PART III.—1842.

LETTER I.

PRAGUE.

THURSDAY, 1ST SEPTEMBER, 1842.

Strange and wild legends appertain to Prague, and people the heights

that overhang the city. The Bohemians are of Sclavonian race; they were

in early times fire-worshippers, and offered victims to their divinity

on the Laurenzi Berg, which rises behind the town. On the Hradschin, an

eminence that frowns above the Moldau, was built the palace of the old

Bohemian kings; and the metropolitan church of Prague stands in the

palace-yard, on the highest point of the imperial hill.

The most prosperous period for Prague was the reign of the Emperor

Charles IV. He appears in no favourable light in the pages of Italian

history; but he won immortal and deserved renown as King of Bohemia, by

his acts of magnificence, and the liberality and sagacity of his

government. He caused the Neustadt to be built, marking the width and

termination of the streets, and leaving the spaces to be filled up by

private individuals, on whom great privileges were bestowed: the size of

the streets and open areas interspersed, give it a noble distinction

among the ill-built towns of the middle ages. Churches and convents rose

around. He built also the grand old Bridge, which spans the broad and

curved stream of the Moldau, and he founded the University, which long

vied with Paris and Oxford in celebrity.

The earliest Reformers sprung up in Prague. John Huss was rector of the

University: his tenets were the source of that independent and

Protestant spirit which then first began to undermine the Roman Catholic

faith. In early times, the Church of Bohemia obtained from the Council

of Basle, that the sacramental cup should be administered to the laity;

and this of itself was a broad distinction between Catholic Bohemia and

the rest of the Papal world.

Although John Huss died at the stake, his influence continued high in

his country, where he was reverenced as a saint. The Bohemians, loving

their own language and their own customs—a sagacious and intelligent

race—were well pleased with any state of things that should conduce to

separate them more widely from the surrounding German nations.

The time came when they were to fall. When the rest of Europe was in

darkness and enslaved, Bohemia had a pure religion and free

institutions: now it is but a province of Austria, and there are not one

hundred Protestants in the country. The Emperor Mathias first

endeavoured to uproot its liberty, and the Jesuits had been established,

to counterbalance, by their insidious system of encroachment, the

influence openly possessed by the Protestants. This state of things

could not last. The Emperor supported Catholicism, and wished to

assimilate Bohemia to his Austrian provinces in language, laws and

religion: the national Diet endeavoured to preserve their country as a

distinct kingdom. The Emperor insisted on naming his successor, in the

person of his brother Ferdinand: the crown had hitherto been elective,

and the nobles resolved to preserve their rights. On the death of

Mathias, they called to the throne the Elector Palatine, a Calvinist:

the Emperor Ferdinand claimed the country as his own, and invaded it.

For one year, Elizabeth of England held a gay and chivalrous court in

Prague. Had her husband been a statesman and a soldier, he might have

disciplined his brave, enthusiastic subjects, and have repulsed the

invasion of Austria. He was vanquished ingloriously, and, forced to fly

from the city, he became a wanderer and an exile. Ferdinand triumphed;

but a collision between his pretensions and the free institutions of

Bohemia was inevitable. The nobles resisted the Emperor’s edicts, and

tossed his commissioners out of the windows of the Green Chamber of the

palace. This act was the first deed of violence of the thirty years’

war, which hence began, nor ended till all Germany was devastated, and

Bohemia enslaved.

We set out on a brief drive round the town, to view the spots where

these scenes had taken place. Leaving our hotel, we passed through the

crowded and trading Altstadt, and crossed the bridge which connects the

Klein Seite with the city. On this stands the statue of St. John

Nepomuk, who, the legend says, was thrown from that spot into the Moldau

below, for refusing to betray to Wenceslaus IV. secrets confided to him

by his Queen in the confessional. A constellation of five stars was

observed to hover over the water, exciting the curiosity and terror of

the pious; so that at last the river was dragged; the body of the saint

was found, and received honourable interment—though not canonization

until some centuries after. Such is the legend; but the true history of

this saint, as Mr. Reeve[1] relates it, differs materially, and is

curious. He tells us, he perished a martyr to church reform:—“During the

contests between Wenceslaus IV. and the then Archbishop of Prague (John

of Genzstein, afterwards Patriarch of Alexandria), with regard to

certain matters of church property, the prelate was vigorously supported

by his Vicar-General, Johanko von Pomuk, upon whom the King wreaked his

vengeance; and the spot is still shewn where he was thrown into the

river. This event took place in 1381, and was soon forgotten by the

people. Time, however, rolled on; John Huss perished in the flames at

Constance, and, as his schism was followed by the larger portion of the

Bohemian nation, St. John Huss became an object of popular reverence. I

have seen hymns in his honour, which were sung in churches even towards

the close of the sixteenth century. But when the Jesuits were installed

at Prague, to extirpate the Bohemian heresies, they found it useful to

have a St. John of their own. The legend of St. John Nepomuk was

invented; his relics were shewn; an epic poem, the Nepomuceidon, was

composed by the Jesuit Percicus in his honour in 1729; he was canonized,

and his fame spread with amazing rapidity throughout the Catholic

Church. These honours are now so intimately connected with the system in

which they originated, that I once heard a distinguished Bohemian

declare that no good could befal his country till St. John Nepomuk was

once more thrown into the Moldau.” Meanwhile, he has become the guardian

saint of bridges; his statue, surmounted by the image of the five

miraculous stars, in a more or less rude form, finds a place on almost

every bridge of Catholic Germany, as it does here on the Bridge of

Prague—on the very spot whence he was thrown.

In the Klein Seite the nobles had their palaces, and we saw that of the

princely Wallenstein: “coiled as it were round the foot of the imperial

rock,”[2] to make room for which a hundred humbler houses were rased.

Wallenstein, who had arrived at mid life in comparative obscurity, first

came forward in a conspicuous manner in the Bohemian war. His immense

riches were principally derived from the confiscations of the expelled

and exiled Hussites. When some years after his command was taken from

him, he built this palace, where he lived in princely grandeur, feeding

his imagination with dreams of yet higher glory, ministered to him by

Seni the astrologer. It was in early life, during his residence at the

University of Padua, that Wallenstein first heard from the Professor

Argoli that the stars above echoed the cherished dreams of his own

heart. There is no trace, we are told, that Wallenstein ever followed

any particular directions emanating from the stars[3]; but the knowledge

that they predicted greatness biased his imagination, strengthened his

resolutions, and made him boldly enter on a career from which a man of

lowlier hopes had shrunk.

The stars foretold greatness to Wallenstein; did they foretell,

obscurely, so that he could not decipher their true meaning, that he

should obtain that, the want of which made Alexander weep—a poet to

illustrate his deeds? This greatness was perhaps written in the starry

scroll, whose real meaning he could not decipher, and so aimed at a

success that ended in defeat, but which, by means of Schiller, has

become immortal glory. Such lights as well as shadows lure us on under

the form of regarded or despised presentiments.

“I would not call them

Voices of warning that announce to us

Only the inevitable.”

Wallenstein has been peculiarly fortunate in having two poets; for

Coleridge’s translation of Schiller’s tragedy, giving the German poetry

an English poetic form, causes him to belong to both countries.

Dark shadows for centuries have obscured the name of Wallenstein; amidst

the uncertain there is enough of certain to form a hero both in good and

ill; but the chief good, which places him side by side with his

illustrious rival, Gustavus Adolphus, was his religious toleration, in

an age of bitter, cruel, unrelenting religious persecution.

Passing this extensive palace, we ascended the height on which the

Hradschin is situated; old princely Prague, the native city of the

savage Ziska, of the martyred Huss, and of generations of resolute,

free, and noble citizens, lay beneath in sleepy decay. It is impossible

not to ponder upon the world’s fate. Had the Prince Palatine been a

hero; had Wallenstein, by birth a Bohemian, not fallen in his youth into

the hands of the Jesuits; had he grown up as he was baptized, a

Lutheran, would not Bohemia have been able to maintain its political and

religious liberty? Would not the thirty years’ war have been crushed in

the egg? would not Germany, which has never recovered the devastation

and massacres of that period, have continued flourishing and become

free? and might the Huguenots, so supported, not have been quite crushed

in France.

But Frederick was an empty coward, Wallenstein a pupil of the Jesuits,

and the world is as it is.

Our coachman went a little out of his way up the river, to shew us where

a suspension bridge is hung across the Moldau; but disdaining the modern

invention, we caused the horses’ heads to be turned, and recrossed the

bridge of St. John Nepomuk, that we might view the traces of the

bombardment of the gate by the Swedes; the defaced ornaments and

battered appearance still recall that time. I was very sorry to see no

more, but though thus an outside view was all I caught of this

picturesque and ancient city,—its mosque-like churches, the dark pile of

the old royal palace, its deserted mansions, and noble river, form a

living scene in my memory never to be effaced. “The day we come to a

place which we have long heard and read of, is an era in our lives; from

that moment the very name calls up a picture.”[4] The stilly evening

shed golden rays over dome, tower, and minaret, and brightened the wide

waters of the river. I returned with regret to our hotel.

LETTER II.

Mülchen.—Budweis.—Linz.

FRIDAY, SEPT. 2.

We hired a _lohn kutscher_ to take us to Budweis—about sixty miles—which

was to occupy two days: for this we are to pay, including _drink-gelt_,

forty-four florins. I ought to mention, that the coachman who took us

from Dresden to Prague, refunded the overcharge of two thalers made by

the fellow employed by him to take us through the Saxon Switzerland.

I must tell you that the Germans look down on the _voituriers_ as people

of the lowest grade of society. One German master at Kissingen, who made

the bargain with the man who took us to Leipsic, actually spoke to him

with the _er_—the third person singular—than which no greater insult can

be imagined. These distinctions are droll, varying as they do in

different countries. The Germans do not address each other with the

plural _you_, as is our custom: _thou_ denotes affection and

familiarity. The common mode of speaking to friends, acquaintances,

servants, shopkeepers—to everybody indeed—is the third person plural,

_sie_, they: your own dog you treat with the _du_, thou; the dog of your

enemy with _er_, or he. The Germans have a habit of staring quite

inconceivable—I speak, of course, of the people one chances to meet

travelling as we do. For instance, in the common room of an hotel, if a

man or woman there have nothing else to do, they will fix their eyes on

you, and never take them off for an hour or more. There is nothing rude

in their gaze, nothing particularly inquiring, though you suppose it

must result from curiosity: perhaps it does; but their eyes follow you

with pertinacity, without any change of expression. At Rabenau, and

other country places, the little urchins would congregate from the

neighbouring cottages, follow us about, up the hills, and beside the

waterfall, form a ring and stare. A magic word to get rid of them is

very desirable: here it is—ask one of them, “_Was will er?_” “What does

_he_ want?” The _er_ is irresistible—the little wretches feel the insult

to their very backbone, and make off at once. That the _kutchers_ endure

the _er_ is astonishing. I could not address them so: for surely it is

the excess of inhumanity as well as insolence to use a form of speech

that denotes contempt to persons who have never offended you. With the

starers it is otherwise; they do offend grievously, and one has a full

right to get rid of them at almost any cost. I will just add, that

except the under-driver who had charge of us during our tour through the

Saxon Switzerland, we have not had reason to complain of our German

_kutchers_—nor any reason to be pleased: they are quiet to sullenness;

never gave up a point; and never seemed to care whether we were pleased

or not. However, under this sort of sulky apathy there lurked an

aptitude for getting into the most violent rage, if their pockets are

touched, which was very startling, as compared with the absence of all

expression of kindly feeling.

We set out from Prague in the morning, not quite as early as we ought,

which disturbed the order of our travelling—a fact difficult to instil

into the minds of some travellers,—but in _voiturier_ travelling the

whole comfort depends on an early departure. It seems that if a certain

portion of work, with certain rests, are to occupy the day, it does not

much matter how these are portioned out. It is not so; and experience

shows an early departure in the morning and an early arrival in the

evening to be the only arrangement that makes this method of travelling

at all comfortable. We set out late, and we had a carriage provided,

uncomfortable from its extreme smallness: it was, indeed, a mere hack

drosky, taken from the streets; one person only could sit outside, and

four were exceedingly confined for room inside.

The weather continued fine and warm; and now in the heart of Bohemia, we

looked inquiringly abroad to see how a portion of earth, with a name

sounding to our western ears strange and even mysterious, differed from

any other. We saw few distinctions—the villages were low-built and

dirty; the towns rather pleasing in their appearance, looking airy, with

a large square or market-place in the midst, surrounded by low white

houses. Hill and dale surrounded us, consisting of a good deal of

pasture; but the circumstance that chiefly struck us was, that we saw

not a trace of the residence of any landed proprietor, no château, no

country seat, no park, nor garden. We saw no house which any but a

peasant, or in the infrequent towns, that any but one in an under grade

of life, could inhabit. I cannot in my ignorance explain either the

meaning or results of this state of things. Perhaps it arises from the

circumstance, that the domains of the Bohemian nobility are so large

that they are rather small tributary states.[5] The nobles possess ample

privileges; and some among them, who belong to the old native families,

are truly patriotic, and devote themselves to the good of their tenants,

who are almost their subjects; but Prince Swarzenberg and Prince

Metternich, who are among the richest landed proprietors of the

province, are certainly absentees; and probably the list of such is

considerable. However this may be, and whatever may be the cause, we

looked out eagerly, as we crawled slowly along, for traces of the

habitations of gentry—a race more important often to the prosperity of a

country than the nobility—but we saw none.

We expected to sleep at Tabor—our kutcher had so designed, but our late

setting out changed his views. This annoyed us; and one of our party,

familiar with German—of no great use, since the man was a Bohemian—sat

by him and gave him _kirch-wasser_ and cigars, and used what verbal

eloquence he could, to persuade him that we might get on to Tabor. The

man drank the _kirch-wasser_, smoked the cigars, and said nothing; while

we hoped, in accordance to the old saying, that silence gave consent. At

about ten o’clock we arrived at a miserable-looking village, with a

worse-looking inn—such as carters and waggoners might frequent. With

difficulty, for the entrance was encumbered and tortuous, we entered the

court-yard. We sat in silent despair; but it was necessary to yield. I

was taken up a broken staircase to a barn-looking room, with a number of

beds in it—it was the only sleeping-room. A handsome, proud-looking

girl, the daughter of the house, with a hand-maiden under her, began to

arrange my bed. The people in the south of Germany are not disinclined,

when generous, to give you a clean under sheet; but the upper one is

double and encases the quilt, and this they do not think it necessary to

change. I summoned all my German, consisting but of single words;

_schmutzig_, or dirty, applied to the sheet, made the girl angry; but,

on my insisting on having another, she complied with the air of an

offended empress. My maid slept in the same room. I never dared ask how

my companions passed the night—the beds were taken for them out of my

room. However, they got an excellent supper (of which I was too tired to

partake) of venison—not a common thing in Bohemia; for usually we only

got a disastrous _huhn_ (a fowl), rather drier and tougher than deal

chips. The name of this village was Mülchen. Our bill was six florins

and a half. I mention these prices; for they show, as they vary from one

end of Germany to another, sometimes the value of money, sometimes the

inclination to extort. The _schein_ money still continues; so you will

understand that a bill was brought in for more than sixteen florins,

which, multiplying by two and dividing by five, we reduced to the real

demand in florins Münz. This sort of currency probably springs from the

Austrian money introduced by conquest being of too high value for the

poverty of Bohemia, who adhered to their own inferior coin, with a new

name.

The people of Bohemia, such as we saw them, are better-looking than the

peasantry of those parts of Germany which we had visited; but there is

nothing particularly attractive about them. It is impossible, however,

to judge fairly even of the surface of a people whose language one does

not understand. The Bohemians do not expect to be understood by

strangers, unless they can themselves speak German; and they are too

little conversant with foreigners to take any sort of interest in them.

Their manner was abrupt and decided, with a mixture of sullen disdain:

dirty enough they are, and very poor. The Bohemians are, indeed,

singularly cut off from the rest of the earth. Their language is

exclusively their own—not understood beyond the boundary. Except to

visit Prague, and one or two of their Baths, no strangers enter their

country. From what I can gather, they bear the marks of a conquered

people, adhering to the customs and practices of their forefathers,

forgotten everywhere else—satisfied with themselves—averse to

improvement, which, indeed, has no avenue by which to reach them—they

remember that they were once free, though they have forgotten that they

were Protestants.

3D SEPTEMBER.

We still proceeded, not a little weary—the _drosky_ was so very

uncomfortable—over hill and dale, and through miserable villages, or now

and then a larger town, with its wide square and long range of low

houses. We stopped at a better-looking inn than that of Mülchen for our

mid-day meal, but fared worse; the only thing they could give us was the

unfortunate _huhn_, against which we had made many violent resolutions,

and now entered many vain protests; this, and the absence of bread—for I

cannot give that name to the sour, black, damp, uneatable substance they

brought as such—made our meals very like a Barmecide feast. Nor was the

table graced with clean linen; but to this we had become painfully

accustomed.

We rolled on. The weather was beautiful; the country was pleasing

without being striking.

The day’s journey was long; we entered Budweis late, by moonlight. This

is a large town; and by this light, there was something singular in the

appearance of its extensive market-place, surrounded by arcades. The

Goldene Sonne is marked by Murray as good, and we had no reason to alter

this decision. The hostess was a tall, large woman, of resolute and

abrupt manners; she spoke German readily, and, uncommon in Germany,

served us with expedition, but with an authoritative and condescending

manner, which amused us very much.

We inquired, and found that there was no locomotive on the railroad,

that it was drawn by horses; that it set out at three in the morning,

and that we should reach Linz the next day. We sent to take our places,

and made a great mistake in not securing an “exclusive extra” as the

Americans call it—a coach and horse all to ourselves, which we might

have obtained at a slight extra expense, and we should have been

perfectly comfortable. Our five places cost fifteen florins, and we had

to pay seven extra for luggage; which, considering the quantity we had,

was dear. Our bill at Budweis for supper and beds, and a cup of coffee

in the morning, was eleven florins—nearly double the bill at Mülchen,

and, compared even with Prague, dear.

SEPTEMBER 4TH.

We did not go to bed till nearly twelve. We were to rise at two; and at

the blast of a trumpet we were awakened. You must know, besides its

glass, Prague is famous for the manufacture of brass wind instruments,

and P— bought a trumpet for sixteen florins (thirty-two shillings): to

prevent all possibility of any of the party not shaking off slumber at

the right moment, he blew a blast which must have astonished all the

sleepers in the inn.

We again traversed the ghostly-looking white market-place of Budweis by

the light of the unset moon, and took our places in one of the carriages

on the railroad. Day soon struggled through the shades of night,

quenched the moonbeams, and disclosed the face of earth. I never

recollect a more delightful drive than the hundred miles between Budweis

and Linz: each hour the scene gains in beauty—from fertile and

agreeable, it becomes interesting, then picturesque; and at last it

presents a combination of beauty which I never saw equalled. I hurry

over the miles, as our carriages were hurried along the railroad, which

having an inclination down toward Linz, went very fast—I hurry on, and

speak briefly of the ever-varying panorama of distant mountain,

wood-clothed upland and fertile plain, all gay in sunshine, which we

commanded as we were whirled along the brink of a chain of hills. I

never can forget the glorious sunset of that evening. We were on the

height of a mountain,

“At whose verdant feet

A spacious plain, outstretched in circuit wide,

Lay pleasant.”——[6]

As we descended towards Linz, the sun dropped low in the heavens. The

prospect was extensive; varied by the lines of wooded hills and majestic

mountains, and towering above, on the horizon, was stretched the range

of the Salzburg and Styrian Alps. The Danube wound through the varied

plain below; the town of Linz was upon the banks, and a bridge spanned

the river; above, it swept under high precipices—below, it flowed

majestically on: its glittering waves were seen afar giving that life

and sublimity to the landscape which it never acquires without the

addition of ocean, lake, or river—water, in short, in some magnificent

form. Golden and crimson, the clouds waited on the sun, now dazzling in

brightness; and now, as that sunk behind the far horizon, stretching

away in fainter and fainter hues, reflected by the broad river below.

The town of Linz was a point or resting place for the eye, which added

much to the harmony and perfection of the landscape. I held my breath to

look. My heart had filled to the brim with delight, as, sitting on a

rock by the lake of Como, I had watched the sunlight climb the craggy

mountains opposite. The effect of this evening—when instead of _up_, I

looked _down_ on a widespread scene of glorious beauty, was different;

yet so poor is language, that I know not how to paint the difference in

words. I had never before been aware of all the awe the spirit feels

when we are taken to a mountain top, and behold the earth spread out

fair at our feet: nor of the delight a traveller receives when, at the

close of a day’s travel, he—

“Obtains the brow of some high-climbing hill,

Which, to his eye, discovers unawares

The goodly prospect of some foreign land

First seen; or some renowned metropolis,

With glistening spires and pinnacles adorned,

Which now the _setting_ sun gilds with his beams.”[7]

It was dark when we descended into the town: as we crossed the bridge,

the waters of the Danube gleamed beneath the hills.

We repaired to the hotel of the Goldener Löwe, which we find comfortable

and good.

LETTER III.

The Traun.—The Gmunden-see.—Ishl.—St. Wolfgang Lake.—Salzburg.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 5TH.

The train of the railroad started at two in the afternoon for Gmunden:

we thus had a few hours to spare. One of our party climbed the heights

above Linz, to feast his eyes on the view which had enchanted me the

preceding evening. There is no circumstance in travelling, consequent on

my narrow means, that I regret so much, as my being obliged to deny

myself hiring a carriage when I arrive at a strange town, and the not

being able to drive about everywhere, and see everything. I wandered

about the town, and stood long on the bridge, drinking in the beauty of

the scene, till the soul became full to the brim with the sense of

delight. The river is indeed magnificent; with speed, yet with a

vastness that renders speed majestic, it hurries on the course assigned

to it by the Creator. Never, never had I so much enjoyed the glory of

earth. The Danube gives Linz a superiority over a thousand scenes

otherwise of equal beauty. Standing on the bridge, above is a narrow

pass, hedged in by high sombre rocks, and the river sweeps, darkening as

it goes, beneath the gloomy shadows of the precipices; below, it flows

in a mighty stream through a valley of wide expanse, till you lose sight

of it at the base of distant mountains. I should have liked to have

stayed some days at Linz: I grieved also not to be going by steam to

Vienna.

Our drive by the railroad to Gmunden was delightful. We had a little

carriage to ourselves. Our road lay through a valley watered by a

stream, and adorned by woods; it was a sequestered home-felt scene;

while the high distant mountains redeemed it from tameness. After the

sandy deserts of Prussia, and the burnt-up country round Dresden, the

freshness and green of a pastoral valley, the murmur of streams and

rivulets, the delightful umbrage of the trees, imparted a sense of peace

and amenity that lapped me in Elysium. We changed the train at Lambach,

a quiet shady village. We had bargained that we should be allowed to

visit the falls of the Traun on our way. It was evening before we

reached the spot, and the falls are nearly a mile from the road; we had

no guide, but were told we could not miss the way. Our path lay through

a wood, and as twilight deepened we sometimes doubted whether we had not

gone astray through the gloom of the thicket. You know that a mile of

unknown road, with some suspicion hovering in the mind as to whether you

are in the right path, becomes at least three, or rather one feels as if

it would never end. We came at last to the brink of the precipice above

the river, and descended by steps cut in the rock. We thus reached the

lower part of the fall. With some difficulty, it being so late, the

Miller was found, and meanwhile we clambered to the points of rock from

which the cascade is viewed. It was dim twilight, with the moon quietly

moving among the summer clouds, and shedding its silver on the waters.

The river winding above through a wooded ravine comes to an abrupt rocky

descent, over which it falls with foam and spray. The drought had

reduced the supply of water; a portion also is carried off for the

purpose of traffic—a wooden canal being constructed to allow the salt

barges to ascend and descend the Traun without interruption from the

cascade. This canal is on an inclined plain, and it would be very

delightful to rush down: we could not, as there was no boat; but for six

swanzikers (six eightpences) the sluices were shut and the water,

blocked up, turned to feed and augment the fall. The evening hour took

from the accuracy of our view, but added immeasurably to its charm; the

mysterious glittering of the spray beneath the moon; the deep shadows of

the rocks and trees; the soft air and dashing waters—here was the reward

for infinite fatigue and inconvenience; here we grasped an hour which,

when the memory of every discomfort has become almost a pleasure, will

endure as one of the sweetest in life. Our carriage all the time was

waiting for us by the road-side, so we tore ourselves away. We procured

a boy with a lantern to guide us on our return through the wood; and,

reaching the road, away we sped along the rails. Our moonlit view, as we

went, was pregnant with a sense of placid enjoyment, being picturesque

but gentle in its features of wood, village, and glimmering stream;

while the dark and gloomy Traunstein rose frowning before our path. We

reached Gmunden late, and found a very comfortable inn; it had a court

in the middle and an open balcony on the different floors, into which a

number of cell-like rooms opened. We had a good supper of fish from the

lake, and the comfortable promise of a steam-boat at eleven the next

morning; so there was no need for anxiety with regard to early rising.

SEPTEMBER 6TH.

We fared sumptuously this morning on fish and game; our bill was

therefore comparatively high—thirteen florins; it had been the same at

Linz. The cost of the railroad to Gmunden, for which we had a carriage

for four to ourselves and a place in one of the _diligences_ of the

train for my maid, was thirteen florins; we had to pay three extra for

our luggage.

But enough of these matters. Now for another scene, which will ever

dwell in my memory, coloured by the softest tints, yet sublime—the lake

of Gmunden. As the steamer carried us away from the town, which appeared

noisy and busy after Bohemia, we might believe that we broke our link

with vulgar earth—the waters spread out before us so solitary, so

tranquil. The lofty crags of the Traunstein rose on our left—bare,

abrupt, and dark—while the sunlight varied its shadows as we moved on;

opposite, the lake was bounded by grassy hills, speckled with villages

and spires, with here and there a cove, half shut in by precipitous

rocks, half accessible through shady thickets, with green sloping sward

down to the water’s edge. These bays had a sequestered appearance, as if

the foot of man had never desecrated their loneliness. By one of those

unexplainable impulses of the mind, which spring up spontaneously and

unlooked for, a sense of the beauty of the Greek mythology was awakened

in me, more vivid, more real than I had ever before experienced. As the

poet[8] says, I could, while looking

“On that pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;”

of dryad hiding among the trees; of nymph gazing at her own beauty in

the lucid wave; of an immortal race—in short, the innocent offspring of

nature, whose existence was love and enjoyment; who, freed from the

primæval curse, might haunt this solitary spot. Why should not such be?

If the earthly scales fell from our eyes, should we not perceive that

“all the regions of nature swarm with spirits,[9]” and affirm, with

Milton, that—

“Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth

Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.”

It is easier for the imagination to conjure such up in spots untrod by

man, so to people with love and gratitude what would otherwise be an

unsentient desert. Not that I would throw contempt on the pleasures of

the animal creation, nor even on those of tree, or herb, or flower,

which merely enjoys a conscious life, and in its pride of beauty feels

happy, and, as it decays, peacefully resigns existence. But this does

not satisfy us, who are born to look beyond the grave, and yearn to

acquire knowledge of spiritual essences.

I cannot tell you the sacred pleasure with which I brooded over these

fancies, which were rather sensations than thoughts, so heartfelt and

intimate were they. I scarce dared breathe, and longed to linger on our

way, so not so quickly to put from my lips the draughts of happiness

which I imbibed.

You may remember that this was the spot that poor Sir Humphry Davy

visited during his last painful illness: many hours he beguiled fishing

in the streams that fall into the lake. Happy, or in sorrow, I hope to

return, and spend a summer in this neighbourhood: joy would be more than

doubled, and grief softened into resignation, amidst scenes which, among

many beautiful, exercised a power over my imagination I never felt

before. How deeply I regret not having spent the season here instead of

at Kissingen and Dresden; but last summer in Wales so blended the idea

of deluges of rain with mountain scenery, that the search of health, a

wish to see some friends, and a longing to behold strange cities, made

us prefer the North. Regret is useless now. Shall I ever have a sunny

summer, when I may choose at will a retreat? If I have, it will be spent

here.

The scenery round the lake increased in wildness and sublimity as we

lost sight of Gmunden. I was very sorry when our one-hour’s voyage was

over, and we landed at Ebensee. Here a sort of large car waited for the

passengers, and we drove up a wooded glen, through which the Traun

flowed—a mountain torrent, broken by rocks—to Ishl. This is a

fashionable bathing-place: it is situated in a deep valley, surrounded

by hills; though beautiful, it had not the charm of the scenes we had

just left; indeed, a lake amidst mountains must always exceed a grassy

valley: there is a magic charm in the notion of a cot on the verdant,

wooded banks of a lonely lake—the boat drawn up in a neighbouring

cove—the sheltering mountains gathering around. However, Ishl presents

excellent head-quarters for excursions in this neighbourhood.

We here seriously discussed our future progress. A desire to visit an

Italian lake, as yet unknown, made us select the Brenner pass and the

Lago di Garda for our entrance into the Peninsula. The extreme beauty of

the country in which we are, makes us desire to see as much of it as

possible; and various names, the lake of Hallstadt and Bad Gastein, hung

before, to lure us towards them. But we cannot linger; and, on making

inquiries, it seems that, unless we make excursions perfectly

independent of our ultimate bourne, we cannot visit these spots,—in

short, that to do so we ought to spend a summer, choosing some

head-quarters, from which to diverge in different radii; but that to go

to Venice, we must abide by a known and frequented road.

I gave up the idea of a prolonged stay in this neighbourhood with

exceeding regret; but when resolved to proceed, many difficulties

presented themselves. The people of the hotel at Ishl, which was large,

new, clean, and good, but at the moment nearly empty, were resolved that

we should spend at least one night there; and neither post-horses with

carriage, nor _voituriers_, could be procured,—being a fine day, they

declared that every horse had been taken out by various parties of

visitors for picnics and excursions. This was a renewal of the scene at

Schandau. We ought to have yielded at once, and been satisfied to make

an agreement for setting out the following morning; but we were

stubborn, and much time was very disagreeably taken up by the struggle;

and the dogged obstinacy and rude sullenness of the people exasperated

some among us very much. They had the best of it however, and we were

forced to resign ourselves to remain the night: a change then came,

almost magical; the people, late so rude, were all courtesy; and

sullenness turned into obligingness. Nor were they bent on extortion:

our bill altogether was seventeen florins.

Being now at peace in our minds, we wandered for some time beside the

Ishl. If we had been transported suddenly to this spot, we had been

enchanted; but we had passed through more beautiful scenery to reach it.

There were a good many visitors: among them, Maria Louisa, a woman who

might have been respected among women; but she forfeited her privilege.

SEPTEMBER 27.

The drive from Ishl to Salzburg was delightful. The road, for a

considerable space, bordered the St. Wolfgang Lake. At the head of the

lake, the horses rested for an hour; and my friends took a boat, and

went on it to bathe. I joined them afterwards. There was not the same

charm in this lake as in the Gmunden-see. I cannot tell you why; for I

find no language to express differences which are immense to our

perceptions, and yet vary little in the description. Both present a wide

expanse of water, surrounded by precipitous mountains or grassy banks.

This, too, was grand, and solitary, and beautiful, but less softly

inviting—less, as it were, holy in its calm, and, at the same time, less

cheerful in its aspect—than the Gmunden-see.

What will you say to me when I say that Salzburg surpassed all? It has

indeed been pronounced to be the most beautiful spot in Germany.

Wherefore? It has not the majestic Danube, as at Linz, sweeping under

dark, overhanging cliffs, and winding through a spacious valley, till

lost to sight beneath distant mountains: it has not a lake sheltered by

hills, with bay and inlet sacred to the sprites. It is observed that one

of the most admirable features of a scene is where lofty mountains and

an extensive plain unite. This is rare: usually mountains inclose a

ravine, or valley, or lake; and the scenery around Salzburg is a

specimen on the grandest scale in the world of this mixture.

Imagine a vast, fertile, various plain, half-encircled by mighty

mountains—those near the town are abrupt cliffs, which tower above,

crowned by castle and convent—with a river sweeping round their base;

others, high and picturesque, but of softer forms, and wooded; and then,

high above all, craggy, gigantic Alps—not the highest, for at this

summer season scarcely a north-turned peak has preserved its snow, but

still stupendous—some showing their dark, beetling sides, like Cader

Idris, but on a larger scale; others, with what in Switzerland are

called _aiguilles_, their spire-like peaks seeking the upper skies.

Remember, we saw all this beneath a bright sun, the air so dry and pure

that every crag and cleft was distinct on the face of the hills at an

immense distance. The plain itself has a richer and more cheerful and

rural appearance than any I have seen since I left England. The beauty

of its meadows and gardens, the frequency of its country-houses, the

indescribable variety of the landscape, enchant the eye. What a summer

might here be spent!—what a life, I would say, had not society and home

a claim;—were it not a dream that we can be happy only in the

contemplation of nature, removed from all intercourse with our equals.

But you see the magic circle: Linz, Gmunden, Ishl—these are in

Styria—then the district called the Salzkammergut. Such is the region in

which I design, if I am ever able, to pass some long months, and to

enjoy even more than I have ever yet done, the delight of exploring

scenery unrivalled in the world. Yes; though the thought of Italy

reproaches, and for _life_, I should not hesitate to choose between the

two; yet there is something more sublime, more grand, more mysterious,

in this Alpine region; which, as far as I have seen, I infinitely prefer

to Switzerland.

As we approached Salzburg, we found the fields and green uplands near

the town alive with people. Horse-racing was going on; and the whole

population had poured out to see it, reproaching our dusty carriage and

our fatigue by the gaiety of the equipages and the holiday trim of the

spectators. I do not know anything more humbling to one’s self-conceit

than arriving travel-tired and soiled amidst a crowd of well-dressed

people; so we looked another way, and went right on to the inn. We found

that the inauguration of the statue of Mozart and the anniversary of the

century after his birth had been celebrated by three days of holiday at

Salzburg—this, the last. It was a great pity we had not arrived the day

before to hear one of his Operas; but we were too late. As a token of

veneration for this greatest of all composers, Mr. P—— endeavoured to

gain admission to the organ on which Mozart had played for years; but

the absence of the person in authority prevented his success.

The inn of the Erzherzog Carl is very good; but our duties pressed on

us. We could not linger, and we must make arrangements for our further

progress. We ascertained here a fact, which we suspected before, that

the addition which our party had received at Dresden, however delightful

in other respects, spoiled the financial economy of our journey. Persons

travelling in Austria without a carriage can, if four in number, secure

a _separat wagen_, and obtain a clean carriage to convey them post the

whole way, at a slight advance on the price of the _eilwagen_; but we

were five—we must, therefore, have two carriages, and the expense was

doubled. We did not find a _voiturier_ much cheaper. Had we gone post,

we should have gone by Villach, and reached Venice in four or five days.

But we had set our hearts on the Lago di Garda, and that decided us. We

made a bargain for two _calèches_, with a pair of horses to each, to

take us over the Brenner to Trent, in five days and a half, for a

hundred and forty florins.[10] We have now left the Münz and schein

money, and have passed from the Austrian to the Bavarian florin: this is

a gain—the former is two shillings, the latter two francs; and they are

worth the same in expenditure. Settling this affair occupied us, at

intervals, during the whole evening. We rambled a little about the town,

which is remarkable for a large handsome square, with a fountain, built

of white marble, and said to be the finest in Europe: it would be finer

had it more water. The statue of Mozart is placed in another part of the

square: it is of a large size, and striking. On account of the festival,

there was no possibility of visiting the _lions_—every body was out, and

all things closed. We wandered beyond the town, on the margin of the

Salzer—an impetuous torrent, rushing at the foot of romantic crags. It

is a region of enchanting beauty, which I shall leave with great regret.

Still, it is much to have had this sort of _flash-of-lightning_ view of

the lovely scenes we have lately passed through; and I hope, some day,

to visit them again at leisure.

LETTER IV.

Entrance to the Tyrol.—Village Fête.—Pass Strub.—Swartz.—Inspruck.

MONDAY, 8TH SEPTEMBER.

We left Salzburg at ten o’clock, on a fine sunny morning. We were about

to penetrate the most celebrated passes of the Tyrol,—and the name has

magic in it. We wound through the plain of the Salzkammergut, hedged in

by lofty mountains, that rise sheer and abrupt from the plain, without

any apparent opening by which their recesses may be penetrated. The

Tyrol is the most continuously mountainous district in Europe.

Switzerland contains plains and lakes—the Tyrol has only defiles and

ravines, hedged in closely on all sides by precipice and mountain;

while, in the depths, the torrents from the hills unite and form rivers,

which turn many a mill-wheel destined for domestic use, besides carrying

the riches of the country (salt) down various canals, fed by them, till

it reaches the Danube. Once, these streams were laden with the hopes—the

fate—of the Tyrolese, and watched with beating hearts by the heroes

about to combat for their country—by the women and children who

sympathised with and aided the stronger sex in their glorious struggle.

The night of the 8th April, 1809, was fixed on for the general rising of

the peasantry against the French and Bavarians: the signal agreed upon

was throwing sawdust into the Inn, which floated down, and was seen and

understood by the peasants. In addition to this, a plank with a little

pennon was launched on the river and borne down the stream, and hailed

with enthusiasm, as it carried the tidings that all were about to rise

to liberate their country.

It is by these defiles—that of the Saal—and afterwards of the Inn—that

travellers reach the Brenner. We approached the mighty crags, and by

degrees they closed around us, and we found ourselves in a ravine, with

the Saal—a common name of a river in Germany—flowing through its depth.

This sort of route is familiar to all who have travelled among

mountains. Thus are these districts traversed. The chains of mountains

are intersected by ravines, and torrents work their way in the depth;

the road is carried along the margin—now ascending, now descending, now

turning the huge shoulder of a hill, now penetrating into its recesses,

according as the formation of the pass requires.

Soon after leaving Salzburg, we came upon a strip of Bavarian territory;

and it was necessary to stop at the last Austrian Custom-house, to have

our luggage loaded. While this was being done, the sounds of a fiddle

caused us to peep into the public room of a little inn. A marriage was

being celebrated, and dancing going on. A curious sight it was. The men

are a handsome race, dressed as we are accustomed to see them

represented—the jacket, tight breeches fastened at the knee, the sash

round the waist, stockings and shoes, and high hat and feather, form a

very becoming costume for a good figure. But, alas! for the women: their

waists are placed up between their shoulders; their petticoats, short; a

peaked man’s hat, like a Welchwoman’s, completes their ungainly

appearance. Nor did I see any beauty: the youngest were weather-beaten

and clumsy: they were destitute of all soft feminine grace, and seemed a

cross between a boy and an old woman. The dancing is infinitely strange.

They _walz_ with impetuosity—with frenzy—interspersing their dance with

certain capers, twists, hugs and leaps, which evidently excited great

admiration: a Highland fling was nothing to it. We found Murray’s

description true to the letter, and were much amused. Remember, too,

that amidst all the twirlings, springs, and kickings, in which they

indulged, the dance was performed with a gravity worthy of a Parisian

ball-room, and with infinite precision; no jostling; no romping; their

capers were executed by rule, and with perfect decorum.

The pass we continued to penetrate—_Pass Strub_, which forms the portal

of the Tyrol—is one of the most beautiful in the world. We left the

Saal; and now crossing the huge shoulders of mighty hills, now thridding

other deep gorges, we wound our tortuous way, till we should reach the

Unter Innthal, or valley of the lower Inn. This night we slept at

Waidringen, a very rustic place; but we were comfortable enough. Our

fare was wild food: we had supper, our rooms, and coffee in the morning;

and our bill amounted to four Bavarian florins, for five persons.

SEPTEMBER 9.

The Tyrol was ever celebrated for the beauty of its scenery, and the

integrity and simplicity of its inhabitants. In 1780, Mr. Beckford

travelled here, and celebrates, in various of his inimitable Letters,

“the Tyrol, a country of picturesque wonders.” “Here,” he says, “those

lofty peaks, those steeps of wood I delight in, lay before us.

Innumerable clear springs gushed out on every side, overhung by

luxuriant shrubs in blossom; soft blue vapours rest upon the hills,

above which rise mountains that bear plains of snow into the clouds.”

The Tyrol is now endowed with a higher interest: it is hallowed by a

glorious struggle, which gifts every rock, and precipice, and

mountain-stream, with a tale of wonder.

The Tyrol became by inheritance a possession of the house of Hapsburgh

as far back as the fourteenth century. The princes of Austria showed

themselves worthy sovereigns of this province. The internal government

of the country was the object of wise legislation; and, in spite of the

opposition of Pope and noble, and imperial city, the Tyrolese received

the gift of a free constitution, and governed and taxed themselves.

These blessings are guarded by the fact that the soil of the mountains

is their own. There are no noble landlords to carry off the wealth of

the country in the shape of rents, forcing the labourers to waste their

lives in penury and toil, that they may squander in vice and luxury. The

peasant possesses the land he cultivates. He is independent, pious, and

honest. No mercenary troops have ever been hired among these mountains;

but the Tyrolese are not unwarlike. They are devotedly attached to the

House of Austria, which conferred their privileges, protected them,

exacted few taxes, and in no way displayed the cloven foot of despotism,

in this happy region. Their domestic government is carried on by

themselves. They furnish a slight contingent to the imperial armies,

which is looked upon as an opening to active life, and operates rather

beneficially on the population. They are accustomed to the use of arms,

for the militia is called out and exercised each year. They are a happy,

brave, religious, free, and virtuous people.

But what is all this to ambition? It suited the views of Napoleon that

the Tyrol should belong to Bavaria, when he raised it from an electorate

to a kingdom; and by the treaty of Presburg in 1805, Austria ceded, with

reluctance it is true, but still it ceded, the best jewel of its crown.

The Tyrolese had lately, under the command of the Austrians, defended

their passes against the Bavarians with heroic bravery—now they were to

become subjects of the inimical power.

Their very hearts revolted against their change of masters. But they had

far worse to suffer. Their new sovereign promised solemnly to govern

them by their old laws, and to respect their institutions; but no sooner

were the Bavarian authorities established in the country, than these

stipulations were basely violated. The constitution was at once

overthrown by a royal edict. Hitherto they had taxed themselves; now

eight new and oppressive taxes were imposed and levied with rigour.

Convents and monasteries were confiscated, their estates sold, and their

chalices and other sacred treasures seized, melted down, carried off.

Not content with inflicting these wrongs and insults, Bavaria attempted

to obliterate the very name of the Tyrol from the map of Europe. The

district was divided into provinces, called after the various rivers

which flowed through them. The inhabitants were ordered to change their

language, and only permitted to use that of their forefathers for four

more years.

Napoleon, when the country rose against this misrule, declared “the

Bavarians did not know how to govern the Tyrolese, and were unworthy to

reign over that noble country.” But these words only add greater

heinousness to his crimes against them; for his exactions on Bavaria

were the primal cause of the heavy taxes—his example had taught that the

best way to tame a people was to give them new names, and change their

local demarcations; and when they revolted against the tyranny which he

himself declared unworthy, he punished without mercy the oppressed,

wronged, and insulted insurgents.

What wonder that the Tyrolese detested their new rulers; or that, fondly

attached to their old ones, they should hear and answer with enthusiasm

the call of one of their ancient princes. When war again broke out

between France and Austria, the Archduke John called on the Tyrolese, in

a spirited and exciting proclamation, to expel the French and Bavarians.

With transport they prepared to obey. The country rose to a man: women

and children assisted; carrying to the scattered peasantry the

watchword, “_s’ist zeit_,” “it is time,” which bade them at once

assemble and prepare for action. Slightly aided by the Austrian regular

troops, at the cost of many victories and some defeats, they drove the

enemy from their country.

But peace was again to prove fatal to them. By the treaty that was

signed after the battle of Wagram, they were ceded anew to Bavaria. What

wonder that they shrunk from the hated yoke, whose weight they had

before experienced, and almost without hope, yet resolved not to yield.

They continued the heroic struggle; and in this last contest, their

combats and their victories were even more wonderful than in the first

instance.

Every portion of the route we traversed had been the scene of victory or

defeat, and rendered illustrious by the struggle for liberty. Our road

lay through Unter Innthal, which presented mountain scenery, infinitely

various in aspect;—glen, wood, and stream;—sunrise, noon, and

sunset—shine and shadow added perpetual changes to the ravines and their

skreens of precipices. I confess there was none of the charm of Styria

or the Salzkammergut. It was beautiful and sublime to pass through, to

look upon, but the wish to take up my abode in any of these solitudes

never presented itself to my mind. I have even seen passes I have

admired more; it bears some resemblance to that of Saint Jean le

Maurienne, for instance, on the way from Chablais to Mont Cenis; but

that is more beautiful from its walnuttrees and loftier Alps.

We slept at Swartz—a town of sad celebrity in the wars of 1809. The

Bavarians took it by storm, and were guilty of cruelties which the

historian refuses to depict, as too horrible and too sickening for his

pages.[11] A new race has sprung up; but the town has not recovered its

former prosperity.

The inn here is excellent; it is kept by Rainer, known in England as one

of the Tyrolese minstrels. His rooms are clean and comfortable; we fared

sumptuously, indulging in Rhenish wine. Our bill, with all this, was

only ten florins, or thirteen shillings and fourpence, for all; by which

you may judge for how small a sum a man alone, bent on economy, might

make a tour of the Tyrol.

Leaving Swartz, by degrees the pass widened, and from a height we saw

Inspruck, white and nest-like, basking in the valley beneath. All this

portion of the country was the theatre of many mortal combats between

the Tyrolese and Bavarians and French, in 1809. The town was taken and

retaken several times; the bridge of Hall, the Brenner, and Berg Isel,

were the scenes of gallant exploits; and the rustic chiefs of these

hardy mountaineers were often victorious over officers, who, commanding

disciplined troops, disdained the ill-armed and tumultuous peasantry

with whom they had to contend. Dietfurth, a Bavarian colonel, had

boasted at Munich that, “with his regiment and two squadrons of horse,

he would disperse the ragged mob.” He was wounded to death in one of the

assaults, when Inspruck was taken; and while lying in the guard-house of

that city, singularly added to the enthusiasm of the pious, not to say

superstitious, peasantry. He asked, Who had been their leader? “No one,”

was the reply; “we fought equally for God, the Emperor, and our native

country.” “That is surprising,” said Dietfurth; “for I saw him

frequently pass me on a white horse.” These words caused the report to

spread that their patron saint, St. James, frequently celebrated in

Spanish annals of Moorish wars for his white charger, had appeared in

person to guard the city, placed under his especial protection.

Besides this more modern source of interest, we were told to look with

curiosity at an old castle, from a high window of which Wallenstein,

then a page of the Margraf of Burgau, fell to the ground without hurting

himself—an accident which was said to have sown in his mind the seeds of

that superstitious reverence for his own fortune which followed him

through life, and was the instigator of many of his exploits.

Unfortunately for the fame of the castle, Wallenstein’s biographers tell

us that this story is a fiction; that he was never page to the said

nobleman; never inhabited this castle.

Inspruck, lying in the centre of a little plain, surrounded by Alps,

with its tall steeple and white walls, has a thousand times been

painted, and is a sort of ideal of what these Alpine cities are. It is

clean and fair; one wide well-paved street, which midway enlarges into a

square, runs the whole length. There is an immense hotel, usually

thronged with travellers, as the road into Italy by Munich, and by the

passes of the Tyrol or the Stelvio, is much frequented. We had a very

good breakfast here, for which we paid as much as for supper, rooms, and

breakfast the night before; the numerous English have taught them high

charges. Here we found some letters from England, and wrote answers, and

rambled about, but saw not half of what we ought to have seen in this

capital of a free country.

LETTER V.

The Pass of the Brenner.—Hofer.—Bressanone.—Egra.—Trent.—Riva.—Lago di

Garda.—Promontory of Sirmio.

Immediately on leaving Inspruck we began the ascent of the Brenner. The

road is being greatly improved; as long as we continued along the new

portion, it was admirable, but we were forced to turn off very soon into

the old road, now in a neglected state. The northern side of the Brenner

is very dreary. For awhile we commanded a view of the plain of Inspruck,

and its gem-like town; but when a turn of the road hid this, we found

ourselves winding along beside a tiny rill, and spread around was a wild

and dreary mountain side: a drizzling rain fell, which shut out the view

of the surrounding country. The people we met looked poor, and the

villages through which we passed seemed wretched enough. In one of them

we passed the night. The name of the village is not even mentioned in

Murray, and the inn was very bad; so you may think we were

disgusted—especially as we had entertained hopes of getting on as far as

Brenner: but the elder _voiturier_, who was captain of our movements,

was silent, sulky, and obstinate. Endeavours to move him, only added to

his sullenness.

The road in the morning presented the same disconsolate appearance: the

town of Brenner is on a level, shut in by heights. We were still on the

banks of the Sill, which joins the Inn, and pursues its course to the

Black Sea; but with delight I saw, and with ecstacy my two companions,

who had never visited Italy, hailed, a little rivulet and tiny

waterfall, the Eisach, which flows south and joins the Adige; it was

grasping Italy, to behold a stream that mingled its mountain-born waters

with the rivers and lakes of that divine country.

We descended rapidly; and, passing across the Sterzinger Moss, a marshy

flat, we again entered the mountain defiles. After passing through

Mittenwald, the ravine closes still more narrowly. This was the scene of

a most tremendous conflict during the Tyrolese struggle. Every stone and

every crag, indeed, has its tale of victory and defeat.

I have mentioned, that after the battle of Aspern, the Tyrolese had

delivered their country from the Bavarian yoke. The desire to be free

caught the neighbouring provinces of Bavaria, Vorarlberg, and the

northern Italian mountains, and in every part the native peasantry,

joined to their Austrian allies, were victorious. The Tyrolese believed

that they had regained their liberty, when the battle of Wagram,

followed by the armistice of Znaym, crushed all their hopes. The Tyrol

was re-demanded by Napoleon for Bavaria—and ceded again by Austria. The

Emperor, after vowing never to desert them, wrote to the Tyrolese to

announce, with expressions of paternal regret, the necessity he was

under of yielding to Napoleon, and to order his troops to evacuate their

country.

The mountaineers received these tidings with indignation, but without

despair. They had struggled, bled, and been victorious; but battles in

which they had no share, fought at a distance from their territory, were

to decide their fate; and they were to be made over like a flock of

sheep, bought and paid for, to a master who had oppressed them and

endeavoured to destroy all they held dear—constitution, name, language,

all! They refused to submit to so inglorious a destiny. At first they

deliberated on forcing the Austrian troops to remain; but deserted by

them, and by many of their own leaders, who accompanied the retiring

army, they turned to Hofer, who accepted the command. The whole of the

Tyrol again rose, and many of the Austrian soldiers deserted their

banners to join the peasantry. The hopes of the patriots were now high,

and they resolved to close their passes against the French and the

Bavarians.

Hofer is no silken hero. Many portions of his character militate against

the laws of romance; he had the German defects joined to their nobler

qualities. He was born in the station of an innkeeper, a position rather

of distinction in the Tyrol, since bringing the publican into contact

with travellers, he acquires knowledge and civilisation. He is said to

have been indolent, as well as convivial, even to intemperance, in his

habits. He was often to be found carousing in a way-side inn, while his

companions in arms were in the field. With all this, his countrymen

idolised him, and he was esteemed and distinguished by the Emperor and

the Archduke John, who was the chief instigator of the first rising of

the Tyrol. He was possessed of unblemished integrity—honest, brave,

open-hearted, resolute, and pious, he had all the virtues of the hardy,

untaught mountaineer.

It is an interesting circumstance in his career, that when called upon

to lead his countrymen against the Bavarians, he underwent a violent

struggle of feeling. When General Hormayr withdrew from the Tyrol, he

persuaded several of the chiefs to accompany him in his retreat. Hofer

refused to go, and exerted his eloquence to prevail on his friends to

remain, imploring them to make “one more effort in behalf of their

beloved country.” Yet his own resolution was not entire. He felt that he

was about to lead his countrymen against forces which held the whole of

Europe in awe, which had humbled that Emperor, under the protection of

whose sceptre he desired to remain. Could anything but ultimate defeat

ensue? On the other hand, he could not contemplate with any sense of

resignation a renewal of the tyranny of Bavaria: and, doubtless, he

entertained a hope that their continued resistance would cause Austria

to make another, and probably a successful attempt to claim its own. He

passed several days in his native valley of Passeyr, a prey to

irresolution, striving to seek a decision by the force of prayer.

Meanwhile, General Lefevre, at the head of a force composed of French,

Saxons, and Bavarians, penetrated to Inspruck, took possession of the

city, and advanced southward across the Brenner. The peasantry assembled

in arms, and Hofer not appearing, Haspinger came forward to lead them.

Father Haspinger was a Capuchin friar; he was young and athletic. In his

student days, in 1805, he had fought the French; since then he had lived

secluded in his monastery; but the cause of his country called him out.

He had been present at all the previous battles, and was always seen in

the thickest of the fight, bearing no arms except a large ebony

crucifix, with which he dealt tremendous blows on the heads of his

adversaries, and did great execution. In the absence of Hofer, this

singular man came forward to direct the exertions of the peasantry. It

was in the narrow pass below Mittenvald, that he prepared a fearful

ambush. He caused enormous larch-trees to be felled, upon which were

piled huge masses of rock and heaps of rubbish; the whole being held

together by strong cords, and thus suspended over the edge of the

precipice.

“We had penetrated to Inspruck,” writes a Saxon officer, belonging to

Lefevre’s army, “without great resistance; and, although much was

reported about the Tyrolese stationed upon and round the Brenner, we

gave little credit to it, thinking the rebels might be dispersed by a

short cannonade, and already looking on ourselves as conquerors. Our

entrance into the passes of the Brenner was only opposed by small corps,

which continued to fall back after an obstinate but short resistance:

among others, I perceived a man, full eighty years of age, posted

against the side of a rock, and sending death among our ranks at every

shot. Upon the Bavarians descending from behind to make him prisoner, he

shouted aloud, ‘_Hurrah!_’ struck the first man to the ground with a

ball, seized the second, and, with the cry, ‘_In God’s name!_’

precipitated himself with him into the abyss below. Marching onward, we

heard from the summit of a high rock, ‘_Stephen, shall I chop it off

yet?_’ to which a loud, ‘_Nay!_’ reverberated from the other side. This

was told to the Duke of Dantzig, who, notwithstanding, ordered us to

advance. The van, consisting of 4000 Bavarians, had just stormed a deep

ravine, when we again heard over our heads, ‘_Hans! for the Most Holy

Trinity!_’ The reply that immediately followed completed our terror.

‘_In the name of the Most Holy Trinity, cut all loose above!_’ and ere a

minute had elapsed, thousands of my comrades in arms were crushed,

buried, and overwhelmed by an incredible heap of broken rock, crags, and

trees, hurled down upon us.”

Mr. Alison, in his “History of Europe,” tells us that in 1816 he visited

this spot, and says “the long black furrow, produced by the falling

masses, like the track of an avalanche, was, even then, after the lapse

of seven years, imperfectly obliterated by the bursting vegetation which

the warmth of the Italian sun had awakened on these beautiful steeps.”

Now, thirty-three years, with their various seasons, snow, rain, and

sunshine, have drawn a green veil over the ruins; and there is nothing

left to tell the tale of defeat and death.

To return to Hofer—for these valleys are filled with his name, and it

were sacrilege to traverse them without commemorating his glory and

lamenting his downfall.

On hearing of this success, Hofer, joined by many thousand peasants,

descended from the valley of Passeyr; through the whole region the hardy

inhabitants rose _en masse_. Count Wittgenstein succeeded, however, in

clearing the northern slope of the Brenner, and General Lefevre once

more advanced, intending to cross and enter the Italian Tyrol. He was

attacked on all sides by innumerable and determined foes. After an

obstinate conflict he was defeated, forced back down the mountain; he

lost his ammunition and cannon, and, hotly pursued, had only time to

take refuge in Inspruck, disguised like a common trooper.

The peasantry collected in thousands, and another battle ensued. The

disciplined troops of the invader were unable to cope with the

enthusiastic numbers that assailed them; their mercenary courage quailed

before the noble ardour of the free mountaineers. Mount Isel was again

the scene of the conflict; it ended in the total defeat of the French

and Bavarians. Inspruck was evacuated, and General Lefevre retreated to

Salzburg. Hofer became commander-in-chief of the Tyrol. The simplicity,

the almost childish earnestness to act with justice that characterised

his rule, in no way deteriorates from the real elevation of his

character. He was an ignorant peasant, and his eyes did not look beyond

the well-being of his native province and of his countrymen, who were

also his personal friends. To this he was devoted, and no act of

arbitrary power or of insolence, no shadow of such a thing, clouded his

short-lived prosperity.

It was indeed brief. New armies poured into the devoted country, and the

mountain passes were invaded at all points. For three months the

peasants kept up their resistance, but the coming of winter forced them

from their mountain fastnesses into the valleys below; food became

scarce; their power of resisting the foe dwindled, faded, and became

extinct—the Tyrol again became a province of Bavaria.

Napoleon, in his haughty contempt and insolent indignation at any

opposition to his will, chose to regard the struggle of the Tyrolese for

liberty as the lawless tumult of freebooters; he magnified the very few

acts of barbarity of which the peasantry had been guilty (not to be

compared in number to the atrocities perpetrated by their opponents) and

had the baseness to set a price on the head of the peasant chiefs.

Hofer wavered several times. Now, conceiving that farther resistance

could only injure his country, he issued a proclamation inviting his

countrymen to lay down their arms; but finding they would not yield, he

resolved not to desert his post, and told the peasantry that “he would

fight with them and for them, as a father for his children.” Various

feats of arms ensued, and the Tyrolese were often victorious—even while

ultimate and absolute defeat could only be deferred a few days by their

heroism. At last all was lost; the chiefs for the most part fled; some

fell into the hands of the enemy; others, with more or less of peril and

hardship, escaped to Austria.

Hofer refused to fly; he refused to surrender. He retired to his native

valley of Passeyr. He concealed himself in an Alpine hut four leagues

distant from his home, and almost inacessible amidst the snows. His wife

and child accompanied him, and his friends supplied him as they could

with food, and brought him messages even from the Emperor of Austria,

entreating him to escape. He refused. A stubborn patriotism held him to

his native mountains, and he declared he would never leave them. Nor

would he disguise himself, nor cut off his beard, which, flowing to his

waist, rendered him conspicuous. At the same time he probably believed,

now the country was subdued and tranquil, that the French would soon

cease to desire to possess themselves of him.

He was deceived. A cunning intriguing priest, of the name of Donay, had

insinuated himself into his confidence, and now, for the sake of the

price set upon his head, betrayed him to the French general. An officer

was sent with sixteen hundred men to take him prisoner; two thousand

more were ordered up the pass to be at hand—so fearful were they that

the peasants would rise to the rescue.

The column began their march at midnight, on the 20th January, over ice

and snow. At five in the morning they reached the hut in which Hofer and

his family harboured. He heard the French officer inquire for him, and

came to the door and at once delivered himself up. He was bound, and

amidst the shouts of the French and the tears of the peasants, he was

marched to Botzen. Here he was received by the French commandant,

Baraguay d’Hilliers, who treated him with courtesy, and even with such

kindness as may be afforded a prisoner. Hofer was greatly altered by his

long retreat amidst the snows, and by frequent want of food. His hair

had grown gray, but his spirit was untamed, and his countenance beamed

with cheerfulness and serenity. He was separated from his family, and

carried to the shores of the Lago di Garda. He was put in a boat at the

little village of Simone, and on disembarking again was carried on to

Mantua.

A court-martial was immediately summoned: but even the laws of war were

dispensed with; for the sentence of death was not passed by this court;

the telegraph declared it from Milan, ordering his execution within

twenty-four hours. Until this moment he had apprehended no danger to his

life; yet he received the sentence with unshaken firmness, and only

requested the attendance of a confessor: this was complied with. On the

following morning, he was taken from the prison. He passed by the

barracks of the Porta Molina, where the Tyrolese prisoners were

confined, who all wept, and implored his blessing. This Hofer gave them,

entreating their pardon for being the cause of their misfortunes, and

declaring his conviction that they would soon be delivered from the sway

of Bavaria. On the broad bastion at a little distance from the Porta

Ceresa, a halt was commanded. Hofer refused to be blind-folded—he

refused to kneel. He said, “He was accustomed to stand upright before

his Creator, and in that posture he would deliver his spirit up to Him.”

He said a few words of farewell, expressing his undying love for his

country; and pronounced the word “Fire!” with a firm voice.

The spot on which he fell is still considered sacred by his countrymen.

His funeral was conducted with solemnity by the French. But this was

only an act of hypocrisy; such as instigated Berthier, then at Vienna,

to declare that Hofer’s death would cause great pain to Napoleon, and

that he would never have permitted it, had he been aware. Had Hofer

suffered by sentence of the court-martial by which he was tried, there

had been some colour to this assertion; but the telegraphic dispatch

that commanded and hurried his execution, in spite of the milder

dealings of the military tribunal, in fear lest the intercession of the

Emperor of Austria would prevent it, could only emanate from an

authority intimately conversant with, and blindly obedient to,

Napoleon’s will.

When, after landing from Elba, and losing the battle of Waterloo,

Bonaparte was taken prisoner, was he less an outlaw than Hofer, who

defended his country against invasion? His want of magnanimity does not

excuse that of others, but it takes from the respect, the compassion,

and the indignation, with which he demanded that his imprisonment should

be regarded. It has been justly pronounced, that Napoleon was not guilty

of any acts of wanton cruelty; but the pages of his history are also

destitute of any record of his magnanimity.

The Emperor of Austria invited the wife of Hofer to Vienna. She refused

to quit her native mountains; and resided, till her death, under her

husband’s roof, in the Valley of Passeyr.

Such are the deeds, such the name, that shed glory over the rugged and

romantic passes of the Tyrol. We continued to thread them; and the

interest with which we regarded the scene of these patriotic exploits

became exchanged for a more personal feeling of joy as we felt the

climate alter, in token that we were advancing nearer and nearer to

Italy.

The valley we traversed was met here by another; the scenery was huge,

craggy, and picturesque. Through this second valley is carried the road

called the pass of the Ampezzo, the shortest road from Inspruck to

Venice. We had several times debated whether we should not go by it; but

the wish to see the Lago di Garda decided our negative.

We slept at Brixen—Bressanone is its musical Italian name; but we heard

no Italian yet, nor saw a trace of Italy. Murray calls Brixen “a dirty,

inanimate town, of 3200 inhabitants.” We saw nothing of it. The inn—the

Elephant, is a pleasant, country-looking hostelry, on the road-side;

trees grow in front, and it resembles the best specimen of a rustic inn

in England. Everything was clean and comfortable, and the waiter spoke

English. I bought a tiny figure of Hofer, carved in wood, to do honour

to the “Tyrolean Champion,” who, as Wordsworth well expresses it, was

“Murdered, like one ashore by shipwreck cast,

Murdered without relief.”

We found here the moderate charge of a good inn among these mountains:

including what we gave to servants, it was nine florins.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 12TH.

Our journey continues through a most beautiful part of the Tyrol. The

road first lay through a narrow, gloomy pass, closed in by dark majestic

cliffs, till we crossed the Eisach, when the valley of the Adige opened

on us, with the town of Bolzano—still lingering in Germany we called it

Botzen—surmounted by the Castle of Eppan; again, I repeat, differing as

these valleys and mountains do one from another, delightedly as the eye

dwells on the unimaginable variety of grouping which this picturesque

and majestic region presents, words cannot describe it. Our road was cut

in the side of a mountain, and wound beneath lofty crags; a narrow

plain, with a dashing torrent, the Eisach in the depth, and lofty

mountains closing in the valley on either side. I have used such words

before: mark the difference here. Fair Earth scents the gales of Italy,

and already begins to assume for herself the loveliness which is the

inheritance of that country. The slopes of the lower hills are covered

by vines. We stopped to bait the horses at what, in England, would be

called an ale-house, a very humble inn, which we did not enter; but

there was a sort of rustic summer-house and terrace overlooking the

Eisach. The terrace was shaded by what, in Italy, is called a pergola,

or trellised walk of vines; the vegetation was luxuriant; the sun shone

bright, and dressed the whole scene in gaiety. My companions felt that

they were approaching scenes dreamt of—ardently desired, never seen. The

days of my youth hovered near. I stole away among the vines by the

margin of the river, to think of Italy, and to rejoice that I was about

to tread again its beloved soil; to find myself surrounded by my dear,

courteous, kind Italians, instead of the Germans, who, honest-hearted as

they doubtless are, under the repulsive mask that invests them, have yet

no grace of manners, no show of that intuitive desire to please—none of

that cordial courtesy, which renders the lowliest-born Italian gentle in

his bearing, and eager to render service.

We slept at Neumarkt, called in Italian, Egna. We had left our beautiful

valley here; and, as is too often the case, in a region of transition

from mountain to plain, the soil is marshy and the district unhealthy.

There was a large, new-built, clean hotel at Neumarkt; but though the

rooms were good, the living was intolerably bad, so that we went nearly

supperless to bed.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 13TH.

Still we approached Italy; the hills were covered with vines, the road

shut in by the walls of vineyards. Various valleys branch off at

intervals, all affording the scenery peculiar to the Tyrol. I own I had

no desire to linger longer in this land: we had continued for so many

days among ravines, defiles, and narrow valleys, peering up at the sky

from the depths between mountains, that the eye grew eager for a view of

heaven, and yearned to behold a more extensive horizon. When the bourne

of a journey lies beyond, the desire to linger, even in beautiful

scenery, is weak. Since I had left Gmunden and Salzburg I had

experienced no desire to stop short.

Some names of cities are so familiar, that one forms an idea of them in

one’s mind as one does of a celebrated, but personally unknown,

individual. The Council of Trent is associated with cardinals and

bishops—shepherds of the church, legislators of religion: there was

something princely, yet holy, in its idea. What we saw of it looked

miserably dirty; grand at a distance and beautifully situated, on

entering it, it was common-place; but, after all, nothing can be more

deceptive than the impression a way-worn traveller receives, driven,

perhaps, through the meanest streets to an hotel where, fatigued, body

and mind, he reposes, and then is off again. Mr. P—— sought out the

cathedral and the organ, but the organist declared that the instrument

was out of tune, whether from laziness or not, I cannot say. The hotel

was good; we dined at the _table d’hôte_. Again I was restored to the

privilege of speech, as Italian here is as common as German.

Our compact with our _lohn kutschers_ ceased at Trent. We paid them 140

Bavarian florins, and gave them 30 swanzigers as drink-gelt; a swanziger

is the third of an Austrian florin, its worth is eightpence English, and

is a very intelligible and convenient coin. The men were satisfied and

we had no reason to be otherwise: their conduct had been, on the whole,

negative—sullen and silent; and yet with a latent violence and insolence

which peeped out as a rank weed on a grassless plain, strangely,

unexpectedly, and by no means welcome; I believe they thought of nothing

but their drink-gelt the whole way. I was much more interested in the

horses, who had done their duty rather better.

We had now to look out for a conveyance to Riva, the town at the head of

the Lago di Garda, where we are to find the steam-boat, which is to

convey us to its southern shores. We engaged a _calèche_ and a

_caratella_ for twenty-two Austrian florins, and were soon on our way.

We were in high spirits on having parted with our Germans, and on

finding ourselves on the very verge of Italy. I do not pretend to say

that this is a correct feeling; but it was natural, considering our

ignorance of German. The valley of the Adige is very grand; and the

stream, broad and swift, was more of a river than we had seen since the

Danube. Several valleys branch off here; and there is another route to

Venice. We were sorry not to see the famous Slovino di San Marco, or

avalanche of stone, near Serravalle, celebrated by Dante, who was for

some time a guest at the Castello Lizzana; where, exiled from Florence,

he was entertained by the lord of Castelbarco.

At Roveredo we changed horses: our road, always on the descent, now

became exceedingly precipitous, and ran on the very edge of the steep

bank of the Adige. Our drivers were strange fellows. He who drove the

_calèche_ in which I sat, was a rough, uncouth animal; but he of the

_caratella_ was the most singular—neither Italian nor German in his

ways, wild as an untamed animal—coarse and vulgar as a metropolitan

vagrant. He was civil enough, indeed; but seemed half-mad with high

spirits. You might have thought him half-drunk, but he was not—roaring

and singing, and whipping his horses, and turning round to talk to the

gentlemen in the _caratella_ with a dare-devil air. I saw him whip his

horses into a gallop, and heard him laughing and singing as he dashed

down a road, which, in truth, required the drag. It was quite dusk—or

rather, but for the stars, dark; which added not a little to the

apparent danger. Our driver, a little more tame, yet disdained the

drag—and we went down at a rattling pace: I was not sorry, for I was

eager to assure myself that our friends in advance were not upset and

rolled in the Adige, which rushed at the foot of the rock which our road

bounded;—not they,—we reached the bottom, and saw the _caratella_

dashing madly on in the advance. Before or since I never met such

fellows; if my friends thought that Italians resembled them, they were

indeed mistaken; they had none of their innate refinement, but they had

their good humour: they were more like what one reads of as the

wanderers of the far west—except, we are told, the Americans appear

always to calculate, and so perhaps did these fellows; but they had the

outward guise of nearly being insane.

We got to Riva safe. It stands exactly at the head of the Lago di Garda;

Suso in Italia bella giace un laco,

Appiè dell’ alpe, che serra Lamagna,

Sovra Tiralli, ed ha nome Benaco.

Per mille fonti credo, e più si bagna,

Tra Garda, e Val Camonica e Apennino

Dell’ acqua, che nel detto lago stagna.

The coast, with the exception of the spot on which the town stands, is

iron-bound; dark precipices rise abruptly from the water; a bend in the

coast limits the view of the lake to a mile or two merely: behind is the

chasm of the Adige, beside which Monte Baldo rises, lofty and dark—and

mountains somewhat lower—but even they, sublime in altitude, darken the

prospect immediately behind Riva. The town is mean and dirty; the

inn—not bad to look at, is dirty and uncomfortable. It is kept by a

large family; but how different are they from our Cadenabbia people!

There are seven sisters—some dress smartly, and sit and receive company,

and act the _Padrona_; others are the Cinderellas of the establishment;

but all are lazy and negligent. The beds were not bad, it is true; but

the fare was uneatable.

We had congratulated ourselves that the steam-boat, which plies every

other day, would leave Riva on the morrow of our arrival; but we found

it had not arrived as it ought, and doubts of course hung, as it had not

arrived, over the date of its departure.

WEDNESDAY, 14TH.

The morning has come, but no steam-boat. It is detained, we are told, at

the other end of the lake by the wind. This assertion seems fabulous; we

have no breeze, the waters are glassy: but thus is it with lake Benacus.

The wind, coming down the chasms of the mountains, is not felt in the

sheltered nook in which Riva is situated; but drives with violence on

the southern portion of this vast inland sea, and lashes it into

tempest.

We walked out: there is a path for a short distance on one side under

the rock, but the road soon ends; the coast, as I have said, is

iron-bound. One of my friends began a sketch of the castle La Rocca,

built by the Scaligers, and which forms a picturesque object: then I

loitered in the town, delighting my eyes with Italian names and words

over the shop-doors. We went out for a short time on the lake, but a

shower came on—a drizzle first, which ended in pouring rain. We were

truly uncomfortable—forced into the dirty, uncomfortable inn, unprovided

with books; and, worst of all, quite uncertain as to the arrival of the

steamer. The house is full of travellers similarly situated, and others

continually arriving; this does not comfort us. Our madcap drivers of

the night before are still here; we have canvassed with them the expense

of going by land to Venice, but their demands are exorbitant. We have

talked with the boatman, of making the voyage in a large open boat; but

the time that this would occupy is evidently uncertain: besides, a

lingering remnant of reason assures us that, if the steamer be detained

by adverse winds at the other end of the lake, this wind, however

favourable, must have raised a sea to endanger our navigation. Our

projects, therefore, have only served to cheat time a little, and are

given up. Dinner has proved no occupation or relief; it was so

singularly and uncomfortably bad, that it was difficult to eat any

portion of it. Now evening has come, and still it rains hard; the many

travellers are dispersed about the house in a state of listless anxiety.

Another day like this is too fearful a vision: we have ceased even to

speak of the chances of release, for we grow hopeless. The people of the

inn finding the boat does not arrive, begin to talk of some accident in

the machinery; conversation languishes among all the groupes. I sit

writing at a window till twilight is thickening into darkness. Hush! a

sound—distant—increasing; can it be the splash of paddles? The bend of

the lake prevents the boat being seen till quite close at hand; my soul

is in my ears, listening: at length the sound draws the attention of

others; one by one they congregate near the windows, but there is

silence among all, broken only by hurried interjections swiftly

silenced, that each may listen more intently. At last—there can be no

doubt—there is a burst of joy as we behold the smoky, but most amiable

monster, double the headland and bear down on the town. O, how

good-humoured and communicative we are all become; what a clatter of

voices, what joyful mutual congratulations! One sight we have just

witnessed, is ridiculous to us who have the best of it—very disagreeable

to the actors in the scene: on arriving at the quay the travellers

poured out from the steamer, the porters shouldered the luggage, and all

came in one stream to our hotel. There was no room; the voyagers

expectant occupied every apartment. Travellers and porters went their

way out again—the world was before them; but their choice was limited to

some most wretched holes.

SEPTEMBER 15TH.

We thought ourselves in all things fortunate, when the morrow dawned

bright and sunny. We had a heavenly voyage, which repaid us for

yesterday’s _ennui_, and satisfied us that we had done the wisest thing

in the world in entering Italy by the Lago di Garda. We left the abrupt,

gloomy, sublime north, and gently dropped down to truly Italian scenes.

The waters of the lake are celebrated for their azure tint; no waves

could be so brightly blue, so clear, so that we saw the bottom of the

lake, fathoms below. The mountains sank to hills, with banks cut into

terraces, and covered with olives and vines, decorated by orange and

lemon-trees; the country-houses sparkled in the sun. One of my friends

quoted the lines that celebrate Benacus. Strangely enough, though

weather-bound at Riva by one of those storms for which this lake is

famous, we saw not a wave upon its surface; not even a curled ripplet,

reminded us that it was

teque,

Fluctibus et fremitur assurgens,

Benace marino.

We landed at Lasise, a town distant fifteen miles from Verona, and while

I employed myself in engaging a _veturino_ for that place, and wandered

about the town, my companions went to bathe in the clear waters of the

azure lake. The promontory of Sirmio was in sight; an Italian landscape

all around, an Italian sky, bright above: it was an hour of delicious

joy—set, like a priceless diamond in the lead of common life—never to be

forgotten.

O, best of all the scattered spots that lie

In sea or lake, apple of landscape’s eye,—

How gladly do I drop within thy nest,

With what a sigh of full, contented rest,

Scarce able to believe my journey o’er,

And that these eyes behold thee safe once more!

Oh, where’s the luxury, like the smile at heart,

When the mind, breathing, lays its load apart,—

When we come home again, tired out, and spread

The loosen’d limbs o’er all the wished-for bed!

This, this alone, is worth an age of toil.

Hail, lovely Sirmio! hail, paternal soil!

Joy, my bright waters, joy; your master’s come!

Laugh, every dimple on the cheek of home![12]

LETTER VI.

Verona.—Journey to Venice.—Leone Bianco.—Hotel d’Italia.

SEPTEMBER 18TH.

I am again in Italy. The earth is teeming with the wealth of September,

the richest month of the year. The harvest of the Indian corn has begun;

the grapes are hanging in rich ripening clusters from the vines,

festooned from tree to tree: a genial atmosphere mantles the earth, and

quickens a sense of delight in our hearts. The road lies through a

richly cultivated country: the immense plain around us is bounded to the

north by the mountains of the Tyrol, amongst which we seemed to have

lost ourselves for an age, so refreshing, so new, so enchanting, is the

wide expanse of fertile Lombardy, opening before our eyes.

A sad disaster happened on our arrival at Verona. We had each our

passport, and the whole was consigned to the pocket-book of one of the

party; and when they were asked for at the gates of Verona, the

pocket-book was not to be found. Except our passports, and Coutts’

_lettre d’indication_, it contained no papers of importance; but still,

after all the annoyance the Austrians give about passports, it was

rather appalling. Nothing could be done. It was remembered that when

bathing, the pocket-book was safe; it must have been lost since. We were

allowed to go on to the inn, and time would shew the result.

The Gran Parigi is one of the most comfortable hotels I was ever at; it

has the air of a palace, as doubtless it once was. The same evening, by

the light of the clear full moon, my companions rambled about the town

and entered the amphitheatre, which is used as a circus, and

horsemanship was going on, and music filled the air. There was something

startling in finding the building of ancient days used for its original

purpose—the seats occupied by numerous spectators; the partial moonlight

veiled with some mystery what the garish sun had disclosed as below

Roman dignity in the assemblage.

You know the charm of these Lombard cities. Built by a prosperous

people, they have a princely and magnificent appearance: their grandeur

is what grandeur ought to be—not gloomy and menacing, but cheerful and

inspiriting. The cities look built by a happy people in which to be

happy—by a noble and rich people, whose tastes were dignified, and whose

habits of life were generous.

We were promised a paper that would give us free course to Venice—for

our Consul was at that city—and we were to be transferred to him, and

meanwhile, our loss was made known in the country about. But, though the

paper was promised, one or another of my friends was employed the whole

morning in getting it properly signed. These delays were vexatious, more

from the uncertainty that hung about the whole transaction, which kept

us in attendance and perplexity. There was no help. We rambled to the

garden, or walled _podere_, in which there is an open _fosse_, and an

old sort of sarcophagus, which they show as Juliet’s tomb. That Juliet

lived and died, as Baldelli recounts, there can be little doubt; but it

is not likely that this was “the tomb of the Capulets.” Still such a

scene—a garden, with its high antique walls, its Italian vegetation, and

the blue sky, cloudless above—was a scene familiar to Juliet; and her

spirit might hover here, even if her fair form was sepulchred elsewhere.

It was a long walk thence to the tombs of the Scaligers. The most fairy

architecture—not dark and Gothic, nor immured within the walls of a

church;—a small open court encloses these elegant sepulchres.

At length we obtained the paper, and set out. We had engaged a

_veturino_ for Venice. Some hope had we that the railroad might be open

from Padua to Mestri; if not, we were to be taken to Fusina, sleeping at

Vicenza in our way. The charm of autumnal vegetation, in a rich vine

country, adorned the road, and a distant view of the Alps bounded the

scene. We arrived at Vicenza at eleven o’clock, by a bright moonlight. I

was sorry to see no more of these Palladian palaces than the glimpses we

caught from our carriage-windows. Architecture shows to peculiar

advantage by the silver radiance of a full moon: its partial white light

throws portions into strong relief, and the polished marble reflects

its, so to speak, icy radiance.

SEPTEMBER 19TH.