by Mary Shelley
The road in the morning presented the same disconsolate appearance: the town of Brenner is on a level, shut in by heights. We were still on the banks of the Sill, which joins the Inn, and pursues its course to the Black Sea; but with delight I saw, and with ecstacy my two companions, who had never visited Italy, hailed, a little rivulet and tiny waterfall, the Eisach, which flows south and joins the Adige; it was grasping Italy, to behold a stream that mingled its mountain-born waters with the rivers and lakes of that divine country.
We descended rapidly; and, passing across the Sterzinger Moss, a marshy flat, we again entered the mountain defiles. After passing through Mittenwald, the ravine closes still more narrowly. This was the scene of a most tremendous conflict during the Tyrolese struggle. Every stone and every crag, indeed, has its tale of victory and defeat.
I have mentioned, that after the battle of Aspern, the Tyrolese had delivered their country from the Bavarian yoke. The desire to be free caught the neighbouring provinces of Bavaria, Vorarlberg, and the northern Italian mountains, and in every part the native peasantry, joined to their Austrian allies, were victorious. The Tyrolese believed that they had regained their liberty, when the battle of Wagram, followed by the armistice of Znaym, crushed all their hopes. The Tyrol was re-demanded by Napoleon for Bavaria — and ceded again by Austria. The Emperor, after vowing never to desert them, wrote to the Tyrolese to announce, with expressions of paternal regret, the necessity he was under of yielding to Napoleon, and to order his troops to evacuate their country.
The mountaineers received these tidings with indignation, but without despair. They had struggled, bled, and been victorious; but battles in which they had no share, fought at a distance from their territory, were to decide their fate; and they were to be made over like a flock of sheep, bought and paid for, to a master who had oppressed them and endeavoured to destroy all they held dear — constitution, name, language, all! They refused to submit to so inglorious a destiny. At first they deliberated on forcing the Austrian troops to remain; but deserted by them, and by many of their own leaders, who accompanied the retiring army, they turned to Hofer, who accepted the command. The whole of the Tyrol again rose, and many of the Austrian soldiers deserted their banners to join the peasantry. The hopes of the patriots were now high, and they resolved to close their passes against the French and the Bavarians.
Hofer is no silken hero. Many portions of his character militate against the laws of romance; he had the German defects joined to their nobler qualities. He was born in the station of an innkeeper, a position rather of distinction in the Tyrol, since bringing the publican into contact with travellers, he acquires knowledge and civilisation. He is said to have been indolent, as well as convivial, even to intemperance, in his habits. He was often to be found carousing in a way-side inn, while his companions in arms were in the field. With all this, his countrymen idolised him, and he was esteemed and distinguished by the Emperor and the Archduke John, who was the chief instigator of the first rising of the Tyrol. He was possessed of unblemished integrity — honest, brave, open-hearted, resolute, and pious, he had all the virtues of the hardy, untaught mountaineer.
It is an interesting circumstance in his career, that when called upon to lead his countrymen against the Bavarians, he underwent a violent struggle of feeling. When General Hormayr withdrew from the Tyrol, he persuaded several of the chiefs to accompany him in his retreat. Hofer refused to go, and exerted his eloquence to prevail on his friends to remain, imploring them to make “one more effort in behalf of their beloved country.” Yet his own resolution was not entire. He felt that he was about to lead his countrymen against forces which held the whole of Europe in awe, which had humbled that Emperor, under the protection of whose sceptre he desired to remain. Could anything but ultimate defeat ensue? On the other hand, he could not contemplate with any sense of resignation a renewal of the tyranny of Bavaria: and, doubtless, he entertained a hope that their continued resistance would cause Austria to make another, and probably a successful attempt to claim its own. He passed several days in his native valley of Passeyr, a prey to irresolution, striving to seek a decision by the force of prayer.
Meanwhile, General Lefevre, at the head of a force composed of French, Saxons, and Bavarians, penetrated to Inspruck, took possession of the city, and advanced southward across the Brenner. The peasantry assembled in arms, and Hofer not appearing, Haspinger came forward to lead them, Father Haspinger was a Capuchin friar; he was young and athletic. In his student days, in 1805, he had fought the French; since then he had lived secluded in his monastery; but the cause of his country called him out. He had been present at all the previous battles, and was always seen in the thickest of the fight, bearing no arms except a large ebony crucifix, with which he dealt tremendous blows on the heads of his adversaries, and did great execution. In the absence of Hofer, this singular man came forward to direct the exertions of the peasantry. It was in the narrow pass below Mittenvald, that he prepared a fearful ambush. He caused enormous larch-trees to be felled, upon which were piled huge masses of rock and heaps of rubbish; the whole being held together by strong cords, and thus suspended over the edge of the precipice.
“We had penetrated to Inspruck,” writes a Saxon officer, belonging to Lefevre’s army, “ without great resistance; and, although much was reported about the Tyrolese stationed upon and round the Brenner, we gave little credit to it, thinking the rebels might be dispersed by a short cannonade, and already looking on ourselves as conquerors. Our entrance into the passes of the Brenner was only opposed by small corps, which continued to fall back after an obstinate but short resistance: among others, I perceived a man, full eighty years of age, posted against the side of a rock, and sending death among our ranks at every shot. Upon the Bavarians descending from behind to make him prisoner, he shouted aloud, ‘Hurrah!’ struck the first man to the ground with a ball, seized the second, and, with the cry, ‘ In God’s name!’ precipitated himself with him into the abyss below. Marching onward; we heard from the summit of a high rock, ‘Stephen, shall I chop it off yet?’ to which a loud, ‘Nay!’ reverberated from the other side. This was told to the Duke of Dantzig, who, notwithstanding, ordered us to advance. The van, consisting of 4000 Bavarians, had just stormed a deep ravine, when we again heard over our heads, ‘Hans! for the Most Holy Trinity!’ The reply that immediately followed completed our terror. ‘ In the name of the Most Holy Trinity, cut all loose above!’ and ere a minute had elapsed, thousands of my comrades in arms were crushed, buried, and overwhelmed by an incredible heap of broken rock, crags, and trees, hurled down upon us.” Mr Alison, in his “History of Europe,” tells us that in 1816 he visited this spot, and says “the long black furrow, produced by the falling masses, like the track of an avalanche, was, even then, after the lapse of seven years, imperfectly obliterated by the bursting vegetation which the warmth of the Italian sun had awakened on these beautiful steeps.” Now, thirty-three years, with their various seasons, snow, rain, and sunshine, have drawn a green veil over the ruins; and there is nothing left to tell the tale of defeat and death.
To return to Hofer — for these valleys are filled with his name, and it were sacrilege to traverse them without commemorating his glory and lamenting his downfall.
On hearing of this success, Hofer, joined by many thousand peasants, descended from the valley of Passeyr; through the whole region the hardy inhabitants rose en masse. Count Wittgenstein succeeded, however, in clearing the northern slope of the Brenner, and General Lefevre once more advanced, intending to cross and enter the Italian Tyrol, He was attacked on all sides by innumerable and determined foes. After an obstinate conflict he was defeated, forced back down the mountain; he lost his ammunition and cannon, and, hotly pursued, had only time to take refuge in Inspruck, disguised like a common trooper.
The peasantry collected in thousands, and another battle ensued. The disciplined troops of the invader were unable to cope with the enthusiastic numbers that assailed them;
their mercenary courage quailed before the noble ardour of the free mountaineers. Mount Isel was again the scene of the conflict; it ended in the total defeat of the French and Bavarians. Inspruck was evacuated, and General Lefevre retreated to Salzburg, Hofer became commander-in-chief of the Tyrol. The simplicity, the almost childish earnestness to act with justice that characterised his rule, in no way deteriorates from the real elevation of his character. He was an ignorant peasant, and his eyes did not look beyond the well-being of his native province and of his countrymen, who were also his personal friends. To this he was devoted, and no act of arbitrary power or of insolence, no shadow of such a thing, clouded his short-lived prosperity.
It was indeed brief. New armies poured into the devoted country, and the mountain passes were invaded at all points. For three months the peasants kept up their resistance, but the coming of winter forced them from their mountain fastnesses into the valleys below; food became scarce; their power of resisting the foe dwindled, faded, and became extinct — the Tyrol again became a province of Bavaria.
Napoleon, in his haughty contempt and insolent indignation at any opposition to his will, chose to regard the struggle of the Tyrolese for liberty as the lawless tumult of freebooters; he magnified the very few acts of barbarity of which the peasantry had been guilty (not to be compared in number to the atrocities perpetrated by their opponents) and had the baseness to set a price on the head of the peasant chiefs.
Hofer wavered several times. Now, conceiving that further resistance could only injure his country, he issued a proclamation inviting his countrymen to lay down their arms; but finding they would not yield, he resolved not to desert his post, and told the peasantry that “he would fight with them and for them, as a father for his children.” Various feats of arms ensued, and the Tyrolese were often victorious — even while ultimate and absolute defeat could only be deferred a few days by their heroism. At last all was lost; the chiefs for the most part fled; some fell into the hands of the enemy; others, with more or less of peril and hardship, escaped to Austria.
Hofer refused to fly; he refused to surrender. He retired to his native valley of Passeyr. He concealed himself in an Alpine hut four leagues distant from his home, and almost inacessible amidst the snows. His wife and child accompanied him, and his friends supplied him as they could with food, and brought him messages even from the Emperor of Austria, entreating him to escape. He refused. A stubborn patriotism held him to his native mountains, and he declared he would never leave them. Nor would he disguise himself, nor cut off his beard, which, flowing to his waist, rendered him conspicuous. At the same time he probably believed, now the country was subdued and tranquil, that the French would soon cease to desire to possess themselves of him.
He was deceived. A cunning intriguing priest, of the name of Donay, had insinuated himself into his confidence, and now, for the sake of the price set upon his head, betrayed him to the French general. An officer was sent with sixteen hundred men to take him prisoner; two thousand more were ordered up the pass to be at hand — so fearful were they that the peasants would rise to the rescue.
The column began their march at midnight, on the 20th January, over ice and snow. At five in the morning they reached the hut in which Hofer and his family harboured. He heard the French officer inquire for him, and came to the door and at once delivered himself up. He was bound, and amidst the shouts of the French and the tears of the peasants, he was marched to Botzen. Here he was received by the French commandant, Baraguay d’Hilliers, who treated him with courtesy, and even with such kindness as may be afforded a prisoner. Hofer was greatly altered by his long retreat amidst the snows, and by frequent want of food. His hair had grown gray, but his spirit was untamed, and his countenance beamed with cheerfulness and serenity. He was separated from his family, and carried to the shores of the Lago di Garda. He was put in a boat at the little village of Simone, and on disembarking again was carried on to Mantua.
A court-martial was immediately summoned: but even the laws of war were dispensed with; for the sentence of death was not passed by this court; the telegraph declared it from Milan, ordering his execution within twenty-four hours. Until this moment he had apprehended no danger to his life; yet he received the sentence with unshaken firmness, and only requested the attendance of a confessor; this was complied with. On the following morning, he was taken from the prison. He passed by the barracks of the Porta Molina, where the Tyrolese prisoners were confined, who all wept, and implored his blessing. This Hofer gave them, entreating their pardon for being the cause of their misfortunes, and declaring his conviction that they would soon be delivered from the sway of Bavaria. On the broad bastion at a little distance from the Porta Ceresa, a halt was commanded. Hofer refused to be blindfolded — he refused to kneel. He said, “He was accustomed to stand upright before his Creator, and in that posture he would deliver his spirit up to Him.” He said a few words of farewell, expressing his undying love for his country; and pronounced the word “ Fire!” with a firm voice.
The spot on which he fell is still considered sacred by his countrymen.
His funeral was conducted with solemnity by the French. But this was only an act of hypocrisy; such as instigated Berthier, then at Vienna, to declare that Hofer’s death would cause great pain to Napoleon, and that he would never have permitted it, had he been aware. Had Hofer suffered by sentence of the court martial by which he was tried, there had been some colour to this assertion; but the telegraphic dispatch that commanded and hurried his execution, in spite of the milder dealings of the military tribunal, in fear lest the intercession of the Emperor of Austria would prevent it, could only emanate from an authority intimately conversant with, and blindly obedient to, Napoleon’s will.
When, after landing from Elba, and losing the battle of Waterloo, Bonaparte was taken prisoner, was he less an outlaw than Hofer, who defended his country against invasion? His want of magnanimity does not excuse that of others, but it takes from the respect, the compassion, and the indignation, with which he demanded that his imprisonment should be regarded. It has been justly pronounced, that Napoleon was not guilty of any acts of wanton cruelty; but the pages of his history are also destitute of any record of his magnanimity.
The Emperor of Austria invited the wife of Hofer to Vienna. She refused to quit her native mountains; and resided, till her death, under her husband’s roof, in the Valley of Passeyr.
Such are the deeds, such the name, that shed glory over the rugged and romantic passes of the Tyrol. We continued to thread them; and the interest with which we regarded the scene of these patriotic exploits became exchanged for a more personal feeling of joy as we felt the climate alter, in token that we were advancing nearer and nearer to Italy.
The valley we traversed was met here by another; the scenery was huge, craggy, and picturesque. Through this second valley is carried the road called the pass of the Ampezzo, the shortest road from Inspruck to Venice. We had several times debated -whether we should not go by it; but the wish to see the Lago di Garda decided our negative.
We slept at Brixen — Bressanone is its musical Italian name; but we heard no Italian yet, nor saw a trace of Italy. Murray calls Brixen “a dirty, inanimate town, of 3200 inhabitants.” We saw nothing of it. The inn — the Elephant, is a pleasant, country-looking hostelry, on the road-side; trees grow in front, and it resembles the best specimen of a rustic inn in England. Everything was clean and comfortable, and the waiter spoke English, I bought a tiny figure of Hofer, carved in wood, to do honour to the “ Tyrolean Champion,” who, as Wordsworth well expresses it, was
“Murdered, like one ashore by shipwreck Cast,
Murdered without relief.”
We found here the moderate charge of a good inn among these mountains: including what we gave to servants, it was nine florins.
Monday, September 12TH.
OUR journey continues through a most beautiful part of the Tyrol. The road first lay through a narrow, gloomy pass, c
losed in by dark majestic cliffs, till we crossed the Eisach, when the valley of the Adige opened on us, with the town of Bolzanostill lingering in Germany we called it Botzen — surmounted by the Castle of Eppan; again, I repeat, differing as these valleys and mountains do one from another, delightedly as the eye dwells on the unimaginable variety of grouping which this picturesque and majestic region presents, words cannot describe it. Our road was cut in the side of a mountain, and wound beneath lofty crags; a narrow plain, with a dashing torrent, the Eisach in the depth, and lofty mountains closing in the valley on either side. I have used such words before: mark the difference here. Fair Earth scents the gales of Italy, and already begins to assume for herself the loveliness which is the inheritance of that country. The slopes of the lower hills are covered by vines. We stopped to bait the horses at what, in England, would be called an ale-house, a very humble inn, which we did not enter; but there was a sort of rustic summer-house and terrace overlooking the Eisach. The terrace was shaded by what, in Italy, is called a pergola, or trellissed walk of vines; the vegetation was luxuriant; the sun shone bright, and dressed the whole scene in gaiety. My companions felt that they were approaching scenes dreamt of — ardently desired, never seen. The days of my youth hovered near. I stole away among the vines by the margin of the river, to think of Italy, and to rejoice that I was about to tread again its beloved soil; to find myself surrounded by my dear, courteous, kind Italians, instead of the Germans, who, honest-hearted as they doubtless are, under the repulsive mask that invests them, have yet no grace of planners, no show of that intuitive desire to please — none of that cordial courtesy, which renders the lowliest-born Italian gentle in his bearding, and eager to render service.