If our task as story-teller had not other claims on us, we would gladly linger with Nelly Dalton, as, in company with Hanserl and old Andy, she wended her slow way through the deep valleys of the Schwartz wald. The little party might have created astonishment in even more frequented districts than the primitive tract in which they journeyed, and have suggested many a puzzling doubt as to what rank or condition they belonged to. For Andy's convenience Hans had purchased an ass and a small cart, such as are sometimes used by the travelling beggars of every land. Seated in this, and in his old hunting-cap and scarlet coat, the old man fancied it was some pleasure excursion, or that he was “trundling along” to “cover,” as he used to do sixty years ago. Nelly walked at his side, now roused from her deep musings to reply to some meaningless question of the old man, or now feeding her sad memories as she listened to the little snatches of song which occasionally broke from him. Hanserl formed the rear-guard, making with his redoubted battle-axe and a most formidable old Turkish pistol, not the least singular figure in the procession. Their very baggage too had something strange and incomprehensible to common eyes; for, amidst stray scraps of old armor, the little remnants of Hanserl's collection, were to be seen an unfinished figure by Nelly's hand, or the rude beginning of some new group. Along with these were books and tools, and an infinity of queer costumes, of the dwarfs own designing, for various seasons of the year.
Still, there was no impertinence in the curiosity that met them. If Andy's strange equipage and stranger dress might have raised a smile, Nelly's gentle look and modest air as rapidly checked it, and they who would have laughed outright at Hanserl's mock-chieftainship were subdued to a respectful deference by the placid dignity of her who walked before him. It was in that memorable year whose doings are recorded in our memory with all the solemn force of History, and all the distinct and vivid effect of events passing before our own eyes; that era, when Thrones rocked and tottered, and kings, who seemed destined to transmit their crowns to unborn generations, became exiles, and cast away, their state a mockery, and their princely homes given up to pillage; when the brightest day-dreams of good men became bound up with the wildest imaginings of the bold and the bad, and the word Freedom comprehended all that was most glorious in self-devotion, and all that was most relentless in hate,——in that troubled time, Hanserl wisely sought out the districts of mountain and crag—the homes of the hunter—in preference to the more travelled roads, and prudently preferred even the devious windings of the solitary glens to the thronged and peopled highways that connected great cities.
His plan was to direct their steps through the Vorarlberg into the Tyrol, where, in a small village near Meran, his mother still lived. There, in case of need, Nelly would find a refuge, and, at all events, could halt while he explored the way to Vienna, and examined how far it might be safe for her to proceed thither. Even in all her affliction, out of the depths of a sorrow so devoid of hope, Nelly felt the glorious influence of the grand scenery through which they travelled. The giant mountains, snow-capped in early autumn; the boundless forests that stretched along their sides; the foaming cataracts as they fell in sheets of hissing water; the tranquil lakes that reflected tower and cliff and spire; the picturesque village, where life seemed to ripple on as peacefully as the clear stream before the peasant's door; the song of the birds, the tolling of the bells, the laugh of the children; the Alp horn answered from cliff to cliff, and dying away in distant echo,—all these were realizations of many a girlish hope, when she wished her father to seek out some secluded village, and pass a life of obscure but united labor. There was no Quixotism in the fancy. She knew well what it was to toil and work; to rise early, and go late to rest; to feed on coarse fare, and be clad in mean attire. All that poverty can inflict of privation she had tasted, but fearlessly and with a bold heart; self-reliance elevating her thoughts above every little adverse incident, and giving to her struggle that character of a task, a holy and a righteous task, which made at once her life's purpose and reward.
Scarcely a village at which they halted that did not strike her as like what her mind had often pictured for “their own,” and many a quaint old house, with its carved galleries and latticed porch, she stood to gaze on, fancying it their home and peopling every spot with the forms of those she loved. Oh! why had they not chosen this humble road?—why had their “Paths in Life” separated?—were the bitter reflections which now filled her eyes with tears and made her bosom heave almost to bursting. She did not foolishly suppose that the peasant can claim exemption from the trials and crosses of life, and that sorrow finds no entrance into remote and unfrequented tracts, but she knew that such burdens would not be too heavy for their strength, and that, while living a life of unpretending poverty, they should be free from the slavery of an assumed position, and able to combat the world fairly and honestly.
Of all lands the Tyrol is best suited to foster such feelings as these. There is a harmony and a keeping about it that is rarely found elsewhere. The dwellings of the people, so according with the character of the scenery; the costumes, the greetings, the songs of the peasantry; their simple and touching piety; their manners, so happily blending independence with courtesy, are felt at once as a charm, and give a color to the enjoyment of every one who sojourns amongst them. These were the sights and sounds which, better than all the blandishments of wealth, could soothe poor Nelly's sorrow, and make her thankful in the midst of her afflictions even to have witnessed them. As for Hanserl, his excitement grew daily higher as he passed the Arlberg and drew near the spots he had seen in childhood. Now preparing some little surprise for Nelly, as they turned the angle of a cliff and gazed down upon a terrible gorge beneath; now apprising her of some little shrine where pious wayfarers were wont to halt and pray; now speculating if the old host of the village inn would be alive, or still remember him, he went along merrily, occasionally singing some “Alp Lied,” or calling to mind some ancient legend of the scene through which they journeyed. Above all, however, was his delight at the thought of seeing his old mother again. No sense of disappointment dashed this pleasure because he was returning poor and penniless. Home and the “Frau Mutter,” as he reverently called her, had their hold upon his heart quite distinct from every accident of fortune. To tell her of all he had seen in far-away lands,—for Hanserl thought himself a great traveller; to describe the great Cathedral of Worms, its vaulted aisles and painted windows, its saintly effigies and deep-toned organ, and the thousands who could kneel before the high altar! Then, what marvellous relics were there to describe!—not to speak of the memorable valley at Eschgau, where “Siegfried slew the Dragon.” Poor Hans! the scenes of his youth had made him young again, and it was the very triumph of his joy when he could interest Nelly in some story, or make her listen with attention to the rude verses of some “Tyroler” poem.
Gladly would we linger with them as they went slowly along through the deep valley of Landech, and, halting a day at the Pontlatzer Brücke, that Hans might describe the heroic defence of his countrymen against the French and Bavarian forces, and then, skirting along the Engadine, came in sight of the great Orteler Spitze,—the highest of the Tyrol Alps. And now they reached Nauders, and traversing a wild and dreary mountain tract, where even in autumn the snow is seen in clefts and crevices of the rock, they gradually gain the crest of the ridge, and look down at length on glorious Meran with the devotion of the pilgrim in sight of the Holy City. Hans knelt down and prayed fervently as his eyes beheld that garden valley with its vine-clad slopes and waving woods; its silvery river gliding along beneath bright villages and feudal castles. But soon he saw them no longer, for his eyes swam over with tears, and he sobbed like a child.
“There, Fräulein, yonder, where you see the river winding to the southward, you see an old tower,—'the Passayer Turm,' it is called; the 'Fräu Mutter' lives there. I see some one in the garden.” And, overcome by emotion, he hid his face and wept.
Near as they seemed to the end of their journey, it was night ere they gained the valley at the foot of the mountain. The cottages were closed, and, except in the town—still about a mile distant—not a light was to be seen. The Tyrolers are an early race, and retire to rest soon after dusk. Hanserl, however, wanted no guidance to the way, and trudged along in front of the cart, following each winding of the track as though he had gone it but the day before. Except a chance caution about the road, he never spoke,—his heart was full of “home.” The fatigue of a long day's journey, and the cold of the night air, had made Andy querulous and discontented, and it was all Nelly could do to answer the fretful questions and soothe down the irritation of the old man; but Hans heard nothing of either. At last they reached a little open space formed by a bend in the river, and came in sight of the old tower, at the foot of which, and abutting against it, stood a small cottage. A light gleamed from a little window, and no sooner had Hans seen it than he exclaimed,——
“Gott sey dank! Fräulein, she is well. That is the Fräu Mutter.”