Chapter 5

The Alpine caravansary was hardly settled at the Olm when the air became intensely hot and oppressive. Day by day black thunder-clouds gathered on the horizon. They crested the mountains in three directions, at times appearing to repel each other, at others marching fiercely on to conflict, when, the zenith becoming pitch-dark, they flung out long spears of lightning and exploded in overwhelming thunder. Very terrible were these perpetual storms. With the first peal the church-bells along the valley began solemnly to toll. It mattered not whether by night or day, the faithful bellringer was at his post, and with rain pouring down outside and fiery, vivid lightning playing around him, he still went tolling on, for evil spirits must be driven away, and people reminded to make the sign of the cross and pray God to protect them.

At length, to use an expression of Alois's, "Saint Florian had left off playing at skittles, and Saint Leonhard had driven his hay over the heavenly bridge." The warring elements were still, but the earth seemed smouldering with heat, and we panted and gasped after the lofty mountain-slopes which lay on all sides. At the same time it came most opportunely to our knowledge that the Tyrol was rich in baths--primitive establishments most of them, but dotted over mountain and valley, so that each village had half a dozen to choose from, where every peasant, be he ever so poor, could at least dip and soak for an eight-days' _sommerfrisch_. Why, then, should not the two Margarets, they being the most desirous of a change, have at least a _sommerfrisch_?

But which amongst all these baths was the one to choose? Good Kathi recommended her baths at Innichen. She herself evidently did not derive much pleasure from her yearly visits there. Still, we, being ladies, would find more people to talk to, and the bath-house, which was always full to overflowing, stood in a wood, and we liked trees. Schuster Alois--for the conversation took place before he left--said that most gentlefolks went to Maistall. There was not only _luxus_, but a great deal of life and spirit there. His Majesty Emperor Max as early as 1511 took up his quarters at Maistall during his campaign against the Venetians, and he had heard say that in the last century the visitors formed a society and made it a rule that none but the purest German should be spoken. Every fault of pronunciation cost a kreuzer to the offender: the money went to the chapel, and amounted one season to twenty-one florins six kreuzers.

But one Margaret decidedly objected to going to a place where there was the faintest chance of her _loiter wagon_ for _leiterwagen_, her _pison_ for _speisen_, her _vulgarborn_ for _wohlgeboren_, being fined by a _gazel-schaft (gesellschaft)_. Besides, these places sounded too grand: we did not want a Gastein, but a Wildbad, if one could be found that did not belie its name. So the peasant-baths of St. Vigil, Mühlbach and Scharst were named to us, and the lot fell upon Scharst, we having heard that all the school-children in town had just been taken there for a long day's holiday, and had returned to their proud and happy parents, who waited for them in double ranks below, radiant with pleasure, waving their banners and Alpine roses.

It was accordingly arranged that on the following Sunday Anton should drive us to Reischach, where there was to be a great festival, with candles in the church as big as a man's arm: so said a woman from Reischach. Anton was of a retiring nature, and did not like crowds, but he would gladly drive the ladies over. And at Reischach we should be sure to find some peasant returning that evening by Scharst, who could carry our belongings.

Imagine us, therefore, at Reischach, the church-bell ringing for vespers, which begin at one o'clock. We wear bouquets of carnations and rosemary, presented to us by the family at the Hof, as correct decorations for a festival. And Anton!--how to present him to you as he deserves to be presented? His truthful, guileless face is his best ornament: nevertheless, he too wears carnations and rosemary caught in the silver cord and vieing with the silver tassels of his broad-brimmed, low-crowned beaver hat. His rough jacket, made by the tailor last autumn, and therefore too new to be worn on a less special occasion, is short and loose enough to leave ample space for the display of his _rauge_, or broad leather belt of softest chamois-skin, worked in scrolls surrounding his name, with split peacock quills, no little resembling Indian handicraft. His snow-white knees appear between his short leather breeches and his bright blue knitted stockings. These Nature's garters, when perfectly white, are regarded as a mark of great distinction amongst the dandies, and those of our Anton may be considered the very _knee plus ultra_.

A parliament of men--a few still in breeches with Hessian boots, which appeared a characteristic of Reischach, but the majority, having succumbed to modern ideas, wearing trowsers--were seated in the shadow of a comfortable house, discussing the different stages of their rye and flax crops. Their wives and daughters, following their natural impulse, were already kneeling in church, confiding their cares of kitchen and farmyard to the ever-ready ear of _Mutter Gottes_--one dense mass of simple, believing women, in broad-brimmed beaver hats, with here and there a conical woolen beehive as a contrast.

The church in itself, although it lacked the candles as big as a man's arm, must truly have shone like the gate of heaven to peasant eyes. Many of the more substantial families had lent their private saints for the occasion. They had brought Holy Nothburgs and Saint Leonhards and Virgins, generally preserved in wardrobes at home, but now brought to participate in the festival, besides adding to its great solemnity. It was Scapulary Sunday, we were told, and although the words conveyed no clear idea to us, we were soon to learn their significance. A Tyrolese anthem having been sung by some invisible voices, in which jodels leapt up and smothered Gregorians, a middle-aged Capuchin took his stand in the pulpit, and having greeted the congregation, promised to explain to them the mystery and the advantage of the Holy Scapulary.

"My beloved," he began, "there are some who think too little of the scapulary, and there are others who lay too great a stress on this aid to faith. Let us meditate on both these conditions. But first, how must we ourselves regard the scapulary? Now, we are told not to love the world nor the things of the world. The scapulary, with its sacred image of Mary worn next the heart, is a great shield against this love of the world. It places you under the especial protection of the Queen of Heaven: you are as much her servant as those who serve king or kaiser, and equally wear her livery. Some think too little of the scapulary. Yet what incidents can be told of its efficacy! Let one suffice. In the year 1866, when the war raged between Austria and Prussia, the Catholic soldiers of the latter country immediately before the war entered by hundreds into the Society of the Scapulary. Wearing this sacred charm upon their hearts, they went into the battle-field, and the cannons roared and the bullets whizzed thick and fast around them, and not one of them fell, for they wore the scapulary. Indeed, their miraculous preservation created so much excitement that Lutherans marveled over it, and asked the Catholics how it came that they were no whit hurt. And they answered, 'We wear the scapulary of Mary, and she saves us.' Then many Lutherans said, 'Come, we will have scapularies,' and wrote their names down in the society. And now hark ye, my brethren. There was a Catholic soldier, and there was a Lutheran, and the latter said, 'Lend me thy scapulary for this one day only, and see, here is a thaler for thee.' Then the foolish Catholic drew the scapulary off his neck, handed it to the Lutheran, took the thaler, went into battle: whiz went the bullets round him, and he fell."

We could stand no more. The church, now crowded with men as well as women, reeked with perspiration, the sermon oppressed us, and thus our sense and senses drove us out into the open air. Here the fresh breeze came across from the Ziller snow-fields, health-giving as a breath from heaven. Peasant-women who were too late to squeeze into church were seated amongst the iron crosses of the graves. The more serious-minded had managed to cluster together round a side-door which, being adjacent to the pulpit, proved an advantageous spot for hearing. The less particular sat in the shade, feeling it sufficient to be in holy ground and to pass their beads through their fingers whilst they studied up our novel attire. Approaching the more attentive members, we found that the Capuchin had reached the second part of his discourse, and was dilating on those who thought too highly of the scapulary. We gathered the following fragment:

"Now, the man was nigh unto death, and it was neither for confession nor for the death-sacrament that he craved. No, it was for a scapulary. 'A scapulary!' he cried, 'a scapulary!' My brethren, you know well he should have asked for the priest and for the blessing of the Church, but it was merely for a scapulary."

Later on we asked permission to see a scapulary. It consisted of two small squares of cloth, herring-boned round the edge, and united by a narrow ribbon of sufficient length to permit one square to rest on the breast, whilst the other hung between the shoulders. That in front bore the image of the Virgin, designed by the nuns in the convent, whilst the simpler work had been given to some poor old woman, or even man, who was past harder employment. The privilege of wearing this charmed badge entailed the payment of a small yearly subscription and the repetition of seven Paternosters daily.

The procession followed the sermon. Mary, Joseph, Saint Nothburg (once a good peasant-girl, now a saint) were paraded round the village by children, and borne back to church. Peasant-men staggered under large silk banners, which swayed and fluttered in the blustery wind, and, but for the steady grasp of the strong men who carried them, threatening at each moment to crush the pious throng. The four chief peasants of the district, wearing their robes of state, the Noah's ark coats in which they were married, bore the baldachin over the head of the Capuchin who elevated the Host: the village priest, in white surplice and Hessian boots, swung the censer at his side. The men were in front, the women, a long, broad file, divided in the procession by the priests from their male relations, followed--a dense black mass, but relieved in color by the whiteness of their short linen sleeves.

Men and women, carefully severed in their prayers and on the very steps of the altar by Holy Church, were soon able to come together again under the spacious, hospitable roof of Herr Kappler, the wirth. Innumerable clean wooden tables, forms, and stiff, high-legged wooden chairs were ranged up stairs and down stairs and in the orchard without, for the accommodation of the scapularists and their friends.

We sat at a side-table in an upper room partaking of grilled fowl and salad, whilst _buben_ and their _dirnen_, or lads and their lasses, middle-aged couples, old men and women, poured into the house, filling every chair, bench and table. They came thither from all the country-side, and endless were the greetings amongst cousins and cousins' cousins. The Tyrolese, like the Scotch, keep up every link of relationship, claiming the fiftieth cousin. Relationship, in fact, never does die out; and though it may become an abstract during busy seasons of ploughing and sowing, it becomes a strong reality at wakes and festivals. Thus, at Kappler's, on this scapulary afternoon, Barthel's brother-in-law's cousin drank with "Cousin Barthel," and Seppl's sister-in-law's niece was treated by "Onkel Seppl." There was one square-built, good-humored old man who appeared to be the whole world's cousin: he passed from table to table, and had to sip from fifty offered glasses.

With our delicious coffee and boiled cream we ordered the host, as a suitable person, to find us a guide to carry our valise and shawls to Bad Scharst. Probably the perpetual and loud demands for pints of wine left him but little time to make a wise selection, seeing that there soon stood before us a small man with so subtle and malignant a look that his exorbitant demand made us only too gladly dismiss him. Our confidence shaken in the landlord's powers of discrimination, we sent word below that if Anton had returned we should be glad to speak with him. He had been in the village to visit his cousins, but was waiting our orders below. Although his native shyness made it hard for him to step forward and address ladies under the curious gaze of all the relative Seppls and Barthels, he did it with manliness, and turning round and addressing the popular old man as Hansel, asked him if his brother Jörgel were below; and being answered in the affirmative, he hastened away, and returned with another compact little peasant, whom he introduced to us as Senner Franz's brother, with an aside, that he was "a friendly mortal and Count Arlberg's forester."

The agreement was soon made, the sullen-looking man glowering at us from behind a stack of firewood, whilst Hansel and Anton packed a _kraxe_ or wooden frame and fixed it on Jörgel's back. As we set off, Anton drove away homeward, although the skittle-balls were just beginning to roll, and the sound of "I bin a lustiger bua" and other Tyrolese songs came floating from the windows.

MARGARET HOWITT.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

SAINT ROMUALDO.

I give God thanks that I, a lean old man, Wrinkled, infirm, and crippled with keen pains By austere penance and continuous toil, Now rest in spirit, and possess "the peace Which passeth understanding." Th' end draws nigh, Though the beginning is as yesterday, And a broad lifetime spreads 'twixt this and that-- A favored life, though outwardly the butt Of ignominy, malice and affront, Yet lighted from within by the clear star Of a high aim, and graciously prolonged To see at last its utmost goal attained. I speak not of mine Order and my House, Here founded by my hands and filled with saints-- A white society of snowy souls, Swayed by my voice, by mine example led; For this is but the natural harvest reaped From labors such as mine when blessed by God. Though I rejoice to think my spirit still Will work my purposes, through worthy hands, After my bones are shriveled into dust, Yet have I gleaned a finer, sweeter fruit Of holy satisfaction, sure and real, Though subtler than the tissue of the air-- The power completely to detach the soul From her companion through this life, the flesh; So that in blessed privacy of peace, Communing with high angels, she can hold, Serenely rapt, her solitary course.

Ye know, O saints of heaven, what I have borne Of discipline and scourge; the twisted lash Of knotted rope that striped my shrinking limbs; Vigils and fasts protracted, till my flesh Wasted and crumbled from mine aching bones, And the last skin, one woof of pain and sores, Thereto like yellow parchment loosely clung; Exposure to the fever and the frost, When 'mongst the hollows of the hills I lurked From persecution of misguided folk, Accustoming my spirit to ignore The burden of the cross, while picturing The bliss of disembodied souls, the grace Of holiness, the lives of sainted men, And entertaining all exalted thoughts, That nowise touched the trouble of the hour, Until the grief and pain seemed far less real Than the creations of my brain inspired. The vision, the beatitude, were true: The agony was but an evil dream. I speak not now as one who hath not learned The purport of those lightly-bandied words, Evil and Fate, but rather one who knows The thunders of the terrors of the world. No mortal chance or change, no earthly shock, Can move or reach my soul, securely throned On heights of contemplation and calm prayer, Happy, serene, no less with actual joy Of present peace than faith in joys to come.

This soft, sweet, yellow evening, how the trees Stand crisp against the clear, bright-colored sky! How the white mountain-tops distinctly shine, Taking and giving radiance, and the slopes Are purpled with rich floods of peach-hued light! Thank God, my filmy, old dislustred eyes Find the same sense of exquisite delight, My heart vibrates to the same touch of joy In scenes like this, as when my pulse danced high, And youth coursed through my veins! This the one link That binds the wan old man that now I am To the wild lad who followed up the hounds Among Ravenna's pine-woods by the sea. For there how oft would I lose all delight In the pursuit, the triumph or the game, To stray alone among the shadowy glades, And gaze, as one who is not satisfied With gazing, at the large, bright, breathing sea, The forest glooms, and shifting gleams between The fine dark fringes of the fadeless trees, On gold-green turf, sweetbrier and wild pink rose! How rich that buoyant air with changing scent Of pungent pine, fresh flowers and salt cool seas! And when all echoes of the chase had died, Of horn and halloo, bells and baying hounds, How mine ears drank the ripple of the tide On that fair shore, the chirp of unseen birds, The rustling of the tangled undergrowth, And the deep lyric murmur of the pines, When through their high tops swept the sudden breeze! There was my world, there would my heart dilate, And my aspiring soul dissolve in prayer Unto that Spirit of Love whose energies Were active round me, yet whose presence, sphered In the unsearchable, unbodied air, Made itself felt, but reigned invisible. This ere the day that from my past divides My present, and that made me what I am. Still can I see the hot, bright sky, the sea illimitably sparkling, as they showed That morning. Though I deemed I took no note Of heaven or earth or waters, yet my mind Retains to-day the vivid portraiture Of every line and feature of the scene. Light-hearted 'midst the dewy lanes I fared Unto the sea, whose jocund gleam I caught Between the slim boles, when I heard the clink Of naked weapons, then a sudden thrust Sickening to hear, and then a stifled groan; And pressing forward I beheld the sight That seared itself for ever on my brain-- My kinsman, Ser Ranieri, on the turf, Fallen upon his side, his bright young head Among the pine-spurs, and his cheek pressed close Unto the moist, chill sod: his fingers clutched A handful of loose weeds and grass and earth, Uprooted in his anguish as he fell, And slowly from his heart the thick stream flowed, Fouling the green, leaving the fair, sweet face Ghastly, transparent, with blue, stony eyes Staring in blankness on that other one Who triumphed over him. With hot desire Of instant vengeance I unsheathed my sword To rush upon the slayer, when he turned In his first terror of blood-guiltiness.

* * * * *

Within my heart a something snapped and brake. What was it but the chord of rapturous joy For ever stilled? I tottered and would fall, Had I not leaned against the friendly pine; For all realities of life, unmoored From their firm anchorage, appeared to float Like hollow phantoms past my dizzy brain. The strange delusion wrought upon my soul That this had been enacted ages since. This very horror curdled at my heart, This net of trees spread round, these iron heavens, Were closing over me when I had stood, Unnumbered cycles back, and fronted _him,_ My father; and he felt mine eyes as now, Yet saw me not; and then, as now, that form, The one thing real, lay stretched between us both. The fancy passed, and I stood sane and strong To grasp the truth. Then I remembered all-- A few fierce words between them yester eve Concerning some poor plot of pasturage, Soon silenced into courteous, frigid calm: This was the end. I could not meet him now, To curse him, to accuse him, or to save, And draw him from the red entanglement Coiled by his own hands round his ruined life. God pardon me! My heart that moment held No drop of pity toward this wretched soul; And cowering down, as though his guilt were mine, I fled amidst the savage silences Of that grim wood, resolved to nurse alone My boundless desolation, shame and grief.

There, in that thick-leaved twilight of high noon, The quiet of the still, suspended air, Once more my wandering thoughts were calmly ranged, Shepherded by my will. I wept, I prayed A solemn prayer, conceived in agony, Blessed with response instant, miraculous; For in that hour my spirit was at one With Him who knows and satisfies her needs. The supplication and the blessing sprang From the same source, inspired divinely both. I prayed for light, self-knowledge, guidance, truth, And these like heavenly manna were rained down To feed my hungered soul. His guilt _was_ mine. What angel had been sent to stay mine arm Until the fateful moment passed away That would have ushered an eternity Of withering remorse? I found the germs In mine own heart of every human sin, That waited but occasion's tempting breath To overgrow with poisoned bloom my life. What God thus far had saved me from myself? Here was the lofty truth revealed, that each Must feel himself in all, must know where'er The great soul acts or suffers or enjoys, His proper soul in kinship there is bound. Then my life-purpose dawned upon my mind, Encouraging as morning. As I lay, Crushed by the weight of universal love, Which mine own thoughts had heaped upon myself, I heard the clear chime of a slow, sweet bell. I knew it--whence it came and what it sang. From the gray convent nigh the wood it pealed, And called the monks to prayer. Vigil and prayer, Clean lives, white days of strict austerity: Such were the offerings of these holy saints. How far might such not tend to expiate A riotous world's indulgence? Here my life, Doubly austere and doubly sanctified, Might even for that other one atone, So bound to mine, till both should be forgiven.

They sheltered me, not questioning the need That led me to their cloistered solitude. How rich, how freighted with pure influence, With dear security of perfect peace, Was the first day I passed within those walls! The holy habit of perpetual prayer, The gentle greetings, the rare temperate speech, The chastening discipline, the atmosphere Of settled and profound tranquillity, Were even as living waters unto one Who perisheth of thirst. Was this the world That yesterday seemed one huge battle-field For brutish passions? Could the soul of man Withdraw so easily, and erect apart Her own fair temple for her own high ends? But this serene contentment slowly waned As I discerned the broad disparity Betwixt the form and spirit of the laws That bound the order in strait brotherhood. Yet when I sought to gain a larger love, More rigid discipline, severer truth, And more complete surrender of the soul Unto her God, this was to my reproach, And scoffs and gibes beset me on all sides. In mine own cell I mortified my flesh, I held aloof from all my brethren's feasts To wrestle with my viewless enemies, Till they should leave their blessing on my head; For nightly was I haunted by that face, White, bloodless, as I saw it 'midst the ferns, Now staring out of darkness, and it held Mine eyes from slumber and my brain from rest And drove me from my straw to weep and pray. Rebellious thoughts such subtle torture wrought Upon my spirit that I lay day-long In dumb despair, until the blessed hope Of mercy dawned again upon my soul, As gradual as the slow gold moon that mounts The airy steps of heaven. My faith arose With sure perception that disaster, wrong, And every shadow of man's destiny Are merely circumstance, and cannot touch The soul's fine essence: they exist or die Only as she affirms them or denies.

This faith sustains me even to the end: It floods my heart with peace as surely now As on that day the friars drove me forth, Urging that my asceticism, too harsh, Endured through pride, would bring into reproach Their customs and their order. Then began My exile in the mountains, where I bode A hunted man. The elements conspired Against me, and I was the seasons' sport, Drenched, parched, and scorched and frozen alternately, Burned with shrewd frosts, prostrated by fierce heats, Shivering 'neath chilling dews and gusty rains, And buffeted by all the winds of heaven. Yet was this period my time of joy: My daily thoughts perpetual converse held With angels ministrant; mine ears were charmed With sweet accordance of celestial sounds, Song, harp and choir, clear ringing through the air. And visions were revealed unto mine eyes By night and day of Heaven's very courts, In shadowless, undimmed magnificence. I gave God thanks, not that He sheltered me, And fed me as He feeds the fowls of air-- For had I perished, this too had been well-- But for the revelation of His truth, The glory, the beatitude vouchsafed To exalt, to heal, to quicken, to inspire; So that the pinched, lean excommunicate Was crowned with joy more solid, more secure, Than all the comfort of the vales could bring. Then the good Lord touched certain fervid hearts, Aspiring toward His love, to come to me, Timid and few at first; but as they heard From mine own lips the precious oracles, That soothed the trouble of their souls, appeased Their spiritual hunger, and disclosed All of the God within them to themselves, They flocked about me, and they hailed me saint, And sware to follow and to serve the good Which my word published and my life declared. Thus the lone hermit of the mountain-top Descended leader of a band of saints, And midway 'twixt the summit and the vale I perched my convent. Yet I bated not One whit of strict restraint and abstinence. And they who love me and who serve the truth Have learned to suffer with me, and have won The supreme joy that is not of the flesh, Foretasting the delights of Paradise. This faith, to them imparted, will endure After my tongue hath ceased to utter it, And the great peace hath settled on my soul.

EMMA LAZARUS.

A PRINCESS OF THULE.

BY WILLIAM BLACK, AUTHOR OF "THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON."