1831.] I 161 ] -vl 



BECOLLECTIONS OF SCENES AND CITIES : N". I. — THE TYROL, 



BAVARIA, THE YOSGES. 



BY THE AUTHOR OF " SPAIN IN 1830." 



It is an old saying, that reality seldom equals expectation ; and I 

 have heard some experienced travellers assert, that the planning of a 

 journey, its arrangements, and the many pleasing anticipations connected 

 with it, afford greater enjoyment than the journey itself. From my 

 own experience, I would say, that there is much truth in this ; but I 

 am strongly inclined to think, that recollections are productive of more 

 real enjoyment than either the anticipation or the reality, there is no 

 limit to t/iem ; they live as long as life endures, and we can renew them 

 as often as we have a mind. They possess this advantage besides, that 

 nothing can wrest them from us ; expectation may never ripen into 

 reality, and reality may be clouded by disappointment ; but the recol- 

 lection of the past is ours for ever; beyond the reach of vicissitude, or 

 the malevolence of fate. All recollections are not, indeed, remi- 

 niscences of pleasure ; scenes may have been chequered by difficulty, or 

 darkened by danger ; but difficulty that is past, and danger that exists 

 no more, are seldom remembered with much uneasiness, but rather give 

 rise to a pleasurable consciousness, that we have vanquished the one 

 and escaped the other. 



Let me wander for awhile among the scenes I have visited, and through 

 the cities where I have dwelt. 



To me, the Tyrol is full of interesting recollections ; and if the limits 

 of this paper would permit the details of a personal narrative, I would 

 conduct the reader into many as sweet valleys as lie among the moun- 

 tains of more travelled Switzerland ; I would lead him by the margin 

 of lakes, as beautiful and as tranquil as any that sleep in Alpine soli- 

 tudes ; I would introduce him to many lively, and many quiet but 

 interesting companions — mountain streams, prattling of a hundred things 

 — grave and gay, never weary, discoursing ever, talking and running 

 on ; companies of summer flowers, enjoying sweet fellowship — nodding 

 to each other — all silent, but all smiling. I must content myself, how- 

 ever, with selecting a few portraits and recollections, from the many 

 that crowd upon me. 



I remember, with peculiar distinctness, that charming morning — I 

 think, one of the first days of July — upon which I left Meran, to jour- 

 ney to Glurus. One travels for more than a league, under an arcade 

 of vines, which are trained over head, from one trellice to another ; but 

 then the vines and cultivation are left behind, and give place to pastoral 

 scenes ; and it is among these, that I would sketch a portrait. The 

 river Adige presents here, one of the most extraordinary spectacles 

 that are to be met with in Europe— a rapid — almost a cataract — extending 

 at least a mile in length. It is one continued sheet of foam, rushing 

 with a deafening noise, and resistless force, between quiet green banks, 

 that resemble more the shores of a gentle lake, than the skirts of a cata- 

 ract. I leapt over the wall that bounds the high road, to cross the slope 

 and reach the margin of the river, — and never shall I forget the picture 

 that offered itself to my contemplation ; it was a woman sitting upon a 

 little knoll, six or eight yards from the margin, with bare head and 

 braided hair ; there she .sat, knitting, and singing to herself, snatches of 



M. M. New Series.— \oh. XII. No. 68. T 



