In 1824, a tardy act of justice was done by the Emperor of Austria. The remains of Hofer were removed to Botzen; and thence, in solemn procession, to Innsbruck, where they were interred in the imperial church, on the day following the fourteenth anniversary of his execution. The Tyrolese flocked to join the funeral in astonishing multitudes. The governor of the Tyrol took part in it; the nobles and dignitaries of the land swelled the train; long columns of imperial troops slowly marched to the solemn strains of music that befit a soldier's funeral. Then came the priests in their sacred vestments, with crosier and crucifix borne aloft. On the coffin lay Hofer's hat, sword, gold chain, and medal. Twelve of his brother innkeepers bore the pall, and many of his companions in arms followed in the procession. The Abbot of Wiltau pronounced the funeral benediction,—a requiem was chanted; and then—they left his perishable remains with all the honours that perishable men have to give.
A monument has since been erected over his tomb, which is not far from that giant-guarded one of the Emperor Maximilian, and excites as much interest, though of a different kind. His statue well represents him in his accustomed peasant-garb, his face turned heavenward, one hand grasping the national banner, the other holding the barrel of the rifle slung from his shoulder. His sword-belt bears his initials, and the date of the Year Nine. The whole embodies your conception of the man.
His name continues to be a dangerous spell. It is spoken under the breath, if spoken at all. Gold cannot buy any memoir of his life in the Tyrol. The German accounts of him are in the highest degree depreciating. His poor relics in the Innsbruck Museum were at one time deemed too exciting to be seen. But his spirit still lives among the mountains: his name will never perish.
It was soon after the statue had been erected, that a couple of men might have been seen attentively gazing upon it. The taller and elder of the two leant strongly on the shoulder of the younger—the likeness they bore one another bespoke them father and son.
Speckbacher gazed long and earnestly—then dashed away a tear. "'Tis himself," murmured he, in a low, emphatic voice; "as like as stone can be to flesh and blood. See, Anderl! how a plain, homely, upright man may achieve fame! But yet this sinks into nothing, compared with his heavenly reward."
THE END.
R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL.