Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume II

His eye, for some minutes, would often seem bright with intelligence; but on looking more closely, it would be discovered that the gaze was fixed on vacancy, and it might be conjectured that no image of any near object was presented to the mind, since no expression of pain, pleasure, or astonishment would follow, when different substances were displayed before him. One might say, that the faculties were entirely absorbed by their own operations, and neither took note of those recorded by the senses, nor had any sympathy with their workings – volition wad at a stand-still. But why dwell on so sorrowful a picture?

Spring came, and Fritz, who ever obeyed each command of those over him, was suffered to walk daily in the little garden of the asylum. One day – it was the first bright one of the new season – the birds were singing sweetly in the trees when he went forth, and they who came some time after to fetch him to the house, found him in tears. His sorrow seemed, however, to have brought some sense of relief with it, for that night he slept more calmly and longer than usual. From this time out it was remarked that his appearance varied with the weather of each day. When the air was clear, and the sun shone bright, and the birds gathered together in the blossoming branches of the fruit-trees, he seemed happier; but when dark skies or rain came on, he would walk impatiently from place to place – now, as if in search of some missing object – now, as if suddenly overwhelmed by his loss.

Thus did he continue till about the first week in May, when at the usual hour of recalling him to the house he was not to be found. Search was made every where – through the garden – about the neighbouring buildings – in all the Dorf – but all in vain. No one had seen him.

Poor and unfriended as he was, his little simple ways, his sinless innocence and gentleness, had made him friends among all who had any authority in the asylum; and no pains were spared to track him out and discover him – to no end, however. He was seen there no more. Days and weeks long, with unwearying zeal, the search continued, and was only abandoned when all hope seemed gone. By none was this sad termination of his suffering more poignantly felt than by old Cristoph. Every week he came to Imst, his first care was to ask after the little boy; and when he learned his fate, his grief was deep and heartfelt.

I know not if my reader has ever visited Inspruck.

Every one has been every where nowadays; and so the chances are, that the Tyrol capital is as well known to them as to myself. At all the hazard of being tedious, however, I must mention one feature of that beautiful old city – a little street which leads out of the Old Market, and runs westward down a somewhat steep declivity towards the Inn. It is one of those narrow, old, gloomy alleys a traveller would scarcely think of exploring. A low range of arches, supported on pillars of the most sturdy proportions, runs along either side, furnished with massive stone seats, worn smooth by the use of some centuries of gossips. The little shops within this dark arcade are undefended by windows of any kind, but lie open, displaying to the passer-by, not only the various wares exposed for sale, but frequently, as the wind, or chance, waves the folds of an old curtain at the back, the little household of the merchant himself.

The middle portion of this street, scarcely wide enough for three to walk abreast, grows even narrower as you look up, by the gradual encroachment of each story on either side; so that while the denizens of the first-floors have merely the neighbourly advantages of a near salutation, they who inhabit the garrets may embrace without any fear on the score of bodily danger. Our business is only with those beneath, however, and thither I must ask of your accompanying me.

If the two groined arches – dark with age as well as feint light – the narrow gloomy-looking alley, might at first deter the stranger from entering, scarcely would he venture a few steps ere a strange fascination would lead him onward. Within these little dens – for such rather than shops do they seem – are objects to be found, the strangest and the most curious ever exposed for sale. In one, you find a collection of ancient armour the greatest Ritter Saal would be proud to choose from: – weapons of every age and country – the chain-mail of Milan – the plate-armour of Venice – the heavy double-nailed suits of Regens-bourg – the small conical helmet of the East – the massive but beautifully fashioned casque of Spanish mould – the blade of Damascus – the double-handled sword of Appenzell – the jereed – the Crusader’s lance – the old pike of the Tyrol, with daggers and poniards of every shape, that luxury or cruelty ever invented. Adjoining this, perhaps, lives one who deals in rare flowers and shrubs; and, strange as it may seem in such a place, the orange-tree, the cactus, the camellia, and the aloe, shed their bloom and perfume through these vaulted cells, where age, and rust, and decay would appear the most fitting denizens. Here, lives one who sells the rich brocaded silks and tabourets of a by-gone century – great flowering waistcoats, stiff and imposing as the once wearers – huge sweeping trains of costly embroidery – relics of a time when stateliness was cultivated, and dignified deportment the distinctive sign of birth. Right opposite to this is a store of ancient articles of furniture and virtù– marquetry and buhl – Dresden and Sèvres – carved oak and ebony – ivory and box-wood. All that ever fancy conceived uncomfortable to sit upon, or a diseased imagination ever inaugurated as the throne of nightmare to sleep in – are here to be had. Stools to kneel upon and altars to kneel at – Virgins in ivory and silver – idols of Indian adoration – ancient goblets, and most curiously carved treasure-boxes of solid iron, massive little emblems of a time when men put slight faith in bankers.

A little further on you may meet with a jeweller’s, where ornaments the most rare and costly are to be found: massive old necklaces of amethyst or emerald, in which the ungainly setting bears such a contrast to the value of the stone – rich clasps of pink topaz or ruby, for the collar of a cloak – sword-handles all paved with precious gems – and signet-rings, that have circled the fingers of proud Counts of the Empire, and, mayhap, sealed with their impress many a dark and gloomy record.

Some deal in old books and manuscripts, ancient rolls, and painted missals; some, in curious relics of horse-equipment, brass-mounted demi-piques and iron-strapped saddles of the sixteenth century, with spurs of a foot in length, and uncouth bits that would hold an elephant in check: and one little dusky corner-shop, kept by an old hunchback, contained the strangest of all stocks-in-trade, – an assemblage of instruments of torture: chains of every kind hung from the ceiling; thumb-screws, back-bolts, helmets made to close upon the skull, and crushed by the action of a vice; racks, hatchets, and pincers; while conspicuous in the midst, as the support of an old iron lantern, is the block of a headsman, the surface bearing the shocking record of its usage. Just where this grim and ghastly cell stands, a little rivulet of clear water crosses the street, and seems to separate it from the remaining portion, which, by a steeper declivity, inclined towards the river.

Separate, indeed, I might well say, for the two portions are as unlike as the records of all man’s vanity and cruelty are unlike the emblem of Gods goodness and wisdom. You scarcely cross this tiny stream when the whole air resounds with the warbling of birds, bright in every tint and hue of plumage, golden and green, purple and crimson.

From the lordly eagle of the Ortiler to the rich-toned linnet of the Botzen valley, all are there. There, the paroquet of the Stelvio, gorgeous as the scarlet bustard in plumage; and here, the golden jay of the Vorarlberg. Blackbirds, thrushes, finches of a hundred different races, “Roth kopfs,” and woodpeckers, spring, chirp, flutter, and scream, on every side. The very atmosphere is tremulous with the sounds, lifelike and joyous as they are! The very bustle and movement around is such a relief from the torpid stillness of the other end of the street, where nothing is heard save the low monotonous tones of some old Jew reading in his back-shop, or the harsh clank of an iron weapon removed from its place; while, here, the merry twitter and the silvery-shake recall the greenwood and the grove, the bright fields and heath-clad mountains.

Here is the bird-market of Inspruck. It needs but one passing glance to shew what attractions the spot possesses for the inhabitants. Every rank, from the well-salaried official of the government to the humblest burgher – from the richly clad noble in his mantle of Astracan, to the peasant in his dark jacket of sheep’s skin – the field officer and the common soldier – the “Frau Grafin” voluminous in furs – the “Stuben madchen” in her woollen jerkin – the lounging sexagenarian from his coffee – the loitering school-boy returning from school – all jostle and meet together here; while the scantiest intimacy with the language will suffice to collect from the frequently uttered, “Wie schön!” “Ach Gott!” “Wie wunderschon!” that admiration and delight are expressed by every tongue among them.

It is needless to say, that every corner of this little territory is familiar to all Inspruckers; not only each shop and its owner, but each separate treasure. The newly arrived bullfinch, or greywing, having the notoriety that a Parisian circulates about the last débutante of the ballet or the opera. If not exactly one of those “lions,” that guide-books enforce among the duties of wandering sight-seers, it is at least a frequent resort of the town’s-folk themselves, for whose gratification it supplies no small proportion of small-talk.

Among the well-known and familiar objects of this small world – for such the Juden Gasse in reality is – was a poor boy of some twelve years old, who, clad in the most wretched rags, and with want in every feature, used to sit the live-long day on one of the stone benches watching the birds. It needed but one glance at his bright but unsteady eye, his faint unmeaning smile, his vague and wild expression, to recognise that he was bereft of reason. Is it necessary to say this was poor Fritzerl?

Whence he came, who were his parents, how he journeyed thither, no one could tell! He appeared one morning, when the shop-people were removing the shutters, sitting close by a window, where the early songs of the birds was audible, his head bent down to listen, and his whole attitude betokening the deepest attention. Though he offered no resistance when they bade him leave the spot, he shewed such deep sorrow and such reluctance, that he was suffered to remain; and this was now his dwelling-place. He never quitted it during the day, and there did he pass the night, under the shelter of the deep arches, and protected by the fragment of a mantle, which some compassionate neighbour had given him. All endeavours to induce him to speak were in vain; a sickly smile was his only answer to a question; and, if pressed too closely, the tears would come, so that none liked to give him further pain, and the hope of learning any thing about him, even his name, was given up. Equally fruitless was every effort to make him perform little services. If the shopkeepers gave him a bird to carry home for a purchaser, he would at once sit down beside the cage and gaze wistfully, delightedly, at the occupant; but he could not be persuaded to quit his abiding-place. Who could rob one so poor of all the happiness his life compassed? certainly not the good-natured and kindly folk who inhabited the bird-market.

He became then a recognised part of the place, as much as the bustard with one eye in the corner shop, or the fat old owl that had lived for fifty – some said seventy – years, in the little den with the low iron door. Every one knew him; few passed without a look of kindness towards him. It was of no use to give him money, for though he took money when offered, the next moment he would leave it on the stones, where the street children came and found it. It was clear he did not understand its meaning. The little support he needed was freely proffered by the neighbouring shopkeepers, but he ate nothing save a morsel of dry bread, of which it was remarked that he each day broke off a small portion and laid it by – not to eat later on, for it was seen that he never missed it if removed, nor took it again if suffered to remain. It was one of the secrets of his nature none could rightly account for.

Although many wealthy and benevolent people of the city wished to provide the poor, boy with a more comfortable home, the shopkeepers protested against his removal. Some, loved his innocent, childish features, and would have missed him sorely; others, were superstitious enough to think, and even say, that he had brought luck to the bird-market, – that every one had prospered since he came there; and some, too, asserted, that having selected the spot himself, it would be cruel to tear him away from a place where accustomed and familiar objects had made for him a kind of home. All these reasonings were backed by the proposal to build for him a little shed, in the very spot he had taken up, and there leave him to live in peace. This was accordingly done, and poor Fritz, if not a “Burgher of Inspruck,” had at least his own house in the bird-market.

Months rolled over: the summer went by, and the autumn itself now drew to a close; and the various preparations for the coming winter might be seen in little hand-barrows of firewood deposited before each door, to be split up and cut in fitting lengths for the stoves. Fur mantles and caps were hung out to air, and some prudent and well-to-do folks examined the snow-windows, and made arrangements for their adjustment. Each in his own way, and according to his means, was occupied with the cares of the approaching season. There was but one unmoved face in the whole street – but one, who seemed to take no note of time or season – whose past, and present, and future, were as one. This was Fritz, who sat on his accustomed bench gazing at the birds, or occasionally moving from his place to peep into a cage whose occupant lay hid, and then, when satisfied of its presence, retiring to his seat contented.

Had the worthy citizens been less actively engrossed by their own immediate concerns, or had they been less accustomed to this humble dependant’s presence amongst them, it is likely they would have remarked the change time had wrought in his appearance. If no actual evidence of returning reason had evinced itself in his bearing or conduct, his features displayed at times varieties of expression and meaning very different from their former monotony. The cheek, whose languid pallor never altered, would now occasionally flush, and become suddenly scarlet; the eyes, dull and meaningless, would sparkle and light up; the lips, too, would part, as if about to give utterance to words. All these signs, however, would be only momentary, and a degree of depression, even to prostration, would invariably follow. Unlike his former apathy, too, he started at sudden noises in the street, felt more interest in the changes that went on in the shop, and seemed to miss certain birds as they happened to be sold or exchanged. The most remarkable of all the alterations in his manner was, that, now, he would often walk down to the river-side, and pass hours there gazing on the current. Who can say what efforts at restored reason were then taking place within him – what mighty influences were at work to bring back sense and intellect – what struggles, and what combats? It would seem as if the brain could exist in all its integrity – sound, and intact, and living – and yet some essential impulse be wanting which should impart the power of thought.

Momentary flashes of intelligence, perhaps, did cross him; but such can no more suffice for guidance, than does the forked lightning supply the luminary that gives us day. The landscape preternaturally lit up for a second, becomes darker than midnight the moment after.

Bright and beautiful as that river is, with its thousand eddies whirling along, – now, reflecting the tall spires and battlemented towers of the town – now, some bold, projecting cliff of those giant mountains beside it – how does its rapid stream proclaim its mountain source, as in large sheets of foam it whirls round the rocky angles of the bank, and dashes along free as the spirit of its native home! Fritz, came here, however, less to gaze on this lovely picture than on a scene which each morning presented to his eyes, close by. This was à garden, where a little girl of some seven or eight years old used to play, all alone and by herself, while the old nurse that accompanied her sat knitting in a little arbour near.

The joyous river – the fresh and balmy air – the flowers flinging delicious odours around, and gorgeous in their brilliant tints, only needed this little infant figure to impart a soul to the scene, and make it one of ravishing enchantment. Her tiny footsteps on the ground – her little song, breathing of innocence and happiness – the garlands which she wove, now, to place upon her own fair brow, now, in childish sport to throw into the clear current – all imparted to the poor idiot’s heart sensations of intense delight. Who can say if that infant voice did not wake to feeling the heart that all the wisdom of the learned could not arouse from its sleep?

Not only was Fritz happy while he sat and watched this little child, but, for the entire day after, he would appear calm and tranquil, and his face would display the placid expression of a spirit sunk in a pleasing trance.

It was not unusual with him, while he was thus gazing, for sleep to come over him – a calm, delicious slumber – from which he awoke far more refreshed and rested than from his night’s repose. Perhaps she was present in his dreams, and all her playful gestures and her merry tones were with him while he slept. Perhaps – it is not impossible – that his mind, soothed by the calming influence of, such slumber, recovered in part its lost power, and not being called on for the exercise of volition, could employ some of its perceptive faculties.

Be this as it may, this sleep was deep, and calm, and tranquillising. One day, when he had watched longer than usual, and when her childish sport had more than ever delighted him, he dropped oft* almost suddenly into slumber. Motionless as death itself he lay upon the bank, – a faint smile upon his parted lips, his chest scarcely seeming to heave, so soft and quiet was his slumber. The river rippled pleasantly beside him, the air was balmy as in the early spring, and fanned his hot temples with a delicious breath, the child’s song floated merrily out – the innocent accents of infant glee – and Fritz seemed to drink these pleasures in as he slept.

What visions of heavenly shape – what sounds of angelic sweetness – may have flitted before that poor distracted brain, as with clasped hands and muttering lips he seemed to pray a prayer of thankfulness, – the outpouring gratitude of a pent-up nature finding vent at last! Suddenly he awoke with a start – terror in every feature – his eyes starting from their sockets: he reeled as he sprang to his feet, and almost fell. The river seemed a cataract – the mountains leaned over as though they were about to fall and crush him – the ground beneath his feet trembled and shook with an earthquake movement – a terrible cry rang through his ears. What could it mean? There! – there again he heard it! Oh, what a pang of heart-rending anguish was that! “Hülf! hülf! hülf!” were the words. The infant was struggling in the current – her little hand grasped the weeds, while at every instant they gave way – the water foamed and eddied round her – deeper and deeper she sank: her hair now floated in the stream, and her hands, uplifted, besought, for the last time, aid. “Hülf uns! Maria! hülf uns!” She sank. With a cry of wildest accent, Fritz sprang into the stream, and seized the yellow hair as it was disappearing beneath the flood: the struggle was severe, for the strong stream inclined towards the middle of the river, and Fritz could not swim. Twice had the waves closed over him, and twice he emerged with his little burden pressed to his heart; were it not for aid, however, his efforts would have been vain. The cry for help had brought many to the spot, and he was rescued – saved from death: saved from that worse than death – the terrible union of life and death.

He lay upon the bank, wearied and exhausted – but oh, how happy! How doubly bright the sky! – how inexpressibly soft and soothing the air upon his brow! – how sweet the human voice, that not only sounded to the ear but echoed in the heart!

In all his bright dreams of life he had fancied nothing like the bliss of that moment. Friends were on every side of him – kind friends, who never in a life-long could tell all their gratitude; and now, with words of affection, and looks of mildest, fondest meaning, they bent over that poor boy, and called him their own preserver.

Amid all these sights and sounds of gladness – so full of hope and joy – there came one shrill cry, which, piercing the air, seemed to penetrate to the very inmost chamber of Fritz’s heart, telling at once the whole history of his life, and revealing the secret of his suffering and his victory. It was Star himself; who, in a cage beneath the spreading branches of a chestnut-tree, was glad to mingle his wild notes with the concourse of voices about him, and still continued at intervals to scream out, “Maria, hülf! hülf uns, Maria!”

“Yes, child,” said a venerable old man, as he kissed Fritz’s forehead, “you see the fruits of your obedience and your trust. I am glad you have not forgotten my teaching, – ‘A good word brings luck.’”

Every story-teller should respect those who like to hear a tale to its very end. The only way he can evince his gratitude for their patience is by gratifying all their curiosity. It remains for me, then, to say, that Fritz returned to the little village where he had lived with Star for his companion; not poor and friendless as before, but rich in wealth, and richer in what is far better – the grateful love and affection of kind friends. His life henceforth was one of calm and tranquil happiness. By his aid the old Bauer was enabled to purchase his little farm rent-free, and buy besides several cows and some sheep. And then, when he grew up to be a man, Fritz married Grett’la, and they became very well off, and lived in mutual love and contentment all their lives.

Fritz’s house was not only the handsomest in the Dorf, but it was ornamented with a little picture of the Virgin, with Star sitting upon her wrist, and the words of the golden letters were inscribed beneath, —

“Maria, Mutter Gottes, hülf uns!”

Within, nothing could be more comfortable than to see Fritz and Grett’la at one side of the fire, and the old Bauer reading aloud, and the “Frau” listening, and Star, who lived to a great age, walking proudly about, as if he was conscious that he had some share in producing the family prosperity; and close to the stove, on a little low seat made on purpose, sat a little old man, with a long pigtail and very shrunken legs: this was old Cristoph the postilion – and who had a better right?

Fritz was so much loved and respected by the villagers, that they elected him Vorsteher, or rector of the Dorf; and when he died – very old at last – they all, several hundreds, followed him respectfully to the grave, and, in memory of his story, called the village Maria Hülf, which is its name to this day.