proof against the fears suggested here and there,
there is immense enjoyment to be found, as it winds its way along
the romantic woody Käsbachthal, round--indeed through--the wild and
overhanging rocks, or, supported on piles, runs close along the edge
of the intensely blue Achen lake, under the over-arching Spiel-joch,
steep as a wall. The first place to halt at is Skolastica, where there
is a pretty, much-frequented swimming-school; and whence even ladies
have ascended the Unnutzjoch over the Kögl. It is often crowded in the
season, as also are all the little towns round the lake--Achenthal,
Pertisau, Buchau. Several excellent varieties of fish, which are the
property of the Monastery of Viecht, and the pleasure-fares across
the waters, afford means of subsistence to a little population of
boatmen, who have made their nests on the rocks wherever there is
a foot of level ground. Pertisau, however, is on a green smiling
spot, and is a relief to the majestic wildness of the rest of the
surrounding scenery. A very extraordinary effect may be observed at
a short distance out from Buchau. The mountain outline on the right
hand appears to be that of a regular fortress, with all professional
accessories, bidding defiance to the neighbourhood: it is only as
the boat approaches quite near, that you see it is only one of those
tours de force with which nature often surprises us; as, for example,
in the portrait of Louis XVI. in the outline of the Traunstein,
seen from Baura.
From the village of Achenthal the road runs, through the Bavarian
frontier, to the well-known baths and Bavarian royal Lustschloss--until
1803 a Benedictine monastery--of Tegernsee, through Pass-Achen,
celebrated in the patriotic struggles of 1809.
The Achensee is the largest and one of the most beautiful lakes of
Tirol. It is fed partly by mountain streams, and partly by subterranean
springs. The people tell a warning tale of its first rising. They say
that in olden times there was a stately and prosperous town on what
is now the bed of the lake; but the inhabitants in their prosperity
forgot God so far, that the young lads played at skittles along the
aisles of the church, even while the sacred office was being sung,
and the Word of God preached. A day came; it was a great feast, but
they drove their profane sport as usual, and no one said them nay;
[87] and so a great flood rose up through the floor; rose above their
heads; above the church roof; above the church steeple; and they say
that even now, on a bright calm day, you may see the gilt ball of the
steeple shining under the waters, and in the still moonshine you may
hear the bell ring out the midnight hour. There are many other tales
of such swift and righteous judgments lingering in Tirol.
The lower eastern ridge of the Harlesanger or Hornanger Alpe, is, on
account of its stern and barren character, called the Wildenfeld. This
is how it received its name. Ages ago, it was a very paradise
of beauty and fruitfulness. All the choicest Alpine grasses grew
there in abundance; but with these riches and plenty the pride of
the Senners and milkers waxed great too; and as a token of their
reckless wastefulness, it is recorded that they used rich cheeses
for paving-stones and skittles. One ancient Senner, like another Lot,
raised his feeble but indignant voice against them, but they heeded
him not. One day, as he mused over the sins of his people, a bright
bird, with a plumage such as he had never seen before, fluttered
round him, warbling, 'Righteous man, get thee hence! righteous man,
get thee hence!' The old man saw the finger of God, and immediately
followed the guiding flight of the bird to a place of safety, while
a great peak from the Harlesanger fell over the too prosperous Joch,
buried its impious inhabitants, and spread desolation all around. There
is now a pilgrimage chapel.
Another excursion, which must not be omitted, from Jenbach, is that
to Eben, which lies a little off the high road, at some elevation,
but in the midst of a delightful table-land (hence its name) of
most fruitful character. As the burial-place of St. Nothburga, it is
still a spot of great resort. Unhappily, not all those buried here
were so holy as the peasant saint. A tradition is preserved of one
wicked above others, though he seemed all fair to the outward eye,
and the Church consequently admitted him to lie in holy ground. But he
felt the Eye of One above upon him, and he could not rest; and in his
struggles to withdraw himself from that all-searching gaze, he bored
and bored on through the consecrated earth, till he had worked his way
out into the common soil beyond. A horse-shoe, deeply graven in the
'Friedhof' boundary, and which no one has ever been able to wall up,
marks the spot by which he passed; and the people call it the 'Escape
of the Vampire.' [88]
The unpretending village of Stans, situated in the midst of a very
forest of fruit-trees, at no great distance from Jenbach, is the
birth-place of Joseph Arnold, one of the religious artists, of whom
Tirol has produced so many. Without winning, of some it may be said
without meriting perhaps, much fame for themselves in the world,
without attaining the honour of founding a school, they have laboured
painstakingly and successfully to adorn their village temples, and keep
alive the faith and devotion of their countrymen. Almost where-ever
you go in Tirol you find praiseworthy copies of paintings, whose
titles are connected with the celebrated shrines of Italy, modestly
reproduced by them, or some fervent attempt at an original rendering
of a sacred subject, by men who never aspired that their names should
reach beyond the echoes of their own beloved mountains. The prior of
Viecht, Eberhard Zobel, discovered the merits of Joseph Arnold and drew
him from obscurity, or rather from one degree of obscurity to another
less profound, had him instructed according to the best means within
his attainment, and gave him occupation in the monastery. His homely
aspirations made him content with the sphere to which he was native,
and he never went far from it. The altarpiece in the church of Stans,
representing St. Lawrence and St. Ulric, is his work and his gift.
From Stans there is a path through the grand scenery of the
Stallenthal, leading to the shrine of St. Georgenberg. For a time
the pretty villages of the Innthal are lost to sight, and you pass
a country known only to the wild game, the hunter, and the pilgrim;
the bare rocky precipices relieved only here and there with woods,
while the Stallen torrents run noisily below. Who could pass through
such a neighbourhood and not think of the crowds of pilgrims who,
through ages past, have approached the sacred spot in a spirit of faith
and submission, bearing their sins and their sorrows, the burden of
their afflictions, moral and physical, and have gone down to their
homes comforted?
A wonderful shrine it is: a rock which might seem marked out 'from
the beginning' to be a shrine; shut out by Nature from earthly
communication; piercing the very sky. You stand beneath it and long
for an eagle's wings to bear you aloft: there seems no other means
of access. Then a weary winding path is shown you, up which, with
many sloping returns upon your former level, and crossing the roaring
stream at a giddy height, you at last reach an Absatzbrücke--a bridge
or viaduct--over the chasm, uniting the height you have been climbing,
with the cliff of S. George. It is a long bridge, and only made of
wood; and you fancy it trembles beneath your anxious tread, as you
span the seemingly unfathomable abyss. A modest cross, which you cannot
fail to observe at its head, records the marvellous preservation of a
girl of twenty-one, named Monica Ragel, a farm-servant, who one fine
morning in April 1831, in her zeal to gather the fairest flowers for
the wreath she was weaving for the Madonna's altar, attempted to climb
the treacherous steep, and losing her footing slipped down the cliff,
a distance of one hundred and forty feet. The neighbours crowded
to the spot, with all the haste the dangerous footing would admit,
and though they had no hope of finding her alive. She was so far
uninjured, however, that she was able to resume work within the week.
The buildings found perched at this height cannot fail to convey a
striking impression; and this still more do the earnest penitents,
who may nearly always be found kneeling within. First, you come upon
the little chapel of the 'Schmerzhaften Mutter,' with a little garden
of graves of those who have longed to lie in death as they dwelt in
life--near the shrine; among them is that of the Benedictine Magnus
Dagn, whose knowledge of music is referred to in the following simple
epitaph, 'Magnus nomine, major arte, maximus virtute.' Opposite it is
the principal church, containing in one of its chapels one of those
most strange of relics, which here and there have come down to us with
their legends from 'the ages of faith.' In the year 1310, when Rupert
I. was the fourteenth abbot of St. Georgenberg, a priest of the order
[89] was saying Mass in this very chapel. Just at the moment of the
consecration of the chalice a doubt started in his mind, whether
it were possible that at his unworthy bidding so great a mystery
should be accomplished as the fulfillment of the high announcement,
'This is My Blood.' In this condition of mind he concluded the words
of consecration; and behold, immediately, in place of the white wine
mingled with water in the chalice, he saw it fill with red blood,
overflowing upon the corporal; some portion of this was preserved
in a vial, set into a reliquary on the altar. Round the church are
the remains of the original monastery, in which the monks of Veicht
generally leave some of their number to minister both to the spiritual
and corporal needs of pilgrims.
It seems difficult to fix a date for the origin of this pilgrimage,
one of the most ancient of Tirol. There is a record that in 992
a chapel was consecrated here to our Lady of Sorrows, by Albuin,
Bishop of Brizen; but it was long before this [90] that Rathold, a
young nobleman of Aiblingen in Bavaria, 'having learnt the hollowness
of the joys his position promised him, made up his mind to forsake
all, and live in the wilderness to God alone.' He wandered on,
shunning the smooth and verdant plains of his native lands, and the
smiling fruitful amenities of the Innthal, till at last he found
himself surrounded by wild solitudes in the valley of the Stallen;
plunging into its depths, his eye alighted on the almost inaccessible
Lampsenjock. Then choosing for his dwelling a peak, on which a few
limes had found a ledge and sown themselves, he cut a little cave
for his shelter in the rock beneath them, and there he lived and
prayed. But after a time a desire came over him to visit the shrines
of the mightiest saints; so he took up his pilgrim staff once more,
and sped over the mountains and over the plains, till he had knelt at
the limine Apostolorum, and pressed his lips upon the soil, fragrant
with the martyr's blood. Nor was his zeal yet satisfied. There was
another Apostle the fame of whose shrine was great; and 'a year and a
day' brought our pilgrim to S. Iago de Compostella. Then, having thus
graduated in the school of the saints, he came back to his solitude
under the lime-trees on the rock, to practise the lessons of Divine
contemplation he had thus imbibed in the perfume of the holy places.
He did not come back alone. From the great storehouse of Rome he
had brought a treasure of sacred art--a picture of the Madonna, for
which his own hands wrought a little sanctuary. From far and near
pious people came to venerate the sacred image; and 'Unsere liebe
Frau zur Linde,' was the watch-word, at the sound of which the sick
and the oppressed revived with hope.
One day, it chanced that a young noble, whom ardent love of the chase
had led into this secluded valley, turned aside from following the wild
chamois, to inquire what strange power fascinated the peasants into
attempting yon steep ascent. Curious himself to see the wonder-working
shrine, he scaled the peak, and found to his astonishment, in the
modest guardian of the picture, the elder brother who long ago had
'chosen the better part.' In token of his joy at the meeting, he made
a vow to build on the spot a chapel, as well as a place of shelter
for the weary pilgrim. His undertaking was no sooner known than all
the people of the neighbouring valleys, nobles and peasants, applied
to have their part in the work. Thus supported, it was begun in right
earnest; but the workmen had no sooner got it fairly in hand than all
the blessing, which for so long had been poured out on the spot, seemed
suddenly to be quenched. Nothing would succeed, and every attempt
was baffled; and one thing, which was more particularly remarked,
was that the men were continually having accidents, and wounding
themselves with their tools. More strange still, every day two white
doves flew down from above, and carefully picking out every chip
and shaving on which blood had fallen, gathered them in their beaks
and flew away. Finding that no progress could be made with the work,
and that this manoeuvre of the doves continued day by day, the pious
Reinhold resolved to follow them; and when he at last succeeded in
finding their hiding-place, there lay before him, neatly fashioned
out of the chips which the doves had carried away, a tiny chapel of
perfectly symmetrical form. [91] The hermit saw in the affair the
guiding hand of God, demanding of him the sacrifice of seven years'
attachment to his cell; and cheerfully yielding obedience to the token,
requested his brother that the chapel should be erected on the spot
thus pointed out. Theobald willingly complied, and dedicated it to
the patron of chivalry, St. George. The fame of Reinhold's piety, and
of his wonderful chapel, was bruited far and near; and now, not all
who came to visit him went back to their homes. Many youths of high
degree, fired by the example of the hermit sprung out of their order,
applied to join him in his life of austerity; and soon a whole colony
had established itself, Camaldolese-fashion, in little huts round
his. There seems to have been no lack of zealous followers to sustain
the odour of sanctity of St. Georgenberg; early in the twelfth century,
the Bishop of Brixen put them under the rule of S. Benedict, to whose
monks Tirol, and especially Unterinnthal, already owed so great a debt
of gratitude, for keeping alive the faith. His followers endowed it
with much of the surrounding land, which the brothers, by hard manual
labour, brought into cultivation. They were overtaken by many heavy
trials in the course of centuries: at one time it was a fire, driven
by the fierce winds, which ravaged their homestead; at another time,
avalanches annihilated the traces of their industry. At last, the
spirit of prudence prevailing on their earlier energetic hardiness,
it was resolved to remove the monastery to Viecht, where the brothers
already had a nucleus in a little hospital for the sick among them,
and where also was the depôt for their cattle-dealing--a Viehzuchthof,
[92] whence by corruption it derived its name.
The execution of this idea was commenced in 1705. The abbot, Celestin
Böhmen, a native of Vienna, had formerly held a grade of officer in
the Austrian artillery. Nothing could exceed the zeal with which
he took the matter in hand; and plans were laid out for raising
the building on the most extensive and costly scale. So grand an
edifice required large funds; and these were not slow to flow in,
for St. Georgenberg was beloved by all the country round. When he
saw the vast sums in his hand, however, the old spirit of the world,
and its covetousness, crept over him again, and a morning came when,
to the astonishment of the brotherhood, the abbot was nowhere to be
found--nor the gold! The progress of the work was effectually arrested
for the moment; but zeal overcame even the obstacle presented by
this loss, and by 1750 Abbot Lambert had brought to completion the
present edifice, in late Renaissance style, which, though imposing
and substantial, forms but one wing of Celestin Böhmen's plan.
If the spirit of the world came over Abbot Celestin in the cloister,
the spirit of the cloister came back upon him in the world; and it
was not many years before he came back, full of shame and contrition,
making open confession of his fault, and placing himself entirely in
the hands of his former subjects. Though at this time the monks were
yet in the midst of their anxieties for the means for carrying on the
work, they suffered themselves to be ruled by a spirit of Christian
charity, and refused to give him up to the rigour of the law; and he
ended his days with edifying piety at Anras, in the Pusterthal.
A great festival was kept at Viecht, in 1845, in memory of the
consecration, which was attended by sixty thousand persons, from
Bavaria as well as Tirol.
The library contains an interesting collection of MSS. and early
printed books in many languages, and is particularly rich in works
illustrative of Tirolean history. In the church are some of Nissl
the elder's wood-carvings, which are always worth attention. The
confessionals are adorned with figures of celebrated penitents,
by his hand; and other noteworthy works will be found in a series of
nine tableaux, showing forth the Passion; also the crucifix over the
high altar, and four life-sized carvings. In all these he was assisted
by his pupils, Franz Thaler, of Jenbach, who afterwards came to have
the charge of the Vienna cabinet of antiquities, and Antony Hüber, the
most successful of his school. Perhaps the finest specimen of all is a
dead Christ, under the altar, remarkable for the anatomical knowledge
displayed. Like many another mountain sanctuary isolated and exposed
to the wind, this monastery has more than once been ravaged by fire;
in 1868 it was in great part burnt down, and the church-building zeal
of Tirol is still being exercised with great energy and open-handedness
in building it up again. A festival was held there in October 1870,
when five bells from the foundry of Grassmayr of Wilten were set up
to command the echoes of the neighbourhood; great pains are now being
taken to make the building fireproof.
Close opposite Viecht lies Schwatz; [93] a number of straggling houses,
called 'die lange Gasse,' on the Viecht side belong to it also; between
them there is a bridge, which we will not cross now, but continue a
little further along the left bank; this, though less rich in smiling
pastures than the right, has many points of interest. The next village
to Viecht is Vomp, situated at the entrance of the Vomperthal, the
sternest and most barren in scenery or settlements of any valley
of Tirol, and characterized by a hardy pedestrian as 'frightfully
solitary, and difficult of access: even the boldest Jägers,' he adds,
'seldom pursue their game into it.' The village church of Vomp once
possessed a priceless work of Albert Dürer, an 'Ancona,' showing forth
in its various compartments the history of the Passion; but it was
destroyed in 1809, when the French, under Deroi, set fire to the church
in revenge for the havoc the Tirolean sharp-shooters had committed
among their ranks. Joseph Arnold (in 1814) did his best to repair the
loss, by painting another altar-piece, in which we see a less painful
than the usual treatment of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian: the artist
has chosen the moment at which the young warrior is being bound to
the tree where he is to suffer so bravely. Above the village stands
the once splendid castle of Sigmundslust, one of the hunting-seats
of Sigismund the Monied (der Münzreiche), [94] now the villa of a
private family of Innsbruck, Riccabona by name. Vomp is also the
birth-place of Joseph Hell, the wood-carver.
Crossing the Vomperbach, and the fertile plain it waters, you
reach Terfens, which earned some renown in the wars of 'the year
nine.' Outside the village is a little pilgrimage chapel, called
Maria-Larch, honoured in memory of a mysterious image of the blessed
Virgin, found under a larch fir on the spot, similar to the legend
of that at Waldrast. [95]
Passing the ruin of Volandseck, the still inhabited castle of Thierberg
(the third of the name we have passed since we entered Tirol) and
the village of S. Michael, you come to S. Martin, the parish church
of which owes its endowment to a hermit of modern times. There was in
the village a convent, deserted, because partly destroyed by fire. In
1638, George Thaler, of Kitzbühel, a man of some means and position,
came to live here a life of sanctity: he devoted six hours a-day to
prayer, six to sleep, and the rest to manual labour. He maintained a
chaplain, and an old servant who waited on him for fifty years. At his
death, he left all he possessed to supply the spiritual needs of the
hamlet. After leaving S. Martin's, the scenery grows more pleasing:
you enter the Gnadenwald, so called, because its first inhabitants
were servants of the earlier princes of Tirol, who pensioned them off
with holdings of the surrounding territory. It occupies the lowland
bordering the river, which here widens a little, and affords in its
recesses a number of the most romantic strolls. Embowered on its
border, near the river, stands the village of Baumkirchen, with its
outlying offshoot of Fritzens now surpassing it in importance, as it
has been chosen for the railway-station. The advance of the iron road
has not stamped out the native love for putting prominently forward the
external symbols of religion. I one day saw a countryman alight here
from the railway, who had been but to Innsbruck to purchase a large
and handsome metal cross, to be set up in some prominent point of the
village and it was considered a sufficiently important occasion for
several neighbours to go out to meet him on his return with it. Again,
on the newer houses, probably called into existence by the increased
traffic, the old custom of adorning the exterior with frescoes of
sacred subjects is well kept up. This is indeed the case on many other
parts of the line; but at Fritzens, I was particularly struck with
one of unusual merit, both in its execution and its adaptation to the
domestic scene it was to sanctify. I would call the attention of any
traveller, who has time to stop at Fritzens to see it: the treatment
suggests that I should give it the title of 'the Holy Family at home,'
so completely has the artist realized the lowly life of the earthly
parents of the Saviour, and may it not be a comfort to the peasant
artizan to see before his eyes the very picture of his daily toil
sanctified in its exercise by the hands of Him he so specially reveres?
An analogous incident, which I observed on another occasion, comes
back to my memory: it happened, I think, one day at Jenbach. The
train stopped to set down a Sister of Charity, who had come to nurse
some sick person in the village. The ticket-collector, who was also
pointsman, was so much occupied with his deferential bowing to her
as he took her ticket, that he had to rush to his points 'like mad,'
or his reverent feelings might have had serious consequences for the
train! So religious indeed is your whole entourage while in Tirol,
that I have remarked when travelling through just this part in the
winter season, that the very masses of frozen water, arrested by
the frost as they rush down the railway cuttings and embankments,
assumed in the half-light such forms as Doré might give to prostrate
spectres doing penance. The foot-path on to Hall leads through a
continuance of the same diversified and well-wooded scenery we have
been traversing hitherto; but if time presses, it is well to take the
railway for this stage, and make Hall or Innsbruck a starting-point
for visiting the intervening places.
Hall is the busiest and most business-like place we have come to yet,
and the first whose smoky atmosphere reminds us of home. There is not
much to choose between its two inns the 'Schwarzer Bär' and the
'Schwarzer Adler.' The industry and the smoke of Hall arises from the
salt-works, from which Weber also derives its name (from halos, salt;
though why it should have been derived from the Greek he does not
explain). The first effect which strikes you on arriving, after the
smokiness, is the sky-line of its bizarrely-picturesque steeples,
among the most bizarre of which is the Münzthurm (the mint-tower),
first raised to turn into money the over-flowing silver stores of
Sigismund the Monied; and last used to coin the Sandwirthszwänziger,
the pieces of honest old Hofer's brief but triumphant dictatorship. The
town has in course of time suffered severely from various calamities:
fire, war, pestilence, inundation, and, on one occasion, in 1670,
even from earthquake; the church tower was so severely shaken, that the
watchman on its parapet was thrown to the ground; the people fled from
their houses into the fields, where the Jesuit fathers stood addressing
them, in preparation for their last end, which seemed imminent. Loss
of life was, however, small; nevertheless, the Offices of the Church
were for a long time held in the open air. Notwithstanding all these
reverses, the trade in salt, and the advantageous municipal rights
granted them in earlier times, have always enabled the people to
recover and maintain their prosperity. In the various wars, they have
borne their part with signal honour. One of their greatest feats,
perhaps, occurred on May 29, 1809. Speckbacher had led his men to a
gallant attack on the Bavarians at Volders, blowing up the bridge
behind him, and then marched to the relief of Hall; the Bavarians
were in possession of the town and bridge, and as they had several
pieces of artillery, it was not easy for the patriots to carry it;
nevertheless, as their ammunition was failing, and Speckbacher having
refused to agree to a truce, because he saw the advantage accruing to
him through this deficiency, they destroyed the Hall bridge, as they
thought, and retreated homewards under cover of the night. Speckbacher
discovered their flight early in the morning, and lost no time in
addressing his men on the importance of at once taking possession of
their native town: the men were as usual at one with him, and not
one shrank from the perilous enterprise of regaining the left bank
by such means as the tottering remains of the bridge afforded!
Joseph Speckbacher, who shares with Andreas Hofer the glories of
'the year nine,' was a native of Rinn, a village on the opposite
bank; but he is honoured with a grave in the Pfarrkirche, at Hall,
bearing the following inscription, with the date of his death, 1820:
Im Kampfe wild, doch menschlich;
In Frieden still und den Gesetzen treu;
War er als Krieger, Unterthan und Mensch,
Der Ehre wie der Liebe werth. [96]
Another object of interest, in the same churchyard, is a wooden
crucifix, carved by Joseph Stocker in 1691; as well as the monuments of
the Fiegers, and other high families of the middle ages. In the church
itself is a 'Salvator Mundi' of Albert Dürer, on panel; the altarpiece
of the high altar is by Erasmus Quillinus, a pupil of Rubens. One of
the chapels, the Waldaufische Kapelle, was built in 1493-5, by one
Florian von Waldauf, to whom an eventful history attaches. He was a
peasant boy, whom his father's severity drove away from home: for a
long time he maintained himself by tending herds; after that he went
for a soldier in the Imperial army, where his talents brought him under
the special notice of the Emperor Frederick, and his son Maximilian I.,
who took him into their councils and companionship. Maximilian made
him knight of Waldenstein, and gifted him with lands and revenues. His
love of adventure took him into many countries. On one journey, being
in a storm at sea, the memory of his early wilfulness overcame him,
and he vowed that if he came safe to land, he would build a chapel in
his Tirolean home. He subsequently fixed on the Pfarrkirche of Hall,
as that in which to fulfil his vow, being the parish church of the
castle of Rettenberg which Maximilian had bestowed on him, and enriched
it with a wondrous store of relics, which he had collected in his
journeyings. Above 40,000 pilgrims flocked from every part of Tirol,
to assist at the consecration; and a goodly sight it must have been,
when singing and bearing the relics aloft, they streamed down the
mountain side and across the river, the last of the procession not
having yet left the gates of Castle Rettenberg, while the foremost
had already reached the chapel.
There are other churches in Hall; where that of S. Saviour now stands
was once a group of crazy cottages; but one day, in the year 1406,
in one of them a poor man lay dying, and the priest bore him the
holy Viaticum, which knows no distinction between the palace and the
hovel: the furniture was as rickety as the tenements themselves; the
only table, on which the priest had deposited the sacred vessels,
propped against the wall for support, gave way by some accident,
and the Santissimo was thrown upon the floor. Johann von Kripp, a
wealthy burgher, hearing of what had befallen, bought the cottages,
and in reparation for the desecration, built a church on the spot,
with the dedication, zum Erlöser.
The town is well provided with educational and charitable institutions;
the latter comprising a mad-house worth seeing, under Professor
Kaplan, and a deaf and dumb school. The Franciscan monastery is,
I think, the only unsuppressed religious house. In the Rathhaus is
preserved a quaint old picture, representing the Emperor Sigismund,
in hunting costume, coming to ask the assistance of the men of Hall
against a conspiracy he had discovered in Innsbruck, assistance which
loyal Hall was not slow to supply. Its situation made it a place of
some importance to the defences of the country; and the regulations
for calling the inhabitants under arms were very complete, so that
this service was promptly rendered.
An amusing story is told in evidence of the ready gallantry of the men
of Hall. There was a time when Hall was at feud with the neighbouring
village of Taur: the watchman, stationed on the tower by night-time,
rang the alarm, and announced that the enemy was advancing with
lanterns in their hands; at the call to arms, every man jumped from
his bed, and seized his weapon, eager to display his prowess against
the foe. Prudent Salzmair [97] Zott, anxious to spare the shedding
of neighbours' blood, hastily donned a shirt of mail over his more
penetrable night-gear, and proposed to ride out alone with a flag
of truce, to know what meant the unseasonable attack. The warlike
burghers with difficulty yielded to his representations, and not
having the consolations of the fragrant weed wherewith to wile away
their time, set to sharpening their swords and axes, and outvieing
each other with many a fierce boast during his absence.
Meantime, Salzmair Zott proceeded on his way without meeting the ghost
of a foe, or one ray from their lanterns, till he came to Taur itself,
where everything lay buried in peaceful silence. Only as he came back
he discovered what had given rise to the alarm: it was midsummer-tide,
and a swarm of little worms of St. John [98] was soaring and fluttering
over the fields like a troop provided with lanterns. So with a hearty
laugh he despatched the townsmen, ready for the fight, back to their
beds. And even now this humorous imitation of the Bauernkrieg [99]
is a by-word for Quixotic enterprises.
Of all the numerous excursions round Hall, the strangest and
most interesting is that to Salzberg, the source of the salt, the
crystallizing of which and despatching it all over Tirol, to Engadein
and to Austria, forms the staple industry of Hall. It is a journey
of about three hours, though not much over eight miles, but rugged
and steep, and in some parts rather frightful, particularly in the
returning descent, for the Salzberg lies 6,300 feet above the sea:
but there is a road for an einspanner all the way; entrance is readily
obtained, and the gratuities for guide, lighting up, and boat over
the subterranean salt lake, exceedingly moderate. There are records
extant which shew that there were salt-works in operation in the
neighbourhood of Hall early in the eighth century, but these would
appear to have been fed by a salt spring which flowed at the foot
of the mountain. In the year 1275, however, Niklas von Rohrbach,
who seems to be always styled der fromme Ritter (the pious knight),
frequently when on his hunting expeditions in the Hallthal, observed
how the cattle and wild game loved to lick certain cliffs of the
valley; this led him to test the flavour, and finding it rich in salt,
he followed up the track till he came to the Salzberg itself, where he
prudently conjectured there was an endless supply to be obtained. [100]
Ever since this time the salt has been worked pretty much in the same
way, namely, by hewing, later by blasting, vast chambers in the rock,
which are then filled with water and closed up: at the end of some
ten or twelve months, when the water is supposed to be thoroughly
impregnated, it is run off through a series of conduits to Hall,
where it is evaporated, a hundred pounds of brine yielding about a
third the weight of salt. A considerable number of these chambers,
an acre or two in extent, have been excavated in the course of time,
and you are told that it would take more than a week to walk through
all the passages connecting them. 'Cars filled with rubbish pass you as
you thread them,' says an observant writer, 'with frightful rapidity;
you step aside into a niche, and the young miners seated in the front
look like gnomes directing infernal chariots. The crystallizations
in some of these chambers lighted up by the torches of a party of
visitors have a magical effect, and recall the gilded fret-work of
some Moorish palaces. There is a tradition that Hofer and Speckbacher,
who never, before their illustrious campaigns, had wandered so far as
these few miles from their respective homes, took advantage of the lull
succeeding their first triumph at Berg Isel, to come over and visit the
strange labyrinths of the Salzberg. It is hardly possible to exaggerate
the effect which such a scene might produce on minds so imaginative,
and at the same time so unsophisticated. It is not difficult to believe
that they regarded such a journey like a visit to the abode of the
departed great, or that in presence of the oppressive grandeurs of
nature they should have matured their spirit for the defence of their
country which was to confound the strategy of practised generals.
Returning through the dark forests of pine and the steep cliffs of
the Hallthal, otherwise called the Salzthal, you are arrested by the
hamlet of Absam, which in your hurry to push forward you overlooked
in the morning. Before reaching it you observe to the east, on an
eminence rising out of the plain, Schloss Melans, now serving as a
villa to a family of Innsbruck. The peasants have a curious story
to account for the rudely sculptured dragons which adorn some of the
eave-boards of their houses, though no singular mode of ornamentation,
and by others accounted for differently. [101] They say that in olden
time there was a wonderful old hen which laid her first egg when seven
years old, and when the egg was hatched a dragon crept out of it,
[102] which made itself a home in the neighbouring moor, and the
people in memory of the prodigy carved its likeness on their houses.
In Absam itself once lived a noble family of the name of Spaur,
which had a toad for a bearing on their shield, accounted for in
the following way:--'A certain Count Spaur had committed a crime
by which he had incurred the penalty of death; his kinsmen having
put every means in motion to get the sentence remitted, his pardon
was at last accorded them on the condition that he should ride to
Babylon the Accursed, and bring home with him a monstrous toad which
infested the tower. So the knight rode forth to Babylon the Accursed,
and when he drew near the tower the monstrous toad came out and seized
the bridle of the knight's horse; the knight, nothing daunted at the
horrid apparition, lifted his good sword and hewed the monster to
the ground, bringing the corpse back with him as a trophy.'
What audacious tales! Could anyone out of a dream put such ideas
together? No writer of fiction, none but one who believed them possible
of accomplishment! 'Who can tell what gives to these simple old stories
their irresistible witchery?' says Max Müller. 'There is no plot to
excite our curiosity, no gorgeous description to dazzle our eyes,
no anatomy of human passion to rivet our attention. They are short
and quaint, full of downright absurdities and sorry jokes. We know
from the beginning how they will end. And yet we sit and read and
almost cry, and we certainly chuckle, and are very sorry when
Snip, snip, snout,
This tale's told out.
Do they remind us of a distant home--of a happy childhood? Do they
recall fantastic dreams long vanished from our horizon, hopes that
have set never to rise again?... Nor is it dreamland altogether. There
is a kind of real life in these tales--life such as a child believes
in--a life where good is always rewarded; wrong always punished; where
everyone, not excepting the devil, gets his due; where all is possible
that we truly want, and nothing seems so wonderful that it might
not happen to-morrow. We may smile at those dreams of inexhaustible
possibility, but in one sense the child's world is a real world too.'
A singular event, or curious popular fancy, obtained for Absam
the honour of becoming a place of pilgrimage at the end of the last
century. It was on January 17, 1797; a peasant's daughter was looking
idly out of window along the way her father would come home from
the field; suddenly, in the firelight playing on one of the panes,
she discerned a well-defined image of the Blessed Virgin, 'as plain
as ever she had seen a painting.' Of course the neighbours flocked
in to see the sight, and from them the news of the wonderful image
spread through all the country round; at last it made so much noise,
that the Dean of Innsbruck resolved to investigate the matter. A
commission was appointed for this object, among their number being
two professors of chemistry, and the painter, Joseph Schöpf. Their
verdict was that the image had originally been painted on the glass;
that the colours, faded by time, had been restored to the extent then
apparent by the action of the particular atmosphere to which they had
been exposed. The people could not appreciate their arguments, nor
realize that any natural means could have produced so extraordinary
a result. For them, it was a miraculous image still, and accordingly
they put their faith in it as such; nor was their faith without
its fruit. It was a season of terrible trouble, a pestilence was
raging both among men and beasts; General Joubert had penetrated as
far into the interior as Sterzing; everyone felt the impotence of
'the arm of flesh' in presence of such dire calamities. The image
on the peasant's humble window-pane seemed to have come as a token
of heavenly favour; nothing would satisfy them but that it should be
placed on one of the altars of the church, and the 'Gnadenmutter [103]
von Absam' drew all the fearful and sorrowing to put their trust in
Heaven alone. Suddenly after this the enemy withdrew his troops, the
pestilence ceased its havoc, and more firmly than ever the villagers
believed in the supernatural nature of the image on the window-pane.
Absam has another claim to eminence in its famous violin-maker, Jacob
Stainer, born in 1649. He learnt his art in Venice and Cremona, and
carried it to such perfection, that his instruments fetched as high
prices as those made in Cremona itself. Archduke Ferdinand Karl,
Landesfürst of Tirol, attached him to his court. Stainer was so
particular about the wood he used, that he always went over to the
Gletscher forest clearings to select it, being guided in the choice by
the sound it returned when he struck it with a hammer. Towards the end
of his life the excitement of the love of his calling overpowered his
strength of mind, and the treatment of insanity not being then brought
to perfection at Absam, one has yet to go through the melancholy
exhibition of the stout oaken bench to which he had to be strapped
or chained when violent. [104]
Mils affords the object of another pleasant excursion from Hall,
reached through the North, or so called Mils, gate, in an easy
half-hour; around it are the old castles of Grünegg and Schneeburg,
the former a hunting-seat of Ferdinand II., now in ruins; the latter
well-preserved by the present noble family of the name. Those who have
a mind to enjoy a longer walk, may hence also find a way into the
peaceful shady haunts of the Gnadenwald. Some two hundred years ago
there lived about half way between Hall and Mils a bell-founder, who
enjoyed the reputation of being a very worthy upright man, as well as
one given to unfeigned hospitality; so that not only the weather-bound
traveller, but every wayfarer who loved an hour's pleasant chat,
knocked, as he passed by, at the door of the Glockenhof. Among all the
visitors who thus sat at his board, none were so jovial as a party of
wild fellows, whose business he was never well able to make out. They
always brought their own meat and drink with them, and it was always of
the best; and money seemed to them a matter of no account, so abundant
was it. At last he ventured one day to inquire whence they acquired
their seemingly boundless wealth. 'Nothing easier, and you may be as
rich as we, if you will!' was the answer; and then they detailed their
exploits, which proved them knights of the road. Opportunity makes the
thief. The proverb was realized to the letter; the Glockengiesser had
been honest hitherto, because he had never been tempted before; now
the glittering prize was exposed to him, he knew not how to resist. His
character for hospitality made the Glockenhof serve as a very trap. The
facility increased his greed, and his cellars were filled with spoil
and with the skeletons of the spoiled. Travellers thus disappeared
so frequently that consternation was raised again and again, but
who could ever suspect the worthy hearty Glockengiesser! Though
the new trade throve so well, there was one quality necessary to
its success in which the Glockengiesser was wanting, and that was
caution. Just as if there had been nothing to hide, he let a party
of sewing-women come one day from the village to set his household
goods in order; and when they retired to rest at night, one of them,
who could not sleep in a strange house, heard the master and his gang
counting their money in the cellar. Astonished, she crept nearer,
and over-heard their talk. 'We should not have killed that fellow,'
said one; 'he wasn't worth powder and shot.' 'Pooh!' replied another,
'you can't expect to have good luck out of every murder. Why, how often
a cattle-dealer kills a beast and doesn't turn a penny out of it.' The
seamstress did not want to hear any more; she laid her charge at the
town-hall of Hall next morning; the officers of justice arrested the
bell-founder and his associates, and ample proofs of their guilt were
found on the premises. Sentenced to death, in the solitude of his cell,
he yielded to the full force of the reproaches of his conscience;
he made no defence, but hailed his execution as a satisfaction of
which his penitent soul acknowledged the justice. However, he craved
two favours before his end; the one, to be allowed to go home and
found a bell for the lieb' Frau Kirche in Mils; the second, that this
bell might be sounded for the first time at his execution, which by
local custom must be on a Friday evening at nine o'clock. [105] Both
requests were granted, and his bell continued to serve the church of
Mils till the fire of August 1791.
Another walk from Hall is the Loreto-Kirche, intended as an exact
copy of 'the Holy House,' by Archduke Ferdinand and his wife, the
pious Anna Katharina of Gonzaga, who endowed it with a foundation
for perpetual Masses for the repose of the souls of the reigning
House of Austria; it was at one time a much visited pilgrimage, so
that though it had three chaplains attached to it, monks from Hall
had often to be sent for to supplement their ministrations. Ferdinand
and Anna often made the pilgrimage on foot from Innsbruck, saying the
'stations' as they went, at certain little chapels which marked them
by the way, and of which remains are still standing. It would be an
interesting spot to trace out: I regret that we neglected to do so,
and I do not know whether it is now well kept up.
Starting again by the North gate of Hall, and taking the way which
runs in the opposite direction from that leading to Mils, you come,
after half an hour's walk through the pleasant meadows, to Heiligen
Kreuz; its name was originally Gumpass, but it had its present name
from the circumstance of a cross having been carried down stream by the
Inn, and recovered from its waters by some peasants from this place,
by whom it was set up here. So great is the popular veneration for
any even apparent act of homage of Nature to 'Nature's God,' that
great crowds congregated to see the cross which had been brought
to them by the river; and it was found necessary in the seventeenth
century to erect the spot into a distinct parish. Heiligen Kreuz is
much resorted to for its sulphur baths, also by people from Hall as
a pleasing change from their smoky town, on holidays.
Striking out towards the mountains, another half-hour brings you
to Taur, a charming little village, standing in the shelter of the
Taureralpe. Almost close above it is the Thürl, a peak covered to
a considerable height with rich pasture; at its summit, a height of
6,546 ft., is a wooden pyramid recording that it was climbed by the
Emperor Francis I., and called the Kaisersäule. There are many legends
of S. Romedius connected with Taur, one of which is worth citing, in
illustration of the confidence of the age which conceived or adapted
it, in the efficacy of faith and obedience. S. Romedius was a rich
Bavarian, who in the fourth century owned considerable property in
the Innthal, including Taur. On his return from a pilgrimage to Rome,
he put himself at the disposal of S. Vigilius, the apostle of South
Tirol, who despatched him to the conversion of the Nonsthal, where
he lived and died in the odour of sanctity. He was not unmindful of
his own Taur, but frequently visited it to pour out his spiritual
benedictions. He was once there on such a visit, when he received
a call from S. Vigilius. Regardless of his age and infirmities,
he immediately prepared for the journey over the mountains to
Trent. His nag, old and worn out like his master, he had left to
graze on the pastures at the foot of the Taureralpe, so he called
his disciple David, and bid him bring him in and saddle him. Great
was the consternation of the disciple on making the discovery that
the horse had been devoured by a bear. Saddened and cast down, he
came to his master with the news. Nothing daunted, S. Romedius bid
him go back and saddle the bear in its stead. The neophyte durst not
gainsay his master, but went out trusting in his word; the bear meekly
submitted to the bidding of the holy man, who bestrode him, and rode
on this singular mount into Trent. It is only a fitting sequel that
the legend adds, that at his approach all the bells of Trent rang
out a gladsome peal of welcome, without being moved by human hands.
The lords of Taur gave the name to the place by setting up their
castle on the ruins of an old Roman tower (turris; altromanisch,
tour). S. Romedius is not the only hero from among them; the chronicles
of their race are full of the most romantic achievements; perhaps not
the least of these was the construction of the fortress, the rambling
ruins of which still attest its former greatness. Overhanging the bank
of the Wildbach is the chapel of S. Romedius, inhabited by a hermit
as lately as the seventeenth century, though the country-people are
apt to confuse him with S. Romedius himself! [106] One dark night,
as he was watching in prayer, he heard the sound of tapping against
his cell window. Used to the exercise of hospitality, he immediately
opened to the presumed wayfarer: great was his astonishment to see
standing before him the spirit of the lately deceased parish priest,
who had been his very good friend. 'Have compassion on me, Frater
Joshue!' he exclaimed; 'for when in the flesh I forgot to say three
Masses, for which the stipend had been duly provided and received by
me, and now my penance is fearful;' as he spoke he laid his hand upon
a wooden tile of the hermit's lowly porch, who afterwards found that
the impression of his burning hand was branded into the wood. 'Now do
you, my friend, say these Masses in my stead; pray and fast for me,
and help me through this dreadful pain.' The hermit promised all he
wished, and kept his promise; and when a year and a day had passed,
the spirit tapped again at the window, and told him he had gained his
release. The tile, with the brand-mark on it, may be seen hanging in
the chapel, with an inscription under it attesting the above facts,
and bearing date 7th February, 1660. [107]
At a very short distance further is another interesting little
village, Rum by name. It is situated close under the mountains, the
soil of which is very friable. A terrible landslip occurred in 1770;
the noise was heard as far as Innsbruck, where it was attributed to
an earthquake. Whole fields were covered with the débris, some of
which were said to be carried to a distance of a mile and a half;
the village just escaped destruction, only an outlying smithy, which
was buried, showed how near the danger had come. If time presses,
this excursion may be combined with the last, and the Loreto-Kirche
taken on the way back to Hall.