from which the deep valleys lie hid, far beneath the prospect of the eye, and are only caught here and there, when a turn in the railway opens the bright green line of their narrow gorges.
Wonderful and magical change! from the days of the feudal baron who looked out from his proud fortress teeming with life, upon the solitary horse-litter, or jolting wain, toiling up the mountain-path, like the snail which climbed the rock, and ours who gaze from the now grey and silent battlements upon the rushing stream of carriages propelled by fire and water, flying from mountain to mountain; disappearing into the bowels of the earth with its long black train, like some mighty dragon! through apertures which seem, from a distance, not large enough to receive a mole, while the flying train, diminishing with every beat of the spectator’s heart, seems to contract itself to the dimensions of the rocky chasm which swallows it up. Then, issuing from beyond the hill in a cloud of white vapour, it seems to run along the face of the crags, now seen, now lost, as it shoots like lightning through the corridors of the rock, and disappears, sending its low thunder reverberating among the distant hills.
Such is the aspect which presents itself for the first time to the eye of the traveller, as he stands on the ruins of this ancient fortress, or looks down from some shattered mountain-peak. Nor is it less interesting to the occupant of a railway carriage; rock after rock seems to rise, and fall, and disappear around him; peaks, precipices, and valleys fly before the eye, like the deceptions of a phantasmagoria, and the old ruins of castles and monasteries, and villages, and groups of mountain cottages, all come and go before he has time to catch their names.
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The Church of Marie Strassengel.
In descending this range of mountains, towards the south, the beautiful valley which stretches before us leads to the town of Bruck, where the river Mur turns at right angles towards the south, and receives the combined waters of the Schwarzau and Mütz, which have already met below the Semmering, and formed the stream which we had been hitherto following. We now accompany the river Mur down the rich and beautiful valley which leads to the plain of Gratz; crossing and recrossing it, in its winding course, as it turns from side to side, washing alternately the feet of the steep wooded hills by which the valley is bounded, while here and there the train disappears amidst the broken rocks and tufts of trees, where the glen has contracted itself, and where the line cuts into the face of the solid rock—the cliffs above and the stream below—running through wide arched galleries like the arcades of a bazaar, open on one side to the river, showing between the pillars the most romantic scenery that it is possible for the mind to conceive.
We now find ourselves running down the beautiful vale which expands itself into the plain of Gratz, and after passing innumerable villages, sheltered by hills clothed in forests, out of whose rich foliage still continue to rise, here and there, on either side, the remains of many a noble pile, or still inhabited châteaux of the nobles of Stürmark. Among the most remarkable of the former are the ruins of the Castle of Güstinge, belonging to the Counts of Attems, but uninhabited since the year 1711. From this elevated point, as also from the votive chapel built in 1832, on the south side of the hill on which the castle stands, there is an exquisite view down the valley of the Mur, the chain of “Alps,” and the plain of Gratz. Still more interesting, however, is the little gothic church of “Marie Strassengel,” which stands on a wooded eminence to the right. This