Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume II

The peasant family were about to sit down to their twelve-o’clock dinner, when Fritz, unconsciously to himself, drew up at the window, and looked in at the tempting food.

There is one custom in Germany, which, simple as it is, it would be hard to praise above its merits: that is, the invariable habit of every one, so far as his means permit, to help the foot-traveller on his journey. By an old municipal law of most of the cities, the tradesmen cannot settle and establish themselves in their native town till they have travelled and lived in other places; thus learning, as it is supposed, whatever improvements their several crafts may have obtained in different and distant cities. These wanderings, which are usually for one year or two, are accomplished during the period of apprenticeship; so that you never travel on any of the high-roads without meeting these Lehr-Junkers, as they are called, who, with a knapsack on their back, and a spare pair of boots or two depending from it, are either smoking or singing to beguile the way. As it is not to be supposed that they are over-abundantly provided with means, it has grown into a recognised custom to assist them with some trifle: but the good habit ends not here; it extends to the poor boy returning from the gymnasium, or school, to see his parents – the discharged or furloughed soldier – the wayfarer of every class, in fact, whose condition pleads to those more plenteously endowed than himself.

Fritz was now to reap the benefit of this graceful charity; and scarcely had his wan features appeared at the window, than a sign from the chief Bauer invited him to partake. Happily for poor Fritz – happily for all who give and all who accept such aid – there is no sense of humiliation in doing so. It is, in fact, less an alms-giving than a remnant of the ancient hospitality which made the stranger welcome beneath every roof – a custom that dates before rail-roads and giant hotels.

Fritz ate and drank, and was thankful. The few words he spoke were in answer to the common questions, as to whence he came – and whither he was going – and what was his handicraft; inquiries which puzzled him sorely to reply to. His hesitations were not rendered more embarrassing by the curiosity of his questioners; they neither cared to push him closely, nor troubled their heads upon the matter.

“Farewell,” said the Bauer’s wife, as he thanked her gratefully; “farewell. Be good and pious, young lad; don’t keep naughty company, nor learn bad ways; and remember ‘A good word brings luck.’”

His eyes filled up with tears as she spoke. Who can tell the conflict of feelings they called up in his bosom?

“Where does this path lead to?” he asked, in a faint voice*

“To Reute, child.”

“And then, after Rente?”

“To Zillerthal and Inspruck.”

“To Inspruck!” said Fritz, while a sudden hope shot through him. “I’ll go to Inspruck,” muttered he, lower. “Good-by, Bauer; good-by, Frau. God bless thee.” And with these words he set out once more.

How little they who roll on their journey with all the speed and luxury that wealth can purchase, defying climate and distance, know the vicissitudes that fall to the lot of the weary foot-traveller! From city to city, from kingdom to kingdom, the rich man glides on, the great panorama of life revealing itself before him, without an effort on his part. The Alps – the Pyrenees, scarcely retard him; the luxuries he requires meet him at every halting-place, as though difference of region should not trench upon even his daily habits; his patience, perhaps, not more tried than by the occasional stoppages where fresh horses meet him. And yet, between two such stations a foot-traveller may spend the live-long day, wearied, footsore, heavy of heart. What crosses and trials are his! What strange adventures, too! and what strange companionships! Each day a new episode of life – but of life over which Poverty has thrown its shadow.

Fritz was now to experience all this; now, travelling with a company of wandering apprentices; now, keeping company with a group of peasants on the way to market; sometimes, partaking of a seat in a Bauer’s waggon – often, alone and weary, thinking over his future – a future, that each day seemed to render more doubtful and gloomy.

As he penetrated deeper into the Zillerthal, the journeys of each day became longer, the resting-places for the night being further apart; sometimes he was obliged to stop a day, or even two days, at a village, to recruit strength sufficient for a long march; and then, he would have to walk from before daylight to late in the night ere he reached his destination. His was not strength to endure fatigue like this with impunity; and if he did encounter it, it was from an enthusiasm that supplied energy, where mere bodily strength had failed. Two hopes buoyed him up, and carried him along through every opposing difficulty. Whether Star had escaped by accident, or been taken away by design, he was lame, and would surely be soon caught; and if so, what more likely than that he would be sent to Inspruck to be sold, for there was the greatest bird-market of all the world? at least so Fritz believed. His second sustaining hope lay in the prospect of once again meeting the old Priest, and learning from him how was it that a “good word” had not “brought luck” to him, and whether from any fault of his own.

These thoughts had so far obtained possession of his mind, that he became almost unconscious of every other; from dwelling on them so much, and revolving them so frequently and in so many different shapes and forms, he grew to think that he had no other object and aim than to reach Inspruck and solve these two doubts. Hunger, cold, and fatigue, every privation of a long and weary journey, was unregarded by him; and although it was now late in the autumn, and snow was beginning to fall on the mountain passes, Fritz, poorly clad, and scarcely fed, trudged on, day after day, his own heart supplying the courage which his weak frame denied.

As winter drew near the days grew shorter; and the atmosphere, loaded with snow ready to drop, darkened the earth, and made night come on, as it seemed, many hours before sunset. This left very little time to Fritz for his long journeys, which, just at this very period, unfortunately, were longer than ever. The way, too, had become far more dreary and deserted, not only because it led through a little-travelled district, but that the snow being too deep for wheeled carriages, and not hard enough for sledges, the travellers were fain to wait till either rain or frost should come on, to make the road practicable. Hence it happened, that not unfrequently, now, Fritz journeyed the live-long day, from dawn to dark, and scarcely met a single traveller, Sometimes, too, not a hut would be seen in a whole day’s march, and he would never taste a morsel of food till he reached his halting-place for the night.

All this was bad enough, but it was not the only difficulty; the worst of all was, how to find out the way in the mountain passes, where the snow lay so deep, that the balustrades or parapets that flanked the road, and often guarded it from a precipice, were now covered, and no wheel-track could be seen to guide the traveller. Fritz, when he journeyed this road before, remembered the awe and terror with which he used to peep over the little stone railing, and look down hundreds of feet into the dark valley beneath, where a great river was diminished to the size of a mere brawling rivulet; and now, where was that parapet? – on which side of him did it lie? A deep gorge was near – that he well knew; the unfrozen torrent beneath roared like thunder, but a waving surface of untrodden snow stretched away on either side of him, without foot-track or aught to mark the way.

For a long time did the poor child stand uncertain which way to turn; now thinking he heard the heavy plash of wheels moving through the snow, and then discovering it was merely the sound of falling masses, which, from time to time, slipped from their places, and glided down the steep mountain sides» What desolate and heart-chilling solitude was there! A leaden, greyish sky overhead – not a cloud, nor even a passing bird, to break its dreary surface – beneath, nothing but snow; snow on the wild fantastic mountain peaks; snow in waving sweeps between them. The rocks, the fir-trees, all covered.

Fritz stood so long, that already the thin drift settled on his head and shoulders, and clothed him in the same wintry livery as the objects around; his limbs were stiff, his fingers knotted and frozen; the little tears upon his blue cheeks seemed almost to freeze; his heart, that till now bore bravely up, grew colder and heavier. He felt as if he would be happy if he could cry, but that even grief was freezing within him. Despair was near him then! He felt a drowsy confusion creeping over him. Clouds of white snow-drift seemed to fall so thickly around, that every object was hidden from view. Crashing branches and roaring torrents mingled their noises with the thundering plash of falling snow-masses. Oh! if he could but sleep, and neither hear nor see these wearying sounds and sights – sleep, and be at rest! It was just at this instant his eye caught sight of a little finger-post, from which a passing gust of wind had carried away the snow. It stood at some distance beneath him, in the midst of a waving field of snow. Had poor Fritz remarked its leaning attitude, and the depth to which it was covered, scarcely more than three feet appearing above the surface, he would have known it must have been carried away from its own appointed spot; but his senses were not clear enough for such simple reasonings, and with a last effort he struggled towards it. The snow grew deeper at every step; not only did it rise above his foot, and half his leg, but it seemed to move in a great mass all around him, as if a huge fragment of the mountain had separated, and was floating downwards. The post, too, he came not nearer to it; it receded as he advanced; – was this a mere delusion? had his weakened faculties lost all control of sense? Alas! these sensations were but too real! He had already crossed the parapet which flanked the road – already was he in the midst of a great “wraith” of fallen snow, which, descending from the mountain peak, by a storm in the night, had carried away the finger-post, and now only waited the slightest impulse – the weight of that little child – to carry it down, down into the depth below! And down, indeed, it went; at first, slowly – moving like a great unbroken wave; then growing more hurried as it neared the edge of the precipice, thickening and swelling with fresh masses: it rose around him – now, circling his waist, now, enclosing his shoulders: he had but time to grasp the little wooden cross, the emblem of hope and succour, when the mass glided over the brink, and fell thundering into the dark abyss.

I would not risk any little credit I may, perchance, possess with the reader, by saying how deep that gorge actually was; but this will I say, when standing on the spot, in a very different season from this I have described – when the trees were in full leaf, the wild flowers blossoming, and both sky above and river beneath, blue as the bluest turquoise; yet even then, to look down the low parapet into the narrow chasm, was something to make the head reel and the heart’s blood chill.

But to my story. – It was the custom in this season, when the snow fell heavily on the high passes, to transmit the little weekly mail between Reute and Inspruck by an old and now disused road, which led along the edge of the river, and generally, from its sheltered situation, continued practicable and free from snow some weeks later than the mountain road. It was scarce worthy to be called a road – a mere wheel-track, obstructed here and there by stones and masses of rock that every storm brought down, and not unfrequently threatened, by the flooding of the river, to be washed away altogether.

Along this dreary way the old postilion was wending – now, pulling up to listen to the crashing thunders of the snow, which, falling several hundred feet above, might at any moment descend and engulf him – again, plying his whip vigorously, to push through the gorge, secretly vowing in his heart that, come what would, he would venture no more there that year. Just as he turned a sharp angle of the rock, where merely space lay for the road between it and the river, he found his advance barred up by a larch-tree, which, with an immense fragment of snow, had fallen from above. Such obstacles were not new to him, and he lost no time in unharnessing his horse and attaching him to the tree. In a few minutes the road was cleared of this difficulty; and he now advanced, shovel in hand, to make a passage through the snow.

“Saperlote!” cried he; “here is the finger-post! This must have come down from the upper road.”

Scarcely were the words uttered, when a cry of horror broke from him. He trembled from head to foot; his eyes seemed bursting from their sockets: and well might they, for, close around the wood, just where it emerged from the snow, were two little hands clasped tightly round the timber.

He threw himself on the spot, and tore up the snow with his fingers. An arm appeared, and then the long yellow hair of a head resting on it. Working with all the eagerness of a warm and benevolent nature, he soon disinterred the little body, which, save one deep cut upon the forehead, seemed to have no other mark of injury; but it lay cold and motionless – no sign of life remaining.

He pressed the little flask of brandy – all that he possessed – against the wan, white lips of the child; but the liquor ran down the chin and over the cheek – not a drop of it was sucked. He rubbed the hands, he chafed the body, he even shook it; but, heavy and inert, it gave no sign of life.

“Ach, Gott!” muttered he, “it is all over!” But still, with a hope that asked no aid from reason, he wrapped the child’s body in his fur mantle, and, laying him softly down in the cart, continued his way.

The lights, which were glittering here and there through the little village inns, had been gradually extinguished as the night grew later, till, at last» none remained, save those around the door of the post-house, where a little group of loungers was gathered, As they talked together, one or other occasionally would step out into the road and seem to listen, and then rejoin his companions. “No sign of him yet! What can keep him so late as this?” cried the Post-master, holding up his watch, that the lamp-light should fall on it. “It wants but four minutes to eleven – his time, by right, is half after nine.”

“He is trying the upper road belike, and the deep snow has detained him.”

“No, no,” said another, “Old Cristoph’s too knowing for that: bad as the lower road is, the upper is worse; and with the storm of last night, there will be drift there deep enough to swallow horse and mail-cart twice over.”

“There may be fallen snow on the lower road,” whispered a third; “Cristoph told me last week he feared it would not be safe for another journey.”

“He’s a daring old fellow,” said the Post-master, as he resumed his walk up and down to keep his feet warm; “but he’ll try that lower road once too often. He can’t bear the upper road because it is a new one, and was not made when he was a boy. He thinks that the world is not half so wise, or so good, as it was some fifty years back.”

“If he make no greater mistakes than that,” muttered an old white-headed hostler, “he may be trusted to choose his own road.”

“What’s that Philip is mumbling?” said the Post-master; but a general cry of “Here he comes! Here he is now!” interrupted the answer.

“See how he drives full speed over the bridge!” exclaimed the Post-master, angrily. “Potz-Teufel! if the Burgomaster hears it, I shall have to pay a fine of four gulden; and I would not wonder if the noise awoke him.”

There was less exaggeration than might be supposed in this speech, for Old Cristoph, in open defiance of all German law, which requires that nothing faster than a slow walk should be used in crossing a wooden bridge, galloped at the full stride of his beast, making every crazy plank and timber tremble and vibrate with a crash like small arms.

Never relaxing in his speed, the old man drove at his fastest pace through the narrow old Roman gate, up the little paved hill, round the sharp corner, across the Platz, into the main street, and never slackened till he pulled up with a jerk at the door of the post-house: when, springing from his seat, he detached the lamp from its place, and thrust it into the waggon, crying with a voice that excitement had elevated into a scream, – “He’s alive still! – I’ll swear I heard him sigh! I know he’s alive!”

It is hard to say what strange conjectures might have been formed of the old man’s sanity, had he not backed his words by stooping down and lifting from the straw, at the bottom of the cart, the seemingly dead body of a boy, which, with the alacrity of one far younger, he carried up the steps, down the long arched passage, and into the kitchen, where he laid him down before the fire.

“Quick now, Ernest; run for the doctor! Away, Johan; bring the Staats Physicus – bring two – all of them in the town! Frau Hostess, warm water and salt – salt, to rub him with – I know he is alive!”

A shake of the head from the old hostess seemed to offer a strong dissent.

“Never mind that! He is not dead, though he did fall from the Riesenfels.”

“From the Riesenfels!” exclaimed three or four together in amazement.

“Who was it came galloping at full speed over the Bridge, and passed the grand guard on the Platz at the same disorderly pace?” said the deep voice of the Burger-meister, who arose from his bed to learn the cause of the tumult.

“It was I,” exclaimed Cristoph, ruggedly; “there lies the reason.”

“The penalty is all the same,” growled the man of authority: “four gulden for one, and two gulden thirty kreutzers for the other offence.”

Cristoph either did not hear or heed the speech.

“Where’s the mail-bag? I haven’t seen that yet,” chimed in the Post-master; who, like a wise official, followed the lead of the highest village functionary.

Old Cristoph bustled out, and soon returned, not only with the leathern sack in question, but with a huge fragment of a wooden cross over his shoulders.

“There’s the bag, Herr Post-meister, all safe and dry,” said he; “and here Herr Burger-meister, here’s your fine finger-post that the Governor ordered to be stuck up on the Riesenfels. I suppose they’ll need it again when the snow melts and the road is clear: though to be sure,” added he, in a lower tone, “he must have worse eyes than Old Cristoph who could not see his way to Imst from that cliff without a finger-post to guide him.”

The Burgermeister was not disposed to suffer this irony in silence; but the occasion to exert his authority with due severity was not at that moment, when the whole attention of the bystanders was directed to the proceedings of the three village doctors – one of them no less a personage than the Staats Physicus – who, with various hard terms of art, were discussing the condition of the senseless form before them.