DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62133#0138
122 AN ART-STUDENT IN MUNICH.
in the breeze,”—one grows quite weary of these banners!—
the blue and white heralds of yesterday, and the scarlet
trumpeters, and the queer, grotesque fellows in parti-
coloured slashed jerkins of black and yellow preceding them.
Then came these “Friends of Shooting,” as they call them-
selves—each bearing his rifle in his hand, and wearing a
sort of uniform,—green Tyrolean peaked hats, as elegantly
decorated with feathers, flowers, and ribbons, as a fashion-
able bonnet, or sometimes graced with a tuft of chamois-
fur, or a staring owl’s or eagle’s head. Their coats were
grey and loose, with green cuffs and collars. But their
heads and faces were far more striking than their costume.
Hard, weather-beaten men were they, with grizzled beards
and snowy eyebrows; or youths, agile and active as the
chamois of their native Alps, with clear, large eyes, and
ruddy, healthy cheeks; others, middle-aged, black and red-
bearded, men whose lives had been passed among deep
woods and by sedgy lakes, looking for game—the roe and
the boar. There was, as it were, a fresh mountain air
blowing about them, a sylvan mountain strength, as they
marched along, each shouldering his piece. Arrived at the
shooting ground, they indefatigably shot and shot, out of
their little booths, all the livelong day. Crowds were soon
collected, and the intensest interest prevailed : but we were
soon weary.
We wandered off, therefore, along the higher plain, with
long, solemn stretches of pine-wood in the distance, to a
picturesque and singularly interesting little church, at the
feet of whose walls we found that a bloody skirmish with
the Austrians had taken place. There was the mound-like
grave, beneath which slept the eight hundred who had
fallen. A stone chronicled their bravery, and how they
fell, on Christmas Day, 1703. Autumnal shrubs and
flowers shed their brilliant leaves upon the green luxuriant
grass. It was a quiet, holy little grave-yard, full of crosses,
in the breeze,”—one grows quite weary of these banners!—
the blue and white heralds of yesterday, and the scarlet
trumpeters, and the queer, grotesque fellows in parti-
coloured slashed jerkins of black and yellow preceding them.
Then came these “Friends of Shooting,” as they call them-
selves—each bearing his rifle in his hand, and wearing a
sort of uniform,—green Tyrolean peaked hats, as elegantly
decorated with feathers, flowers, and ribbons, as a fashion-
able bonnet, or sometimes graced with a tuft of chamois-
fur, or a staring owl’s or eagle’s head. Their coats were
grey and loose, with green cuffs and collars. But their
heads and faces were far more striking than their costume.
Hard, weather-beaten men were they, with grizzled beards
and snowy eyebrows; or youths, agile and active as the
chamois of their native Alps, with clear, large eyes, and
ruddy, healthy cheeks; others, middle-aged, black and red-
bearded, men whose lives had been passed among deep
woods and by sedgy lakes, looking for game—the roe and
the boar. There was, as it were, a fresh mountain air
blowing about them, a sylvan mountain strength, as they
marched along, each shouldering his piece. Arrived at the
shooting ground, they indefatigably shot and shot, out of
their little booths, all the livelong day. Crowds were soon
collected, and the intensest interest prevailed : but we were
soon weary.
We wandered off, therefore, along the higher plain, with
long, solemn stretches of pine-wood in the distance, to a
picturesque and singularly interesting little church, at the
feet of whose walls we found that a bloody skirmish with
the Austrians had taken place. There was the mound-like
grave, beneath which slept the eight hundred who had
fallen. A stone chronicled their bravery, and how they
fell, on Christmas Day, 1703. Autumnal shrubs and
flowers shed their brilliant leaves upon the green luxuriant
grass. It was a quiet, holy little grave-yard, full of crosses,