If little Hans Jörgle could not contribute to the common stock by any efforts of his labour, his gentle, quiet nature, his guileless innocence, won for him the love of all the village. Old and young were pleased to see him, and to talk to him; for, child as he was, Hans had read a great many books, and could tell the most wonderful stories about the Swedes in the Thirty Years’ War, and also what happened in the long wars between Frederic of Prussia and the Austrians—stories that, if Hans were fond of telling, his audience were far more delighted to listen to. This amusing gift, joined to the claims of infirmity—for he was lame, the effect of a fall in his infancy—made him a favourite with every one; for even they—and the number was a small one—who could not relish his stores of narrative could feel compassion for the little fatherless boy, bereft of the means of earning a livelihood, and wholly dependent on one whose frail health gave little promise of long life.
Hans was tall and slight, and, but for his lameness, would haye been as remarkable for the symmetry of his form, as, even with it, he was for agility. His countenance was eminently handsome; the brow lofty, and the eyes, which were of the darkest blue, were set deeply; their habitual expression was one of great melancholy—not the sorrow of infirm health, or the depression of a heart in conflict with itself, but the sadness of a spirit too finely attuned for its daily associations—above, immeasurably above, all around in its ambitions, and yet an object of actual pity and compassion! The prevailing tone of his mind, though sorrowful, did not prevent his joining the village children at their play; nor was he, perhaps, the less welcome amongst them for those strange fits of absence which, seizing him in the midst of some rural sport, would make him forget all around, and burst out with some exciting anecdote of heroic daring, some bold achievement of the Austrians in their memorable battles with the Turks. Then, would the day cease; gradually gathering around him, the children would form a circle, soon to be strengthened by their elders, who took the most lively pleasure in these recitals,—tales which many a setting sun and rising moon shone upon.
It may have been remarked by the reader, that Hans’ literary stores were all military. Such was the case. Battles and sieges, campaigns and marches, were a passion so exclusive, that he had no interest left for any other form of reading. This may seem strange in one so young, and in one, too, whose nature was gentleness itself; his very infirmity, besides, might have turned his thoughts away from themes in which he never could be a participator: but how little have material influences power over the flight of a highly imaginative nature! His father’s stories as he sat at the fireside, his earliest lessons in reading, implanted the impulse, which the very events of the time served to strengthen and mature.
It was just the period when the Tyrol, crushed by the oppression of Bavaria, insulted and outraged in every feeling, had begun to think of vengeance. The transient success of the Austrians on the Danube animated the brave mountaineers, and cheered them with the hope of freedom. Already the low muttering of the distant storm was heard. Wherever a group of peasants gathered, their low whisperings, their resolute looks, their clenched hands, denoted some stern purpose. Secret Masses were said in the chapels for the “rescue of the Vaterland;” the ancient legends of the land were all remembered; sights and sounds of ominous meaning were reported to have been observed; all indicative of a speedy convulsion, all suggesting hope and courage. Rumour had told of conferences between the Archduke John of Austria and the Tyrol leaders; not failing to exaggerate the aid proffered by the Imperial Government in the event of a struggle. The ancient spirit of the land was up, and only waited the signal for the fight.
Remote and secluded as the little village of my story lay, the news of the coming conflict did not fail to reach it. Little Hans formed the link which bound them to the world of the valley beneath; and daily did he, in despite of lameness, descend the steep path that led to the Pontlatzer Brucke, bringing back with him towards nightfall the last rumours of the day. Vague and uncertain as they were, they were listened to with breathless eagerness. Sometimes, the intelligence merely announced a gathering of the peasants in a mountain glen; sometimes, the arrival of a messenger with secret despatches from Vienna. Now, Hofer had passed through Maltz the night before; now, it was a Bavarian reinforcement was seen arriving at Landeck.
These simple tidings had seemed of little meaning to their ears if Hans were not there to give them significance, filling up all the blanks by wise surmises, and suggesting reasons and causes for every thing. He had his own theory of the war—where the enemy should be met, and how; in what manner certain defiles should be defended, and how, in case of defeat, the scattered forces might re-unite; little views of strategy and tactics, that seemed like inspiration to the simple ears who beard him.
Hans’ tidings grew daily more important; and one evening he returned to the Kletscher with a sealed note for the Curate—a circumstance which excited the most intense curiosity in the Dorf. It was not long ungratified, for the old priest speedily appeared in the little square before the Vorsteher’s House, and announced that each evening, at sunset, a Mass would be said in the chapel, and a prayer invoked on all who loved “Gott, der Kaiser, und das Vaterland.” Hans was pressed on every side; some asking what was going on in the valley, others eager to hear if the Austrians had not been defeated, and that the Mass was for the slain. Hans knew less than usual; he could only tell that large bodies of the peasantry were seen ascending the mountain towards Landeck, armed with saws and hatchets, while kegs of blasting powder were borne along between others. “We shall know more, soon,” added Hans; “but come! the chapel is lighted already; the Mass has begun.”
How picturesque was the effect the chapel presented! The sun was setting, and its long golden rays, mingled with the red light of the tapers, tipping the rich draperies of the altar and its glittering vessels with a parti-coloured light; the kneeling figures of the peasantry, clad in all the varied colours of Tyrol taste; the men bronzed by sun and season, dark-bearded, stern, and handsome; the women fairer, but not less earnest in expression; the white-haired priest, dressed in a simple robe of white, with a blue scarf over it—the Bavarians had stripped the chapels even of the vestments of the clergy—the banners of the little volunteer battalion of the mountain waving overhead,—all, made up a picture simple and unpretending, but still solemn and impressive.
The Mass ended, the priest addressed a few words on the eventful position of the Vaterland—at first, in terms of vague, uncertain meaning; but growing warmer as he proceeded, more clearly and more earnestly, he told them that the “Wolves”—none needed to be told that Frenchmen were meant—that the “Wolves” were about to ravage the flocks and overrun the villages, as they had already done twice before; that the Bavarians, who should be their friends, were about to join their bitterest enemies; that although the “Gute Franzerl”—for so familiarly did they ever name the Emperor—wished them well, he could help them but little. “The Tyroler’s hand alone must save Tyrol,” he exclaimed. “If that cannot be, then God pity us; for there is no mercy to be looked for from our enemies!”
If many a bold and patriotic heart sorrowed over these things, not one felt them with a more intense sense of anguish than little Hans Jörgle. The French, who had crushed his country, had killed his father; and now they were coming to bring fire and sword among those lonely glens, where his widowed mother had hoped to live her last years peacefully. Oh! if he had been a man to stand beside his father in the day of battle, or if even now he could hope to see the time when he should be strong of limb as he was of heart... a burst of tears was the ever-present interruption to utterings which, in the eagerness of his devotion, he could not resist from making aloud.