Chapter IV: Part 4

Bludenz is a little town in the Vorarlberg, which means, you know,--or you don't know,--the country lying before the Adler or Arlberg, and the Arlberg is the watershed between the Rhine and Danube, and the boundary between the Vorarlberg and the Tyrol. This sounds guide-bookish,--and very naturally, as I have copied it word for word from Baedecker,--but one must say something of praiseworthy solidity once in a while. Bludenz is a railway terminus, which fact may not interest the world at large, but it did us hugely. We rejoiced in the thought of the great post-wagon, the cracking of whips and blowing of horns, and long, delightful, breezy rides over the hills and far away. Our after-experience of this lively whip-cracking and horn-blowing has led us to the conclusion that it is decidedly at its best in the opera, where the Postilion of Lonjoumeau sings his pretty song and cracks his whip for a gay refrain; and that it is all very well, when you yourself are going off early in the morning amid the prodigious noise and the excitement of stowing away passengers and packages, while a crowd of village loafers stand gazing and gaping at you,--in short, when you are "in it," you know; but when it is only other people who are going, only they for whom all the noise is made and you are roused from your gentle slumbers at half past four perhaps, you do not regard the postilion and his accomplishments with unqualified admiration.

You wish you had gone to the "Eagle," or the "Ox," or the "Lamb," or the "Swan," or the "Lion," or to any other beast or bird, rather than to the "Post," where the "Post" omnibus and its relations make your mornings miserable. These are always the names of the inns in these little towns. There is usually a "Crown" too, and often an "Iron Cross." But people with nerves mustn't go to the "Post." Our party left its nerves in the city before starting off on a rough tour, yet even we have suffered at various inns which bear the names of "Post," but which should properly be called "Pandemonium."

Our first postilion wore the regulation long-boots, a postilion hat, and silver pansies in his ears. He cracked his whip nobly,--as well as we have heard Sontheim in the theatre at Stuttgart, and that is no faint praise. He was the jolliest of men, on the best of terms with all the dwellers among the mountains. He stopped at every inn and house where a glass of wine was to be had, and I think I may say invariably drank it. All the goodwives joked with him and smiled at him; all the men had a friendly word for him, and all the peasant-girls who had lovers in distant villages were continually stopping our great ark to send packages, letters, or messages to the absent swain. He seemed to be for the whole region a friend, patron, and adviser, a tutelary deity in fact, and grand receptacle for confidences. He had a shrewd, kind face, large clear eyes, and had driven among these mountains twenty-six years. It really did not seem a bad way of spending one's days, always going over the mountain-passes, knowing everybody and loved by everybody in the country round. I admired him extremely, and felt very much elated at the honor of sitting up on the box with so important a personage.

He told us a story of an Englishman who was inquiring how much it would cost to be driven to a certain point.

The driver replied so many gulden.

"Impossible," said the Englishman; "Baedecker says half as many."

"I'll tell you what," answered the postilion; "let Baedecker take you, then."

Having laughed at the poor stranger, it is only fair that we now laugh at the natives.

"I spiks English," an innkeeper said to me. "Ein joli hearse," he remarked further, to my great bewilderment, until it gradually dawned upon me that this was English for "a pretty horse." There is a house in this region whose proprietor wished to receive English lodgers, and signified his desire to the world by hanging out this sign: "English boards here."

After all, there are no more ludicrous verbal blunders in the world than we English-speaking people continually make during our first year's struggles with this mighty German tongue; and nowhere do a foreigner's queer idioms and laughable choice of words meet with more kindness, charity, courtesy, and helpfulness than in Germany. It is astonishing how kind the Germans in general are in this respect. It is all very well to say politeness demands such kindness; but where things sound so irresistibly droll, I think sometimes we might shriek with laughter where the Germans kindly correct, and do not even smile.

But we are neglecting Bludenz, for which little town we mean to say a friendly word. It is usually considered only a stepping-stone to something higher and better, but we liked it. The mountains rise on both sides of the village and its one long road, where we walked at sunset, crossing the bridge which spans the foaming, tumbling, rushing Ill. Beyond the ravine of the Brandnerthal, the Scesaplana, the highest mountain of the Raeticon range, rises from fields of snow. We strolled along, breathing the sweet, pure air, meeting groups of peasant-girls, all of whom carried their shoes in their hands. It was a fete day, and they had been to vespers, putting their shoes on at the church door and removing them when they came out. This most practical and admirable method of saving shoe-leather, I venture to recommend to the fathers of large families. It must be superior to "copper-toes." When we came back to take our supper in a garden, somebody was playing Strauss waltzes, with a touch so loving, spirited, and magnetic, it seemed as if the mountains themselves must whirl off presently in response. In this land a garden where people drink beer and wine, eat, smoke, rest, think, enjoy, all in the open air, is sometimes made up of most delightful surroundings; but on the other hand it sometimes means two emaciated, dyspeptic trees, a gravel floor, and half a dozen wooden tables with wretchedly uncomfortable chairs. But if it is an enclosure in the open air with one table large enough to hold a beer-mug, it is still a garden.

Our Bludenz garden was pleasant enough, however, and we sat there till the mountains sank deeper and deeper into the gloom; and the _Maedchen_ who waited upon us told us about her native village, where her brother was schoolmaster; our landlady came, too, and talked with us, quietly, and somewhat with the manner of a hostess entertaining guests. It was all very pretty and simple and kindly, and seemed the most natural thing in the world, as it happened. The people here had intelligent faces, clear eyes like children, and pleasant, courteous ways. The trouble about all these little places is, we don't like to leave them. It seems as if the new place could not be so pretty, the new people so kindly and simple and honest, and we go about weakly, leaving fragments of our hearts everywhere.

Then the mountain tramps we had, climbing high for a view, and then glorying in it! A little maid was once our guide, who chattered to us prettily all the way, and told us the chief events of her life,--how her father and mother were dead, and her uncle beat her, and made her work too hard; how there was a great, great, great bird who sat up on the barren cliffs so high that never a _Jaeger_ could climb near enough to shoot him; how he had eyes as big as a cow's, and when he sat on the right cliff the weather was always fair, but when he sat on the left there was storm among the mountains. This must be true, for we saw the cliffs. Then she solemnly assured us, if we would go early to the chapel in a neighboring village the following morning, we could get absolution for all our sins, because, as it appeared, the priest there was going far away, as missionary to America, and in farewell was washing the souls of his flock with extra thoroughness. We told the child it was very fortunate the good priest was going to America. From what we had heard of that ungodly land, we thought it must be in sad need of missionary work.

The scenery from Bludenz to Landeck is a series of picturesque, varied views. The road ascends with many windings to the pass of the Arlberg, when you are at last in the Tyrol; and the green, richly wooded mountains, the jagged, rocky ones, the lofty peaks where the snow gleams, together with the pure, invigorating air, and the swing of our mountain chariot with its five horses,--which, if not very rapid, were at least strong and fresh,--made altogether a thoroughly enjoyable experience.

On the Arlberg we gathered our first Alpine roses. They are not so very pretty, except as they grow often in masses so luxuriant as to give a rosy effect to a broad slope. That is, they are pretty, but their graceful cups droop so quickly when you take them from their native air and native heights, that they are disappointing.

At St. Christoph, which is almost at the top of the Arlberg, we stopped long enough to refresh ourselves with a glass of _Tiroler_ wine, and were taken into a little chapel behind the inn to see a wooden statue of St. Christopher, who seems to be held in peculiar veneration in this region, being painted or carved in many churches and even on the walls of houses. This was a great creature of eight or nine feet, standing in the corner of the chapel, with glaring, beady eyes, glossy black painted hair, and a huge staff, to represent the pine-tree of the sweet old legend, in his hand; while on his shoulder was perched the child Jesus, with a face like a small doll. He was as funny and grotesque a saint as the world can boast, yet our hearts went strongly out to him when we learned what a very little peasant-boy it was who had made him with his pocket-knife out of a block of wood, and particularly when we observed his saintship's legs, never too symmetrical, but now hacked and chipped into utter deformity, and were told the reason. Every child in this neighborhood who must leave his mountain home takes a bit of St. Christopher with him as a talisman against homesickness. Poor little souls! Imagine them coming to say, "Lebewohl zu dem heiligen Christoph," and tearfully hacking away in the region of his patellas and tibias and fibulas, because long ago they have removed the exterior of his stalwart members, and he will soon be dangerously undermined. His shoulders are sufficiently developed to bear considerable cutting down without perceptibly diminishing them; but I presume the little ones attack the region which they can most conveniently reach.

Lovely air and lovely hills! No wonder the children fear Heimweh will come to their hearts when they can no longer see the little village houses all huddled together round the church with the tall spire, while the green hills rise on every side, and the morning mists roll from them, and the evening glow warms and glorifies their cold, white summits, and the impetuous mountain torrent goes foaming by.

We felt premonitory symptoms of homesickness ourselves for those fair and noble heights, and we wanted very much to beg for a bit of St. Christopher's knee-pan. But they would not have given us an atom of the dear old, hideous, overgrown giant-saint, worthless heretics that we are.

IN THE TYROL.

They said Landeck would not please us, but it did. They said it was not pretty, but it was. They said we would not stay there, but that is all they knew about it or us. In itself, so far as its houses are concerned, it is not attractive, it is true; but it lies in a very picturesque way on both banks of the Inn, which rushes and roars constantly at this point, and the hills around are bold and beautiful. It has its ancient castle, on the heights directly above the town; but the castle now is a failure, whatever proud tales its walls might tell us could they speak,--a failure even as a "ruin," I mean. It is not very high, but the path is steep; and when you get to the top you wish you had remained below, for there is nothing to reward you. The view is no finer than you can have from almost any point here; and the castle is simply nothing to see, being only a few gray walls without form or comeliness, in the shade of which, the day we visited it, sat a few poor old women, who now occupy it, with snails and bats and wind and storm, rent free.

To Zams, the next village, you walk along the river road past fields of grain, where cornflowers and poppies are gayly growing, and the water hurrying from the mountains sings its loud, bold song, and everywhere around are the varied hues and heights of the Tyrolean Alps. At Zams there is a beautiful waterfall, which you must seek if you would see, for it hides itself from the world. Over a bridge, along the river road, then through lanes where there were more of the pretty cornflowers and gay poppies, past a group of cottages, a mill, a noisy brook, a mass of rugged cliffs, we strolled, the voice of the falling water calling us ever nearer and nearer, until suddenly at the last it was before us. The rocks conceal it on every side up to the last moment when you are directly at the foot of it,--one of the fine dramatic effects in which Mother Nature likes sometimes to indulge.

It falls with great force a hundred and fifty feet, perhaps,--this is a wild feminine guess, yet somewhere near the truth, I hope,--in a narrow, immensely swift stream, which, as it issues from the rock, runs a little diagonally. It has forced a passage through the rock, and when we saw it was sweeping through this aperture; but in stormy weather it hurls itself over the summit of the ledge, increasing its height many feet, and is magnificent in its fury. An experienced mountain-climber told us that there are a succession of these falls, of which this is the seventh and last, and the only one that can be seen without painful and dangerous climbing, they are so singularly concealed. The stream springs from the glaciers far away, and leaps from rock to rock in wild, unseen beauty. It seemed to speak to us of the lonely, frozen heights and solitude of its birthplace.

From Landeck to Innsbruck the scenery, taken all in all, though pleasing, is less bold and more monotonous than are many other parts of the Tyrol. There are many historical points of interest here, and reminders of the bravery of the mountaineers in different wars. You see where they stood high on their native hills hurling down trunks of trees and huge masses of rock on the invading Bavarians; and what this work of destruction failed to do, the sure aim of the Tyrolese riflemen effectually accomplished.

In one village they exhibit the room where Frederic Augustus, king of Saxony, died suddenly from the kick of a horse. Having no inordinate interest in his deceased majesty, we were quite content to gaze placidly at the outside of the house from the post-wagon, as we informed the man who tried to induce us to march in, pay our fees, and so increase the revenues of the inn. He was deeply disgusted, and evidently considered us persons of inferior taste.

You are shown, off at the right of the road on a wooded height, the ruins of Schloss Petersburg, the birthplace of Margaret, daughter of the count of the Tyrol through whom Tyrol came into the possession of the emperors of Austria.

We have seen so many little villages more or less alike, all having saints painted on their houses in brilliant hues, and mottoes over their doorways,--some religious, some quite secular and merry, and all, too, having names of one syllable, composed chiefly of consonants, such as Imst, Silz, Zams, Mils, Telfs, Zirl,--we cannot hope to remember them with that clearness which characterizes the well-regulated mind on its travels. (No one in our party _has_ a well-regulated mind.) But we have a way among ourselves of designating places, which is quite satisfactory and intelligible to us. For instance, we say, "That was where we drank the cream"; "That was where the innkeeper was a barrel, with head and feet protruding"; "That was where that interesting body, the fire department, were feasting at long tables and singing Tyrolean songs"; "The village where we met the procession, old men and maidens, young men and children, singing, chanting, telling their beads, bearing candles, and, most of all, staring at the strangers."--And what were the strangers doing? Staring at the people, to be sure. We always stare. We are here for that purpose.--"The village where the girl put a flower in her sweetheart's hat." And how pretty it was! The post-wagon had hardly stopped before a good-looking youth dashed down from its top, and at the same instant a rosy waiter-girl dashed out from the inn, bearing a tall mug of foaming beer. She had eyes but for him. He had eyes but for her--and the beer. Entranced they met! They stood a little apart from us by a garden, and beamed and smiled at each other and whispered their secrets, and didn't care a straw whether we stupid "other people" saw them or not. They had but a few moments of bliss, for the boy had to go on with the post; but while he was drinking the very last of that reviving fluid, she took his hat from his head, and, stooping to the flowers beside her, chose a great flaming carnation pink, which she fastened in his hat-band. He looked pleased, which of course made her look pleased; but what a wise little village-Hebe it was to give him the beer first! What would he have cared for the flower when his throat was dusty and thirsty! It is such a pity some women always persist in offering their flowers and graces too soon,--forgetting the nature of the creature they adore.

In an inn at one village was a table which we coveted strongly. It was, they said, a hundred and fifty years old, octagonal, four or five feet in diameter, made of inlaid woods in the natural colors, now darkened with age. Broad, solid, firm, it looked as if it might last a hundred and fifty years longer and then retain its vigor of constitution. It had a wise, knowing air, as of having seen a great deal of the world; and the landlord told us tales of drinking and fighting and scenes of rough soldier-life, which were enough to make it tremble for its existence. Bavarian soldiers once, when they were occupying the village, used it rather roughly, and left as many sword-cuts and dents in it as they could make in its brave, firm wood. Its centre was a slate or blackboard, on which beer accounts are conveniently reckoned.

Just beyond Zirl, the Martinswand rises sixteen hundred feet perpendicularly above the road. It has its story, to which everybody who comes here must listen.

The Emperor Maximilian, in 1493, was chasing a chamois above the Martinswand, and, having lost his way, made a misstep, fell down to the edge of a precipice, and hung there, unable to recover his footing. The priest of Zirl came with some of his people, and, it being impossible to reach him, stood at the bottom of the cliff, elevated the host, granting him absolution; and then, in horror, awaited the end. But "an angel in the garb of a chamois-hunter" appeared at this crisis, and bore the exhausted monarch to a place of safety. The perilous spot, nine hundred feet above the river, is now marked by a cross, and the paten used by the priest is a blessed relic in a church.

The story seems to be quite generally believed in this neighborhood. We sceptical strangers do not find it so enormous a morsel to swallow as is sometimes presented to us. I presume if any of us were dangling between heaven and earth, with the immediate prospect of falling nine hundred feet, we would be very apt to call whatever should rescue us an "angel."

INNSBRUCK.

Innsbruck impressed us, at first, as being far too citified for us to delight in. Entering its streets about sunset, the time when we have of late been accustomed to see the cows come home in great herds from the mountain pastures, we, our bags and shawl-straps, were deposited upon the sidewalk; for when the post stops, you stop without ceremony, and are never taken to the particular hotel where you wish to go. We stared blankly at the broad streets and ruefully at one another. Our eyes, instead of seeing lowing herds, fell upon gallant young officers in brilliant uniforms. We became painfully aware of certain defects in our personal appearance, of which we had been beautifully unconscious in the rural mountain districts. We observed for the first time that there were chasms in our gloves, indented peaks in our hats, alluvial deposits on our gowns; while our boots suggested dangerous ravines, bridged across by one button, instead of boasting that goodly, decorous row without which no civilized woman can be truly respectable. We revenged ourselves by calling Innsbruck "tame," and declaring that we would at once flee to our mountain. But it is surprising how quickly we have become accustomed to the luxuries of life in an excellent hotel, how bravely we bear the infliction of well-cooked dinners, with what fortitude we recline in luxurious chairs, and allow well-trained servants to wait upon us. Already we have remained longer than we intended, there is so much here that interests us; but soon we start off again to commune with Nature and get sunburned.

Then, the truth is, Innsbruck, which looked so enormous, so grand, to our eyes, used as they were to Tyrolean villages,--we know now how the typical country cousin feels when he comes "to town" for the first time,--is only a little place most charmingly situated on the Inn, in a great broad valley, with mountains ten thousand feet high on one side, and on the other heights that look almost as bold. It has, including its large garrison, eighteen or twenty thousand inhabitants, and with its pleasant atmosphere, extended views, charming mountain excursions, peasants in a variety of costumes, soldiers in a variety of uniforms, excellent music, and many things of historical interest to see, is a very enjoyable place.

The Museum is thoroughly interesting; a visit to Schloss Amras, where Archduke Ferdinand II. and his wife Philippina Welser used to live, is an inevitable but agreeable excursion; you are shown buildings erected by celebrated personages,--among them a "golden roof" over a balcony of a palace which Count Frederic of the Tyrol built to prove that he did not deserve the nickname, "with the empty pockets." But the chief thing to see, the glory of Innsbruck, is the Maximilian monument in the Franciscan church. Maximilian, in bronze, kneels on a marble pedestal in the centre of the nave, and eight-and-twenty great bronze figures of kings and queens and heroes surround him. Some are stately and grand; some--dare I say?--are comical. The feet of these mailed heroes are so broad and big and their ankles so attenuated, you are reminded of the marine armor worn by divers; and the waists of the women, in the heavy folds of ancient times, are so enormously dumpy and their heads so curious, you smile in their august faces, though the whole effect of all these dark, still figures in the dim church is imposing in the extreme.

They are all celebrated people, whose histories we know; or, if we do not, we ought to. There is Clovis of France, who looks very important indeed, and Philip of Spain. There is Johanna, Philip's queen; Cunigunde, sister of Maximilian; Eleanora of Portugal, his mother; and there are many more "dear, dead women," with stately, beautiful names, and they themselves, no doubt, were stately and beautiful too, but they are not handed down to posterity in a very flattering guise. There is Godfrey de Bouillon, "king of Jerusalem," with a crown of thorns on his head. But the two that are really lovely to see are Theodoric, king of the Ostrogoths, and Arthur of England. Susceptible, romantic girls of eighteen should not be allowed to gaze too long at these ideal young men. It will make them discontented with the realities of life, and they will spend their days dreaming of knightly figures in bronze.

Theodoric is considered the finest as a work of art. So says all established authority; but to me Arthur is hardly less interesting. Perhaps, in some absurd way, it gratified us of Anglo-Saxon blood to see, in the midst of these Rudolphs and Sigismunds, these counts of Hapsburg and dukes of Burgundy, a hero who seemed to belong to us; but, whatever was the cause, the blameless king won our loving admiration.

Theodoric is the more graceful. He stands in an easy, leaning attitude. He is lost in thought. He is in full armor, but he may be dreaming of something far removed from war. Arthur is firm and proud and strong, looking every inch a king and a true knight. Both are knightly. Both are kingly. Their figures are slight and strong, and they stand like _young_ heroes amid these mighty old potentates, some of whom look as if gout might have been a greater source of trouble to them than their enemies.

If your affections are divided, as were ours, between the two, the best thing to do, perhaps, is to repair immediately to the store where the wood-carving and Tyrol souvenirs make you feel quite miserable,--you want so much more than you can possibly have,--and carefully select a Theodoric and an Arthur from the many representations of them, in wood of different colors and in various sizes, that you will there see. If you march off with them, you will feel sublime enough not to be beguiled into yielding to the temptation of the paper-knives and boxes and innumerable fascinating knick-knacks made by the Tyrolean wood-carvers. But do have them well packed, for it is very sad to see Arthur without his visor and Theodoric with several fractured fingers.

On the sarcophagus, below the kneeling Maximilian, are marble reliefs representing the chief events in the emperor's life. Thorwaldsen pronounced the first nineteen the most perfect work of its kind in the world. These are by Colin, and the others,--there are twenty-four in all,--by Bernhard and Albert Abel, are less remarkable in their perspective, and far less clear. Colin's are very interesting to study carefully. In battle scenes, in grand wedding feasts, with hundreds of spectators, in triumphant entries into conquered cities, every face, every weapon, every feature, and all the most minute details are executed with wonderful clearness.

Three or four of the oldest women in the world were saying their prayers in the church as we wandered about, or sat quietly looking at these men and woman of the past, while queer snatches of history, poetry, and romance came and went confusedly in our minds.

You see here, too, a little "Silver Chapel," so called from a silver statue of the Virgin over the altar. The tomb of the Archduke Ferdinand II., by Colin, is here, and that of Philippina Welser; and near the entrance, in the main church, is a fine statue, in Tyrolese marble, of Andreas Hofer, and memorial tablets in honor of all the Tyrolese who have died for their country since 1796.

We have been refreshing our memories in regard to Andreas Hofer, and are extremely interested in his career; but, having just suffered a grievous disappointment with which he is connected, we are going to try to banish every thought of him from our minds. A play representing his whole life was to have been enacted to-day in a neighboring village; but to-day it rains, and as the village histrionic talent was going to display itself in the open air, "Andreas Hofer" is postponed till to-morrow, when, unfortunately, we shall be riding over hill and dale in a post-wagon. We have tried to prevail upon the post-wagon powers to allow us to wait a day, but they are obdurate. We can wait if we care to pay our passage twice, not otherwise. This cross may be well for a party that usually sails along on the full tide of prosperity, having always the rooms it wants, front seats in post-wagons, the good-will of drivers and guides, and that hasn't lost or broken anything since it started.

It is possible that we are too successful and need this discipline. But only think what we lose!--a village drama in the open air, given by village amateurs in the _patois_ of the district. According to the announcement, the tailor--the Herr Schneider--was to be director-in-chief; and the audience would audibly express its praise and blame, while the actors would have the liberty of retiring. This, added to heroics in dialect, certainly promised an entertaining scene. The costumes, too, were to be like those worn in Andreas Hofer's time, and the tailor's daughter was to be leading lady. Was, do I say? Is--is yet to be, but not for us, alas!

OHENSCHWANGAU AND NEU SCHWANSTEIN.

It pains me to think that the king of Bavaria, or any other fine-looking young gentleman, would deliberately scowl at an inoffensive party of ladies who were, one and all, only too pleased to have the opportunity of gazing smilingly at him. But the truth is, he did. The way it happened is this. We and the king of Bavaria are at present travelling in the North Tyrol. But he cannot have wanted so much as we to go to the South Tyrol, which is bolder and grander, or he would have gone there, not being bound by petty considerations of convenience and expense like ordinary tourists. At a little inn, "Auf der Ferne," between Innsbruck and Reutte, in a place called Fernstein, by a lake named Fernsee (and also "The Three Lakes," because the land juts out on one side in two long points, making three pretty coves where the tranquil water meets the soft green shores), the post-wagon halted, that our postilion might drink his glass of native wine. There were numerous servants in blue-and-silver livery at the door, and we were told King Louis was driving in the neighborhood, and that we would certainly meet him. While we were waiting, the people regaled us with tales of the young king's eccentricities. Some of his extravagant fancies remind one of the Arabian Nights, or old fairy-tales, more than of anything in these latter days. He usually travels by night, for instance, and sleeps, the little that he ever sleeps, mornings. He drives fast through the darkness, servants with torches galloping in advance, stopping here and there only long enough for a change of horses, his own horses and servants being in readiness for him at the different inns along the route. Often his carriage dashes up to this inn, "Auf der Ferne," at twelve o'clock at night, and then this deliciously eccentric being is rowed across the little Fernsee to a tiny island, where he partakes, by the romantic gleam of torches, of a feast prepared by French cooks. Rowed back to the shore, he starts again with fresh horses and goes swiftly on, through the night, to some other inn, where the noise of his arrival awakens all the sleepers.

We heard him later ourselves at two in the morning at an inn on the road where we were staying, and in fact were told by the landlord that he was expected; were shown the sacred apartment set apart for his majesty, who now and then sits an hour in it at some unearthly time of night, and we were advised to peep through our curtains at him, his suite, and his horses, torches, etc.; but such was the sleepiness created by a ride of sixteen hours in mountain air, that, though we were dimly conscious something of interest was happening, I do not think we would have been able to stir, to see even Solomon in all his glory. This was the true reason, but the one that we pretended actuated us is quite different. We remark with dignity that no young woman of proper spirit will condescend to peep through a curtain at a man who has scowled at her, king or no king.

But I must tell you how, when, and where the royal scowl took place. We had left the little inn by the lake, and were riding along in an expectant mood, when there came a great clatter of hoofs, and two blue-and-silver men dashed by followed by an open carriage, where King Louis sat alone. A kind fate ordained that the road should be narrow at this point, with a steep bank on one side, over which it would not be pleasant to be precipitated; so the royal coachman, as well as our driver, moderated the speed of his horses, and we therefore had an admirable opportunity to see this "_idealisch_" young man--as the Germans call him--distinctly. The ceremonies performed were few. Our postilion took off his hat; so did the king. Then it seemed good in his sight to deliberately throw back his head, look full in our amiable, smiling, interested countenances, and indulge in a haughty and an unmistakable scowl. He must have slept even less than usual that morning. We were not accustomed to have young men scowl at us, and really felt quite hurt. If he had looked grand and unseeing, had gazed off abstractedly upon the mountain-tops, we would have been delighted with him. As it is, we cannot honestly say that we consider his manner to strangers ingratiating. Still, as the melancholy fact is that he hates women, his scowl probably meant no especial aversion to our humble selves, but was merely the expression of the immense scorn and disgust he feels towards the sex at large.

In revenge, I hasten to say that, though he certainly has a distinguished air, and a fine head, and the great eyes that look so dreamy and poetical in the photographs of him at eighteen or twenty, he is not nearly so handsome as those early pictures. Perhaps he can look dreamy still; but of this he granted us no opportunity to judge, and he has grown stout, and has lost the delicate refinement of his youth.

This road to Reutte is one of the finest of the mountain-passes between the Tyrol and Bavaria. The deep, wooded ravines, lovely, dark-green lakes, and noble heights make the landscape very beautiful and inspiring. Near Lennos, you see on the east great bald limestone precipices, the snowy Zugspitze, 9,761 feet high, the Schneefernerkopf, 9,462 feet, and other peaks of 8,000 feet and more; while you spy picturesque ruins, old hunting-seats, and fortresses here and there high on the proud cliffs.

Reutte has large, broad, pretty houses. It is said laughingly that there is not a house in the place which a king or some other exalted being has not selected to die in, or in some way to make memorable.

From this place we have pursued still farther our studies of royalty, having met with so much encouragement at the outset. We have visited the Schloss Hohenschwangau, where the king of Bavaria and his mother, the queen, spend some time every summer; and also Schloss Schwanstein, which is yet building, but where the young king often stays, unfinished as it is.

The way to Hohenschwangau leads through a charming park. The castle was once a Roman fort, they say, then a baronial estate, then almost destroyed by the Tyrolese, then bought by King Max of Bavaria, who had it remodelled and ornamented with fine frescos by Munich artists.

In the vestibule is an inscription in gold letters on blue, which says something like this:--

"Welcome, wanderer,--welcome, fair and gracious women!
Leave all care behind!
Yield your souls to the sweet influences of poetry."

Isn't that a pretty greeting? It's all very well, however, to have such things written on your walls, and then to go about the world scowling at people; but it doesn't look consistent. From the vestibule you pass into a long hall, where are two rows of columns, old suits of armor standing like men on guard on both sides, shields, spears, halberds, and cross-bows on the walls, and a little chapel at the end.

The frescos throughout the castle are very interesting. From the billiard-room, with a pretty balcony, you go into the Schwanrittersaal, where the pictures on the walls represent the legend of the Knight of the Swan, and remind you of the opera of "Lohengrin." The painted glass of the doors opening from this room upon a balcony is of the seventeenth century.

There is an Oriental room, with reminiscences of King Max's Eastern travels. Here you see Smyrna, Troja, the Dardanelles, Constantinople, in fresco; rich presents from the Sultan, a table-cover embroidered by the wives of the Sultan, jewelled fans, etc.

There is an Autharis room, with frescos by Schwind, telling the story of the wooing of the Princess Theudelinda by the Lombard king, Autharis. Do you feel perfectly familiar with the history of Autharis and Theudelinda? Because, if you do not, I don't really know of any one just at this moment who feels competent to give you the slightest information upon the subject.

There is a room of the knights, the frescos illustrating mediaeval chivalry,--a Charlemagne room. There are, in fact, more rooms than you care to read about or I care to describe, and many rich objects to see. In the queen's apartments was a casket of gold studded with turquoises and rubies; elegant toilet-tables rosy with silk linings, soft with falling lace; and there is one dear little balcony-room, cosy and full of familiar pictures,--Raphael's cherubs, a little painting of Edelweiss and Alpine roses; and actually two real spinning-wheels: one is the queen's, and the other belonged to a young court lady whose recent death was a deep grief to the queen, it is said.

But the most striking, and in the end fascinating, thing in the castle is the number of swans you see. It would be difficult to convey any idea of the swan-atmosphere of this place. Swans support baskets for flowers and vases. There are swans in china, in marble, in alabaster, in gold and silver, on the tables, on the mantels and brackets, painted, embroidered on cushions and footstools,--everywhere you find them. A half-dozen of different sizes stand together on a small table, some of them large, some as tiny as the toy swan a child sails in his glass preserve-dish for a pond. There is a swan-fountain in the garden; a great swan on the stove in a reception-room.

King Louis can bathe every day in a gold bath-tub if he wishes. Our eyes have seen it, though the guide said he had never shown it before. I have no means of knowing whether the man told the truth. There is another and yet more enticing bath-room hewn out of the solid rock. We entered it from the garden. From without, its walls look like dark thick glass, through which one sees absolutely nothing. From within, the effect is enchanting. You see the highest tower of the castle on one side rising directly above you, the lovely garden with its choice flowers and superb trees, the grand mountains beyond,--and all bathed in a deep rosy light from the hue of the glass. It is an enchanted grotto, and very Arabian Nights-ish. A marble nymph stands on each side of the bath, which is cut in the centre of the stone floor, and one of them turns on a pivot, disclosing a concealed niche, into which you step and slowly swing round until you are in a subterranean passage, from which a mysterious stairway leads to the dressing-room above.

We went everywhere, even into the king's little study, up in the tower, where we were explicitly told not to go. It was a simply furnished room, with an ordinary writing-table, upon which papers and writing-materials were strewn about, and important-looking envelopes directed to the king. And it commanded a lovely view of mountains, broad plains, and four lakes, the Alpsee, Schwansee, Hopfensee, and Bannwaldsee.

Our little tour of inspection was just in time, for at twelve that night, the castle servants told us, the king would come dashing up to his own door, after which there can be of course no admittance to visitors.

Hohenschwangau is most beautifully situated, but the Neu Schwanstein is still more striking. It is founded upon a rock. You climb to reach it, and you can climb far higher on the mountains that tower behind it. It stands directly by a deep ravine, and the view from it is magnificent. The young king here by his own hearthstone has wild and abrupt mountain scenery,--a rocky gorge, crossed by a delicate wire bridge, an impetuous waterfall; and looking far, far off from the battlements he sees villages, many lakes, dense woods, winding streams, Hohenschwangau looking proudly towards its royal neighbor, and the glorious mountains circling and guarding the valley. Living here, one would feel like a god on high Olympus looking down upon humanity toiling on the plains below.

The king likes this place, and it is said wishes to remain here when the queen, his mother, comes to Hohenschwangau. But this is an unwarrantable intrusion upon their little family differences, which they should enjoy unmolested, like you and me. Schwanstein in its exterior form and character resembles a mediaeval castle, and the appointments in the servants' wing, the only part of the interior as yet finished, are strictly in keeping. There are solid oaken benches and tables, carved cases and chests, oaken bedsteads as simply made as possible, and windows with tiny oval or diamond panes.

The room occupied temporarily by the king is very small and simple,--has a plain oak bedstead and dressing-table. Across the bed were thrown blankets, on which were blue swans and blue lions, and in the dining-room adjoining the carpet was blue, with golden Bavarian lions, and the all-pervading swans. This was a pretty room, the frescos illustrating the story of a life in mediaeval times,--the life of a warrior from the moment when he starts forth from his father's door, a fair-haired boy, to seek his fortunes in the great world. Mountain scenery, village life, his first service to a knight, battle, gallant deeds, receiving knighthood, betrayal, imprisonment, escape, victory,--all the eventful story until he sits with men old like himself, and over their wine they tell of the doughty deeds of the past; and then, older still, and frail and feeble and alone, he leans upon his staff as he rests under a tree where careless children play around him.

A charming road, through the woods belonging to the Schwanstein park, leads to the castle, past the lovely Alpsee, which looks deep and calm, and lies lovingly nestled among the beautiful woods that surround it and that rise high above it, as if striving to conceal its loveliness from profane eyes.

We saw forty of the royal horses--pretty creatures they were too--each with the name painted over the stall. We were reading them aloud, they were so odd and fanciful, when, as one of us said Fenella, the little horse that claimed that name turned her pretty head and tried to come to us. However gently we would call her, she always heard and looked at us. Encouraged by this gracious condescension on the part of a royal animal, we ventured to make friends with her; and if ever a horse smiled with good-will and delight it was Fenella when we gave her sugar.

His majesty's carriages were also shown to us, and received our approval. They are plain and elegant, but do not differ from high-toned equipages in general. A narrow little phaeton, low, and large enough to hold but one person, we were told was a favorite of the king. In it, with a man at each side of the horse's head leading him, and bearing a torch, the king amuses himself by ascending dangerous mountain-roads at night. They say it is astonishing where he will go in this manner. Fancy meeting that scowling but interesting young man, his torches and his funny little vehicle, on a lonely peak at midnight!

LIFE IN SCHATTWALD.

We have been in the Tyrol many days, in villages among the mountains, living in simplicity, content, and charity to all mankind. We have believed that our condition was as thoroughly rural as anything that could possibly be attained by people who only want to be rural temporarily as an experiment. But our present experience so far transcends all that we have known in the past, that the other villages seem like bustling, important towns, unpleasantly copying city ways, compared with this funny little quiet Schattwald.

We came here from Reutte in an open carriage, passed through a wonderfully beautiful ravine, saw the lovely dark-green lakes that delight the soul in this part of the world, little hamlets scattered about picturesquely among pine-clad hills, bold peaks towering to the clouds in the distance, and drove slowly through soft, broad meadows, where the whole population was out making hay. We saw many Tyrolean Maud Muellers in bright gowns that looked pretty in the sunshine. A German friend told us a certain small object was "an American hay-cart, and very practical, like all American inventions." He was so positive in his convictions, and, at the same time, so gracious towards the inventive genius of America, that we saw it would be useless and unwise to pretend to know anything about the hay-cart of our native heath. But if an American hay-cart should see its Tyrolean prototype, it would shatter itself into atoms with laughter.

So in the serene, perfect midsummer weather, through this charming country, we came to Schattwald, the highest village in the Thanheimer Thal.

I feel now that it is my duty to give a friendly caution to people whose nerves are easily shocked, and to advise them to drop this letter at this very point, for it is shortly going to treat of exceedingly realistic and inelegant things.

We drove to the village inn. There were hens and children on the broken stone doorstep, and men drinking beer in a little pavilion close by. A broad and jocund landlady told us there was absolutely no place for us. We are, therefore, ensconced in a veritable peasant's cottage over the way, going across to the inn when we are hungry, which is tolerably often in this mountain air.

Our rooms are broad and very low, with wide casements having tiny panes. A stout wooden bench against the wall serves as sofa and chairs. A bare wooden table in front of it is graced by a great dish filled with Alpine roses, Edelweiss, and Wildemaenner, which is an appropriate name for the little flower with its brown unkempt head and shaggy elf-locks blowing in the wind. A six-inch looking-glass is hung exactly where the wall joins the ceiling, and exactly where we cannot possibly see ourselves in it without standing on something, when we invariably bump our heads. This pointedly tells us that vanity is a plant that does not flourish in these lofty altitudes. There are crucifixes on the walls, and extraordinary religious pictures; and in the corner of the front door there is a saint somebody made of wood, life-size, with a reddish gown, and tinsel stars on a wire encircling her head. I think she must be Mary, though it did not occur to me at first, she is such a corpulent young woman, with a thick, short waist, and solid feet, which, nevertheless, by their position, express the idea that she is floating. An old woman often sits by her, knitting, as we go in and out.

"Is it clean?" I know some one is asking. That depends upon what you call clean; and when travelling one must modify one's opinion about cleanliness and order. For a dressing-room it would be shockingly unclean; for peasant life up in the Alps it is--if the expression is permissible--_clean enough_.

The floors are clean, and the bedding and towels. The water is pure and fresh, the dishes and food perfectly clean. And these, after all, are the essentials. But things are very much mixed, to say the least; and the animal kingdom lives in close proximity to its superiors. In fact, up here it seems to have no superiors.

You sit in the open air eating a roast chicken, with a bit of salad; and the brother and sister chickens, that will some day be sacrificed to the appetite of another traveller, are running about unconscious of their doom at your feet. A little colt walks up to you and insists upon putting his nose in your plate,--insists, too, upon being petted,--and hasn't the least delicacy or comprehension when you tell him you are busy and wish he would go away. He stays calmly, and presently a goat or two and a big dog join the group. Such imperturbable good-nature and complacency, such naivete, I have never before known animals to possess. They have been treated since their birth with so much consideration, they never imagine that their society may not always be desired. In fact, the animals and the people have innocent, friendly ways; and as it never occurs to them you can be displeased with anything they may do, the result is you never are. And as to the question of cleanliness, perhaps the simplest way to settle it is to say that there is indeed dirt enough here, but it is all, as the children say, "clean dirt," and at all events, with glorious air and lovely mountain views, brightness and goodness and kindness meeting you on every side from the peasants, one must be very sickly either in body or mind, or in both, to be too critical about trifles.

One whole morning we spent in a Sennhuette,--a cowherd's hut,--high above the village. (Did I not warn you that ungenteel things were coming?) And it was one of the most interesting and amusing half-days we have ever known. There were fifty cows there, as carefully tended as if they were Arabian horses, and noble specimens of their kind of beauty. The prettiest ones were cream-colored, with great soft eyes. They expected to be talked to and petted like all the other animals in Schattwald. There were different rooms, the mountain breezes blowing straight through them all, where five or six workmen were making butter and enormous cheeses. If we do not know how to make superior cheese and butter, it is not the fault of our hosts in the Sennhuette, for they left nothing unexplained.

Dare I, or dare I not, tell what should now come in a faithful chronicle of that morning? I dare. Towards twelve, the chief workman--a man who had been devoting himself to our entertainment, even sending his little son far out on the hills for Alpine flowers for us--prepared the simple soup which serves as dinner for these hard-working men, who eat no meat during the entire summer, and work nearly eighteen hours a day. We were interested in that soup, as in everything that was made, done, or said in that novel place. It was only cream, and salt, and butter, and flour, but it was made by a dark-eyed man with his sleeves rolled up and a white cap on his head, and it simmered in a kettle large enough to be a witch's caldron.

When quite cooked it was poured into a great wooden dish that was almost flat, and each workman drew near with his spoon in his hand. We were thinking what a pleasant scene this was going to be, and were about to regard it from afar like something on the stage, when to our utter amazement our friend the soup-maker, as simply, as naturally, with as much courtesy and kindness as ever a gentleman at his own table offered delicate viands to an honored guest, gave me a spoon and assigned me my place at the table.

Dear Mrs. Grundy, what would you have done? I know very well. You would have drawn yourself up in a superior way, and you would have looked as proper as the mother of the Gracchi, and you would have remarked,--

"Really, my dear Mr. Cowherd-cheese-maker, _I_ have been educated according to the separate-plate theory."