The Alpine caravansary was hardly settled at the Olm when the air
became intensely hot and oppressive. Day by day black thunder-clouds
gathered on the horizon. They crested the mountains in three
directions, at times appearing to repel each other, at others marching
fiercely on to conflict, when, the zenith becoming pitch-dark, they
flung out long spears of lightning and exploded in overwhelming
thunder. Very terrible were these perpetual storms. With the first
peal the church-bells along the valley began solemnly to toll. It
mattered not whether by night or day, the faithful bellringer was
at his post, and with rain pouring down outside and fiery, vivid
lightning playing around him, he still went tolling on, for evil
spirits must be driven away, and people reminded to make the sign of
the cross and pray God to protect them.
At length, to use an expression of Alois's, "Saint Florian had left
off playing at skittles, and Saint Leonhard had driven his hay over
the heavenly bridge." The warring elements were still, but the earth
seemed smouldering with heat, and we panted and gasped after the lofty
mountain-slopes which lay on all sides. At the same time it came
most opportunely to our knowledge that the Tyrol was rich in
baths--primitive establishments most of them, but dotted over mountain
and valley, so that each village had half a dozen to choose from,
where every peasant, be he ever so poor, could at least dip and soak
for an eight-days' _sommerfrisch_. Why, then, should not the two
Margarets, they being the most desirous of a change, have at least a
_sommerfrisch_?
But which amongst all these baths was the one to choose? Good Kathi
recommended her baths at Innichen. She herself evidently did not
derive much pleasure from her yearly visits there. Still, we, being
ladies, would find more people to talk to, and the bath-house, which
was always full to overflowing, stood in a wood, and we liked trees.
Schuster Alois--for the conversation took place before he left--said
that most gentlefolks went to Maistall. There was not only _luxus_,
but a great deal of life and spirit there. His Majesty Emperor Max
as early as 1511 took up his quarters at Maistall during his campaign
against the Venetians, and he had heard say that in the last century
the visitors formed a society and made it a rule that none but the
purest German should be spoken. Every fault of pronunciation cost a
kreuzer to the offender: the money went to the chapel, and amounted
one season to twenty-one florins six kreuzers.
But one Margaret decidedly objected to going to a place where there
was the faintest chance of her _loiter wagon_ for _leiterwagen_, her
_pison_ for _speisen_, her _vulgarborn_ for _wohlgeboren_, being fined
by a _gazel-schaft (gesellschaft)_. Besides, these places sounded too
grand: we did not want a Gastein, but a Wildbad, if one could be
found that did not belie its name. So the peasant-baths of St. Vigil,
Mühlbach and Scharst were named to us, and the lot fell upon Scharst,
we having heard that all the school-children in town had just been
taken there for a long day's holiday, and had returned to their proud
and happy parents, who waited for them in double ranks below, radiant
with pleasure, waving their banners and Alpine roses.
It was accordingly arranged that on the following Sunday Anton should
drive us to Reischach, where there was to be a great festival, with
candles in the church as big as a man's arm: so said a woman from
Reischach. Anton was of a retiring nature, and did not like crowds,
but he would gladly drive the ladies over. And at Reischach we should
be sure to find some peasant returning that evening by Scharst, who
could carry our belongings.
Imagine us, therefore, at Reischach, the church-bell ringing for
vespers, which begin at one o'clock. We wear bouquets of carnations
and rosemary, presented to us by the family at the Hof, as correct
decorations for a festival. And Anton!--how to present him to you as
he deserves to be presented? His truthful, guileless face is his best
ornament: nevertheless, he too wears carnations and rosemary caught
in the silver cord and vieing with the silver tassels of his
broad-brimmed, low-crowned beaver hat. His rough jacket, made by the
tailor last autumn, and therefore too new to be worn on a less special
occasion, is short and loose enough to leave ample space for the
display of his _rauge_, or broad leather belt of softest chamois-skin,
worked in scrolls surrounding his name, with split peacock quills,
no little resembling Indian handicraft. His snow-white knees appear
between his short leather breeches and his bright blue knitted
stockings. These Nature's garters, when perfectly white, are regarded
as a mark of great distinction amongst the dandies, and those of our
Anton may be considered the very _knee plus ultra_.
A parliament of men--a few still in breeches with Hessian boots,
which appeared a characteristic of Reischach, but the majority, having
succumbed to modern ideas, wearing trowsers--were seated in the shadow
of a comfortable house, discussing the different stages of their rye
and flax crops. Their wives and daughters, following their natural
impulse, were already kneeling in church, confiding their cares of
kitchen and farmyard to the ever-ready ear of _Mutter Gottes_--one
dense mass of simple, believing women, in broad-brimmed beaver hats,
with here and there a conical woolen beehive as a contrast.
The church in itself, although it lacked the candles as big as a man's
arm, must truly have shone like the gate of heaven to peasant eyes.
Many of the more substantial families had lent their private saints
for the occasion. They had brought Holy Nothburgs and Saint Leonhards
and Virgins, generally preserved in wardrobes at home, but now brought
to participate in the festival, besides adding to its great solemnity.
It was Scapulary Sunday, we were told, and although the words conveyed
no clear idea to us, we were soon to learn their significance. A
Tyrolese anthem having been sung by some invisible voices, in which
jodels leapt up and smothered Gregorians, a middle-aged Capuchin took
his stand in the pulpit, and having greeted the congregation,
promised to explain to them the mystery and the advantage of the Holy
Scapulary.
"My beloved," he began, "there are some who think too little of the
scapulary, and there are others who lay too great a stress on this
aid to faith. Let us meditate on both these conditions. But first, how
must we ourselves regard the scapulary? Now, we are told not to love
the world nor the things of the world. The scapulary, with its sacred
image of Mary worn next the heart, is a great shield against this love
of the world. It places you under the especial protection of the Queen
of Heaven: you are as much her servant as those who serve king or
kaiser, and equally wear her livery. Some think too little of the
scapulary. Yet what incidents can be told of its efficacy! Let one
suffice. In the year 1866, when the war raged between Austria and
Prussia, the Catholic soldiers of the latter country immediately
before the war entered by hundreds into the Society of the Scapulary.
Wearing this sacred charm upon their hearts, they went into the
battle-field, and the cannons roared and the bullets whizzed thick
and fast around them, and not one of them fell, for they wore the
scapulary. Indeed, their miraculous preservation created so much
excitement that Lutherans marveled over it, and asked the Catholics
how it came that they were no whit hurt. And they answered, 'We wear
the scapulary of Mary, and she saves us.' Then many Lutherans said,
'Come, we will have scapularies,' and wrote their names down in the
society. And now hark ye, my brethren. There was a Catholic soldier,
and there was a Lutheran, and the latter said, 'Lend me thy scapulary
for this one day only, and see, here is a thaler for thee.' Then the
foolish Catholic drew the scapulary off his neck, handed it to the
Lutheran, took the thaler, went into battle: whiz went the bullets
round him, and he fell."
We could stand no more. The church, now crowded with men as well as
women, reeked with perspiration, the sermon oppressed us, and thus our
sense and senses drove us out into the open air. Here the fresh breeze
came across from the Ziller snow-fields, health-giving as a breath
from heaven. Peasant-women who were too late to squeeze into
church were seated amongst the iron crosses of the graves. The more
serious-minded had managed to cluster together round a side-door
which, being adjacent to the pulpit, proved an advantageous spot for
hearing. The less particular sat in the shade, feeling it sufficient
to be in holy ground and to pass their beads through their fingers
whilst they studied up our novel attire. Approaching the more
attentive members, we found that the Capuchin had reached the second
part of his discourse, and was dilating on those who thought too
highly of the scapulary. We gathered the following fragment:
"Now, the man was nigh unto death, and it was neither for confession
nor for the death-sacrament that he craved. No, it was for a
scapulary. 'A scapulary!' he cried, 'a scapulary!' My brethren, you
know well he should have asked for the priest and for the blessing of
the Church, but it was merely for a scapulary."
Later on we asked permission to see a scapulary. It consisted of two
small squares of cloth, herring-boned round the edge, and united by a
narrow ribbon of sufficient length to permit one square to rest on
the breast, whilst the other hung between the shoulders. That in front
bore the image of the Virgin, designed by the nuns in the convent,
whilst the simpler work had been given to some poor old woman, or even
man, who was past harder employment. The privilege of wearing this
charmed badge entailed the payment of a small yearly subscription and
the repetition of seven Paternosters daily.
The procession followed the sermon. Mary, Joseph, Saint Nothburg (once
a good peasant-girl, now a saint) were paraded round the village by
children, and borne back to church. Peasant-men staggered under large
silk banners, which swayed and fluttered in the blustery wind,
and, but for the steady grasp of the strong men who carried them,
threatening at each moment to crush the pious throng. The four chief
peasants of the district, wearing their robes of state, the Noah's ark
coats in which they were married, bore the baldachin over the head
of the Capuchin who elevated the Host: the village priest, in white
surplice and Hessian boots, swung the censer at his side. The men were
in front, the women, a long, broad file, divided in the procession by
the priests from their male relations, followed--a dense black mass,
but relieved in color by the whiteness of their short linen sleeves.
Men and women, carefully severed in their prayers and on the very
steps of the altar by Holy Church, were soon able to come together
again under the spacious, hospitable roof of Herr Kappler, the wirth.
Innumerable clean wooden tables, forms, and stiff, high-legged wooden
chairs were ranged up stairs and down stairs and in the orchard
without, for the accommodation of the scapularists and their friends.
We sat at a side-table in an upper room partaking of grilled fowl and
salad, whilst _buben_ and their _dirnen_, or lads and their lasses,
middle-aged couples, old men and women, poured into the house,
filling every chair, bench and table. They came thither from all
the country-side, and endless were the greetings amongst cousins and
cousins' cousins. The Tyrolese, like the Scotch, keep up every link
of relationship, claiming the fiftieth cousin. Relationship, in fact,
never does die out; and though it may become an abstract during busy
seasons of ploughing and sowing, it becomes a strong reality at
wakes and festivals. Thus, at Kappler's, on this scapulary afternoon,
Barthel's brother-in-law's cousin drank with "Cousin Barthel," and
Seppl's sister-in-law's niece was treated by "Onkel Seppl." There was
one square-built, good-humored old man who appeared to be the whole
world's cousin: he passed from table to table, and had to sip from
fifty offered glasses.
With our delicious coffee and boiled cream we ordered the host, as a
suitable person, to find us a guide to carry our valise and shawls to
Bad Scharst. Probably the perpetual and loud demands for pints of wine
left him but little time to make a wise selection, seeing that there
soon stood before us a small man with so subtle and malignant a look
that his exorbitant demand made us only too gladly dismiss him. Our
confidence shaken in the landlord's powers of discrimination, we sent
word below that if Anton had returned we should be glad to speak with
him. He had been in the village to visit his cousins, but was waiting
our orders below. Although his native shyness made it hard for him
to step forward and address ladies under the curious gaze of all the
relative Seppls and Barthels, he did it with manliness, and turning
round and addressing the popular old man as Hansel, asked him if his
brother Jörgel were below; and being answered in the affirmative, he
hastened away, and returned with another compact little peasant, whom
he introduced to us as Senner Franz's brother, with an aside, that he
was "a friendly mortal and Count Arlberg's forester."
The agreement was soon made, the sullen-looking man glowering at us
from behind a stack of firewood, whilst Hansel and Anton packed a
_kraxe_ or wooden frame and fixed it on Jörgel's back. As we set
off, Anton drove away homeward, although the skittle-balls were just
beginning to roll, and the sound of "I bin a lustiger bua" and other
Tyrolese songs came floating from the windows.
MARGARET HOWITT.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
SAINT ROMUALDO.
I give God thanks that I, a lean old man,
Wrinkled, infirm, and crippled with keen pains
By austere penance and continuous toil,
Now rest in spirit, and possess "the peace
Which passeth understanding." Th' end draws nigh,
Though the beginning is as yesterday,
And a broad lifetime spreads 'twixt this and that--
A favored life, though outwardly the butt
Of ignominy, malice and affront,
Yet lighted from within by the clear star
Of a high aim, and graciously prolonged
To see at last its utmost goal attained.
I speak not of mine Order and my House,
Here founded by my hands and filled with saints--
A white society of snowy souls,
Swayed by my voice, by mine example led;
For this is but the natural harvest reaped
From labors such as mine when blessed by God.
Though I rejoice to think my spirit still
Will work my purposes, through worthy hands,
After my bones are shriveled into dust,
Yet have I gleaned a finer, sweeter fruit
Of holy satisfaction, sure and real,
Though subtler than the tissue of the air--
The power completely to detach the soul
From her companion through this life, the flesh;
So that in blessed privacy of peace,
Communing with high angels, she can hold,
Serenely rapt, her solitary course.
Ye know, O saints of heaven, what I have borne
Of discipline and scourge; the twisted lash
Of knotted rope that striped my shrinking limbs;
Vigils and fasts protracted, till my flesh
Wasted and crumbled from mine aching bones,
And the last skin, one woof of pain and sores,
Thereto like yellow parchment loosely clung;
Exposure to the fever and the frost,
When 'mongst the hollows of the hills I lurked
From persecution of misguided folk,
Accustoming my spirit to ignore
The burden of the cross, while picturing
The bliss of disembodied souls, the grace
Of holiness, the lives of sainted men,
And entertaining all exalted thoughts,
That nowise touched the trouble of the hour,
Until the grief and pain seemed far less real
Than the creations of my brain inspired.
The vision, the beatitude, were true:
The agony was but an evil dream.
I speak not now as one who hath not learned
The purport of those lightly-bandied words,
Evil and Fate, but rather one who knows
The thunders of the terrors of the world.
No mortal chance or change, no earthly shock,
Can move or reach my soul, securely throned
On heights of contemplation and calm prayer,
Happy, serene, no less with actual joy
Of present peace than faith in joys to come.
This soft, sweet, yellow evening, how the trees
Stand crisp against the clear, bright-colored sky!
How the white mountain-tops distinctly shine,
Taking and giving radiance, and the slopes
Are purpled with rich floods of peach-hued light!
Thank God, my filmy, old dislustred eyes
Find the same sense of exquisite delight,
My heart vibrates to the same touch of joy
In scenes like this, as when my pulse danced high,
And youth coursed through my veins! This the one link
That binds the wan old man that now I am
To the wild lad who followed up the hounds
Among Ravenna's pine-woods by the sea.
For there how oft would I lose all delight
In the pursuit, the triumph or the game,
To stray alone among the shadowy glades,
And gaze, as one who is not satisfied
With gazing, at the large, bright, breathing sea,
The forest glooms, and shifting gleams between
The fine dark fringes of the fadeless trees,
On gold-green turf, sweetbrier and wild pink rose!
How rich that buoyant air with changing scent
Of pungent pine, fresh flowers and salt cool seas!
And when all echoes of the chase had died,
Of horn and halloo, bells and baying hounds,
How mine ears drank the ripple of the tide
On that fair shore, the chirp of unseen birds,
The rustling of the tangled undergrowth,
And the deep lyric murmur of the pines,
When through their high tops swept the sudden breeze!
There was my world, there would my heart dilate,
And my aspiring soul dissolve in prayer
Unto that Spirit of Love whose energies
Were active round me, yet whose presence, sphered
In the unsearchable, unbodied air,
Made itself felt, but reigned invisible.
This ere the day that from my past divides
My present, and that made me what I am.
Still can I see the hot, bright sky, the sea
illimitably sparkling, as they showed
That morning. Though I deemed I took no note
Of heaven or earth or waters, yet my mind
Retains to-day the vivid portraiture
Of every line and feature of the scene.
Light-hearted 'midst the dewy lanes I fared
Unto the sea, whose jocund gleam I caught
Between the slim boles, when I heard the clink
Of naked weapons, then a sudden thrust
Sickening to hear, and then a stifled groan;
And pressing forward I beheld the sight
That seared itself for ever on my brain--
My kinsman, Ser Ranieri, on the turf,
Fallen upon his side, his bright young head
Among the pine-spurs, and his cheek pressed close
Unto the moist, chill sod: his fingers clutched
A handful of loose weeds and grass and earth,
Uprooted in his anguish as he fell,
And slowly from his heart the thick stream flowed,
Fouling the green, leaving the fair, sweet face
Ghastly, transparent, with blue, stony eyes
Staring in blankness on that other one
Who triumphed over him. With hot desire
Of instant vengeance I unsheathed my sword
To rush upon the slayer, when he turned
In his first terror of blood-guiltiness.
* * * * *
Within my heart a something snapped and brake.
What was it but the chord of rapturous joy
For ever stilled? I tottered and would fall,
Had I not leaned against the friendly pine;
For all realities of life, unmoored
From their firm anchorage, appeared to float
Like hollow phantoms past my dizzy brain.
The strange delusion wrought upon my soul
That this had been enacted ages since.
This very horror curdled at my heart,
This net of trees spread round, these iron heavens,
Were closing over me when I had stood,
Unnumbered cycles back, and fronted _him,_
My father; and he felt mine eyes as now,
Yet saw me not; and then, as now, that form,
The one thing real, lay stretched between us both.
The fancy passed, and I stood sane and strong
To grasp the truth. Then I remembered all--
A few fierce words between them yester eve
Concerning some poor plot of pasturage,
Soon silenced into courteous, frigid calm:
This was the end. I could not meet him now,
To curse him, to accuse him, or to save,
And draw him from the red entanglement
Coiled by his own hands round his ruined life.
God pardon me! My heart that moment held
No drop of pity toward this wretched soul;
And cowering down, as though his guilt were mine,
I fled amidst the savage silences
Of that grim wood, resolved to nurse alone
My boundless desolation, shame and grief.
There, in that thick-leaved twilight of high noon,
The quiet of the still, suspended air,
Once more my wandering thoughts were calmly ranged,
Shepherded by my will. I wept, I prayed
A solemn prayer, conceived in agony,
Blessed with response instant, miraculous;
For in that hour my spirit was at one
With Him who knows and satisfies her needs.
The supplication and the blessing sprang
From the same source, inspired divinely both.
I prayed for light, self-knowledge, guidance, truth,
And these like heavenly manna were rained down
To feed my hungered soul. His guilt _was_ mine.
What angel had been sent to stay mine arm
Until the fateful moment passed away
That would have ushered an eternity
Of withering remorse? I found the germs
In mine own heart of every human sin,
That waited but occasion's tempting breath
To overgrow with poisoned bloom my life.
What God thus far had saved me from myself?
Here was the lofty truth revealed, that each
Must feel himself in all, must know where'er
The great soul acts or suffers or enjoys,
His proper soul in kinship there is bound.
Then my life-purpose dawned upon my mind,
Encouraging as morning. As I lay,
Crushed by the weight of universal love,
Which mine own thoughts had heaped upon myself,
I heard the clear chime of a slow, sweet bell.
I knew it--whence it came and what it sang.
From the gray convent nigh the wood it pealed,
And called the monks to prayer. Vigil and prayer,
Clean lives, white days of strict austerity:
Such were the offerings of these holy saints.
How far might such not tend to expiate
A riotous world's indulgence? Here my life,
Doubly austere and doubly sanctified,
Might even for that other one atone,
So bound to mine, till both should be forgiven.
They sheltered me, not questioning the need
That led me to their cloistered solitude.
How rich, how freighted with pure influence,
With dear security of perfect peace,
Was the first day I passed within those walls!
The holy habit of perpetual prayer,
The gentle greetings, the rare temperate speech,
The chastening discipline, the atmosphere
Of settled and profound tranquillity,
Were even as living waters unto one
Who perisheth of thirst. Was this the world
That yesterday seemed one huge battle-field
For brutish passions? Could the soul of man
Withdraw so easily, and erect apart
Her own fair temple for her own high ends?
But this serene contentment slowly waned
As I discerned the broad disparity
Betwixt the form and spirit of the laws
That bound the order in strait brotherhood.
Yet when I sought to gain a larger love,
More rigid discipline, severer truth,
And more complete surrender of the soul
Unto her God, this was to my reproach,
And scoffs and gibes beset me on all sides.
In mine own cell I mortified my flesh,
I held aloof from all my brethren's feasts
To wrestle with my viewless enemies,
Till they should leave their blessing on my head;
For nightly was I haunted by that face,
White, bloodless, as I saw it 'midst the ferns,
Now staring out of darkness, and it held
Mine eyes from slumber and my brain from rest
And drove me from my straw to weep and pray.
Rebellious thoughts such subtle torture wrought
Upon my spirit that I lay day-long
In dumb despair, until the blessed hope
Of mercy dawned again upon my soul,
As gradual as the slow gold moon that mounts
The airy steps of heaven. My faith arose
With sure perception that disaster, wrong,
And every shadow of man's destiny
Are merely circumstance, and cannot touch
The soul's fine essence: they exist or die
Only as she affirms them or denies.
This faith sustains me even to the end:
It floods my heart with peace as surely now
As on that day the friars drove me forth,
Urging that my asceticism, too harsh,
Endured through pride, would bring into reproach
Their customs and their order. Then began
My exile in the mountains, where I bode
A hunted man. The elements conspired
Against me, and I was the seasons' sport,
Drenched, parched, and scorched and frozen alternately,
Burned with shrewd frosts, prostrated by fierce heats,
Shivering 'neath chilling dews and gusty rains,
And buffeted by all the winds of heaven.
Yet was this period my time of joy:
My daily thoughts perpetual converse held
With angels ministrant; mine ears were charmed
With sweet accordance of celestial sounds,
Song, harp and choir, clear ringing through the air.
And visions were revealed unto mine eyes
By night and day of Heaven's very courts,
In shadowless, undimmed magnificence.
I gave God thanks, not that He sheltered me,
And fed me as He feeds the fowls of air--
For had I perished, this too had been well--
But for the revelation of His truth,
The glory, the beatitude vouchsafed
To exalt, to heal, to quicken, to inspire;
So that the pinched, lean excommunicate
Was crowned with joy more solid, more secure,
Than all the comfort of the vales could bring.
Then the good Lord touched certain fervid hearts,
Aspiring toward His love, to come to me,
Timid and few at first; but as they heard
From mine own lips the precious oracles,
That soothed the trouble of their souls, appeased
Their spiritual hunger, and disclosed
All of the God within them to themselves,
They flocked about me, and they hailed me saint,
And sware to follow and to serve the good
Which my word published and my life declared.
Thus the lone hermit of the mountain-top
Descended leader of a band of saints,
And midway 'twixt the summit and the vale
I perched my convent. Yet I bated not
One whit of strict restraint and abstinence.
And they who love me and who serve the truth
Have learned to suffer with me, and have won
The supreme joy that is not of the flesh,
Foretasting the delights of Paradise.
This faith, to them imparted, will endure
After my tongue hath ceased to utter it,
And the great peace hath settled on my soul.
EMMA LAZARUS.
A PRINCESS OF THULE.
BY WILLIAM BLACK, AUTHOR OF "THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A
PHAETON."