DIARY AND NOTES OF HORACE TEMPLETON,
Late Secretary Of Legation At ————.
By Charles James Lever
Author Of “Harry Lorrequer,” “Knight Of Gwynne,” Etc. Etc.
In Two Volumes. Vol. II.
Second Edition.
London: Chapman And Hall, 186 Strand.
CONTENTS
HORACE TEMPLETON
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II. THE TYROL
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV. Villa Cimarosa,Logo di Como
CHAPTER V. LaVilla Cimarosa, October
CHAPTERVI. Villa Cimarosa, Lake of Como
CHAPTER VII. La Spezzia
CHAPTER VIII. Lerici,Gulf of Spezzia
CHAPTER IX. Florence
CHAPTER X. SOMEREVERIES ABOUT PLACES
CHAPTER XI. Villa Scalviati, near Florence
HORACE TEMPLETON.
CHAPTER I.
The Ortl’er is the Mont Blanc of the Tyrol, and seen from Nauders, avillage on a green, grassy table land, more than four thousand feet abovethe sea, can well bear comparison with the boldest of the Swiss Alps.Nauders itself, a type of a Tyroler village, is situated in a wild andlonely region; it has all the picturesque elegance and neat detail ofwhich Tyrolers are so lavish in their houses, and, like every other Dorfin this country, has its proud castle standing sentry over it. The Baronsof the Naudersberg were men of station in olden times, and exacted atribute over a tract extending deep into the Engadine; and now, in thisgreat hall, whose chimney would contain the heaviest diligence that everwaddled over the Arlberg, a few Nauders notabilities are squabbling oversome mysterious passage in a despatch from Vienna, for it is the highcourt of the district, while I wait patiently without for some formalityof my passport. To judge from their grave expressions and their anxiousglances towards me, one would say that I was some dangerous or suspectedpersonage—some one whose dark designs the government had alreadyfathomed, and were bent on thwarting. If they did but know how few are, inall likelihood, the days I have yet to linger on, they would not rob me ofone hour of them in this wild mountain.
And yet I have learned something while I wait. This little dorf, Nauders,is the birthplace of a very remarkable man, although one whose humblename, Bartholomew Kleinhaus, is little known beyond Tyrol. Left an orphanat five years old, he lost his sight in the small-pox, and was taken intothe house of a carpenter who compassionated his sad condition. Here heendeavoured to learn something of his protector’s trade; but soonrelinquishing the effort, he set to work, forming little images in wood,at first from models, and then self-designed, till, at the age ofthirteen, he completed a crucifix of singular beauty an