PART III.—1842 AND 43.
LETTER I.
	PAGE
PRAGUE	1
LETTER II.
MÜLCHEN.—BUDWEIS.—LINZ	10
LETTER III.
THE TRAUN.—THE GMUNDEN-SEE.—ISHL.—ST. WOLFGANG LAKE.—SALZBURG	22
LETTER IV.
ENTRANCE TO THE TYROL.—VILLAGE FÊTE.—PASS STRUB.—SWARTZ.—INSPRUCK	37
LETTER V.
THE PASS OF THE BRENNER.—HOFER.—BRESSANONE.—EGRA.—TRENT.—RIVA.—LAGO DI GARDA.—PROMONTORY OF SIRMIO	48
LETTER VI.
VERONA.—JOURNEY TO VENICE.—LEONE BIANCO.—HOTEL D’ITALIA	74
LETTER VII.
THE DUCAL PALACE.—THE ACCADEMIA DELLE BELLE ARTI	82
LETTER VIII.
CHIESA DE’ FRARI.—SAN GIORGIO MAGGIORE.—SANTA MARIA DELLA SALUTE.—LIDO.—THE GIUDECCA.—THE FONDAMENTI NUOVI.—THE ISLANDS.—THE ARMENIAN CONVENT	92
LETTER IX.
FREE PORT.—VENETIAN SOCIETY.—TITLES OF THE NOBILITY.—THE DOTTI.—INFANT SCHOOL	103
LETTER X.
VENETIAN PALACES.—GONDOLIERI.—BASILICA OF ST. MARK.—OPERA.—ILLUMINATION OF THE FENICE	119
LETTER XI.
JOURNEY TO FLORENCE.—COLD AND RAINY SEASON.—EXCURSION TO VALLOMBROSA	131
LETTER XII.
ART AT FLORENCE.—COSIMO ROSSELLI.—GHIRLANDAJO.—BEATO FRA ANGELICO.—POCCETTI.—LATER FLORENTINE SCHOOL	140
LETTER XIII.
THE GALLERY.—PALAZZO PITTI.—LE BELLE ARTI.—PORTRAIT OF DANTE.—THE CHURCHES	152
LETTER XIV.
THE CARBONARI	161
LETTER XV.
TUSCANY	181
LETTER XVI.
ITALIAN LITERATURE.—MANZONI.—NICCOLINI.—COLLETTA.—AMARI	190
LETTER XVII.
VOYAGE TO ROME	212
LETTER XVIII.
RAFFAELLE AT ROME	216
LETTER XIX.
RUINS OF ROME.—THE HOLY WEEK.—MUSIC AND ILLUMINATIONS	225
LETTER XX.
THE PONTIFICAL STATES	234
CHAPTER XXI.
INSURRECTION OF 1831, AND OCCUPATION OF ANCONA BY THE FRENCH	249
LETTER XXII.
SORRENTO.—CAPRI.—POMPEII	262
LETTER XXIII.
EXCURSION TO AMALFI	280

LETTER I.
PRAGUE.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

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—

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.

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.

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

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—

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.