This section is from the book "Engadine - John L. Stoddard's Lectures", by John L. Stoddard. Also available from Amazon: John L. Stoddard's Lectures 13 Volume Set.
It was, in truth, a wonderfully attractive valley. Sublimity unquestionably lay beyond, but beauty and fertility enclosed us here, and won our hearts. The ever-present, moving, sparkling feature of the landscape was the river Inn, whose gay companionship we were to enjoy continuously on our journey; for, rising at the western limit of the Engadine, it runs through its entire length. Then entering Tyrolese territory, it sweeps impetuously down past Landeck, and presently gives its name to the Tyrolean capital, Innsbruck. Still later, at the Austrian city, Passau, more than three hundred miles from its Swiss source, it joins the Danube, as its largest Alpine tributary, and thenceforth merging its identity in that of its ally, flows eastward to its fluvial Nirvana, the Black Sea.
Landeck.
In this particular portion of its course the Inn seems jubilant over the historic memories which throng its banks. River and rocks are eloquent of valiant deeds. And this is as it should be; for though mountaineers have no monopoly of patriotic courage, - as the defenders of the Netherlands so nobly proved, - yet somehow we expect that those who dwell among inspiring snow-peaks, fearful avalanches, and the roar of rushing torrents should be preeminently daring and devoted to their fatherland. We know what prodigies the land of William Tell has shown in these respects, and the achievements of the Tyrolese are no less worthy of our admiration. Hence we were not surprised to find at the Pontlatzer Bridge, about six miles from Landeck, memorials to the valor twice displayed here by the stalwart peasantry. At one end of the iron bridge, constructed here in 1898 in place of the historic wooden one, a metal tablet has been sunk into the cliff, to call attention to those deeds which make the place immortal; and on the other shore, erected for a similar purpose, stands a simple monument consisting of a mighty boulder, surmounted by a threatening eagle holding in its claws the banner of Tyrol. Upon this rock, which may have crushed or mangled more than one invader in its well-directed course, are carved the dates of 1703 and 1809, - those fateful years for the Tyrol, when the Bavarians and French essayed its con-quest, but were repeatedly driven back by victories which left the land as free as its pure mountain air. On both occasions when their foes attempted to march through this valley, the Ty-rolese waited till the foreign soldiers, who disdained to take precautions against mere militia, had passed within the gorge whose banks this bridge unites. Then, suddenly, from rocks and trees on every side, burst forth a perfect storm of bullets, aimed by men accustomed to bring down the chamois. While, simultaneously, old men, youths, and women, stationed far above, cut loose the ropes and slings, which until then had held back heaps of rocks and boulders. These with the thunder of the avalanche plunged down the well-nigh perpendicular cliffs, and either crushed their victims to a pulp, or tore huge gaps in the dense ranks by sweeping frequently a score at once into the seething stream. Then down upon this writh-ing mass of mutilated men and maddened horses rushed the triumphant Tyrolese with scythes, clubbed muskets, and long pikes, and literally mowed and beat them down, shouting meanwhile their terrifying war-cry, - "Schlagen! Zuschlagen!! Niederschlagen!!!" (Strike! Strike home!! Strike down!!!) In 1703 the destruction was complete, and not a man escaped to tell the tale. In 1809 - the year of the great leader, Andreas Hofer1 - the victory was no less brilliant, but in this case eight hundred of the enemy, cut off from all retreat, and overwhelmed by what appeared to them a conflict not alone with men, but with the elements, surrendered ignominiously, and gave up cannon, horses, and accoutrements to the embattled farmers, whom but an hour before they had considered no more dangerous than cattle in the fields. A land which can inspire such heroic deeds is sure to produce poets or historians to record them; and we were, therefore, not surprised to find, a few miles distant from this bridge, a house, above the door of which was the inscription:
 
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