Chapter VI.

Chapter VI.

Veil

"The seal is set."

On the day fixed for the departure of Sir Henry Delm� and his brother, they together visited once more the sumptuous pile of St. Peter's, and heard the voices of the practised choristers swell through the mighty dome, as the impressive service of the Catholic Church was performed by the Pope and his conclave.

The morning dawn had seen George, as was his daily custom in Rome, kneeling beside the grave of Acm�, and breathing a prayer for their blissful reunion in heaven.

As the widower staggered from that spot, the thought crossed him, and bitterly poignant was that thought, that now might he bid a second earthly farewell, to what had been his pride, and household solace.

Now, indeed, "was the last link broken." Each hour--each traversed league--was to bear him away from even the remains of his heart's treasure.

Their bones must moulder in a different soil.

It was Sir Henry's choice that they should on that day visit Saint Peter's; and well might the travellers leave Rome with so unequalled an object fresh in the mind's eye.

Whether we gaze on its exterior of faultless proportions--or on the internal arrangement, where perfect symmetry reigns;--whether we consider the glowing canvas--or the inspired marble,--or the rich mosaics;--whether with the enthusiasm of the devotee, we bend before those gorgeous shrines; or with the comparative apathy of a cosmopolite, reflect on the historical recollections with which that edifice--the focus of the rays of Catholicism--teems and must teem forever;--we must in truth acknowledge, that there alone is the one matchless temple, in strict and perfect harmony with Imperial Rome.

Gazing there--or recalling in after years its unclouded majesty--the delighted pilgrim knows neither shade of disappointment--nor doth he harbour one thought of decay.

Where is the other building in the "eternal city," of which we can say thus much?

Sir Henry Delm� had engaged a vettura, which was to convey them with the same horses as far as Florence.

This arrangement made them masters of their own time, and was perhaps in their case, the best that could be adopted; for slowness of progress, which is its greatest objection, was rather desirable in George's then state of health.

As is customary, Delm� made an advance to the vetturino, who usually binds himself to defray all the expenses at the inns on the road.

The travellers dined early--left Rome in the afternoon--and proposed pushing on to Neppi during the night.

When about four miles on their journey, Delm� observed a mausoleum on the side of the road, which appeared of ancient date, and rather curious construction.

On consulting his guide-book, he found it designated as the tomb of Nero.

On examining its inscription, he saw that it was erected to the memory of a Prefect of Sardinia; and he inwardly determined to distrust his guide-book on all future occasions.

The moon was up as they reached the post-house of Storta.

The inn, or rather tavern, was a small wretched looking building, with a large courtyard attached, but the stables appeared nearly--if not quite--untenanted.

Sir Henry's surprise and anger were great, when the driver, coolly stopping his horses, commenced taking off their harness;--and informed the travellers, that there must they remain, until he had received some instructions from his owner, which he expected by a vettura leaving Rome at a later hour.

It was in vain that the brothers expostulated, and reminded him of his agreement to stop when they pleased, expressing their determination to proceed.

The driver was dogged and unmoved; and the travellers had neglected to draw up a written bargain, which is a precaution absolutely necessary in Italy.

They soon found they had no alternative but to submit. It was with a very bad grace they did so, for Englishmen have a due abhorrence of imposition.

They at length stepped from the vehicle--indulged in some vehement remonstrances--smiled at Thompson's voluble execrations, which they found were equally unavailing--and were finally obliged to give up the point.

They were shown into a small room. The chief inmates were some Papal soldiers of ruffianly air, engaged in the clamorous game of moro. Unlike the close shorn Englishmen, their beards and mustachios, were allowed to grow to such length, as to hide the greater part of the face.

Their animated gestures and savage countenances, would have accorded well with a bandit group by Salvator.

The landlord, an obsequious little man, with face pregnant with mischievous cunning, was watching with interest, the turns of the game; and assisting his guests, to quaff his vino ordinario, which Sir Henry afterwards found was ordinary enough.

Delm�'s equanimity of temper was already considerably disturbed.

The scanty accommodation afforded them, by no means diminished his choler; which he began to expend on the obstinate driver, who had followed them into the room, and was busily placing chairs round one of the tables.

"See what you can get for supper, you rascal!"

"Signore! there are some excellent fowls, and the very best wine of Velletri."

The wine was produced and proved vinegar.

The host bustled away loud in its praise, and a few seconds afterwards, the dying shriek of a veteran tenant of the poultry yard, warned them that supper was preparing.

"Thompson!" said George, rather languidly, "do, like a good fellow, see that they put no garlic with the fowl!"

"I will, Sir," replied the domestic; "and the wine, Mr. George, seems none of the best. I have a flask of brandy in the rumble."

"Just the thing!" said Sir Henry.

To their surprise, the landlord proffered sugar and lemons.

Sir Henry's countenance somewhat brightened, and he declared he would make punch.

Punch! thou just type of matrimony! thy ingredients of sweets and bitters so artfully blended, that we know not which predominate,--so deceptive, too, that we imbibe long and potent draughts, nor awake to a consciousness of thy power, till awoke by headache.

Hail to thee! all hail!

Thy very name, eked out by thine appropriate receptacle, recals raptures past--bids us appreciate joys present--and enjoins us duly to reverence thee, if we hope for joys in futurity.

A bowl of punch! each merry bacchanal rises at the call!

Moderate bacchanals all! for where is the abandoned sot, who would not rather dole out his filthy lucre, on an increase of the mere alchohol--than expend it on those grateful adjuncts, which, throwing a graceful veil over that spirit's grossness, impart to it its chief and its best attraction.

Up rises then each hearty bacchanal! thrice waving the clear tinkling crystal, ere he emits that joyful burst, fresh from the heart, which from his uncontrolled emotion, meets the ear husky and indistinct.

Delm� squeezed the lemons into not a bad substitute for a bowl, viz. a red earthen vase of rough workmanship, but elegant shape, somewhat resembling a modern wine cooler.

George stood at the inn door, wistfully looking upward; when he remarked an intelligent boy of fourteen, with dark piercing eyes, observing him somewhat earnestly.

On finding he was noticed, he approached with an air of ingenuous embarrassment--pulled off his cap--and said in a tone of enquiry,

"Un Signore Inglese?"

"Yes! my fine fellow! Do you know anything of me or the English?"

"Oh yes!" replied the boy with vivacity, replacing his cap, "I have travelled in England, and like London very much."

George conversed with him for some time; and found him to be one of that class, whose numbers make us unmindful of their wants or their loneliness; who eke out a miserable pittance, by carrying busts of plaster-of-Paris--grinding on an organ--or displaying through Europe, the tricks of some poodle dog, or the eccentricities of a monkey disguised in scarlet.

It is rare that these come from a part of Italy so far south; but it appeared in this instance, that Giuseppe's father being a carrier, had taken him with him to Milan--had there met a friend, rich in an organ and porcupine--and had entrusted the boy to his care, in order that he might see the world, and make his fortune.

Giuseppe gave a narrative of some little events, that had occurred to him during his wanderings, which greatly interested George; and he finally concluded, by saying that his father had now retired to his native place at Barberini, where many strangers came to see the "antichit�." George, on referring to the guide book, found that this was indeed the case; and that Isola Barberini is marked as the site of ancient Veii, the rival of young Rome.

"And when do you go there, youngster, and how far is it from this?"

"I am going now, Signore, to be in time for supper. It is only a 'piccolo giro' across the fields; and looks as well by moonlight as at any other time."

"Ah!" replied George, "I would be glad to accompany you. Henry," said he, as he entered the room of the inn, "I am away on a classic excursion to Veii. The night is lovely--I have an excellent guide--and shall be back before you have finished your punch making.

"Do let me go!" and he lowered his voice, and the tears swam in his eyes, "I cannot endure these rude sounds of merriment, and a moonlight walk will at least afford nothing that can thus pain me."

Sir Henry looked out. The night was perfectly fine. The young peasant, all willingness, had already shouldered his bundle, and was preparing to move forward.

"You must not be late, George," said his brother, assenting to his proposal. "Do not stay too long about the ruins. Remember that you are still delicate, and that I shall wait supper for you."

As the boy led on, George followed him in a foot path, which led through fields of meadow land, corn, and rye.

The fire-flies--mimic meteors--were giddily winging their way from bush to bush,--illuming the atmosphere, and imparting to the scene a glittering beauty, which a summer night in a northern clime cannot boast.

As they approached somewhat nearer to the hamlet, their course was over ground more rugged; and the disjointed fragments of rocks strewed, and at intervals obstructed, the path.

The cottages were soon reached.

The villagers were all in front of their dwellings, taking their last meal for the day, in the open air.

The young guide stopped in front of a cottage, a little apart from the rest. The family party were seated round a rude table, on which were plates and napkins.

Before the master of the house--a wrinkled old man, with long grey hair--was a smoking tureen of bread soup, over which he was in the act of sprinkling some grated Parmesan cheese.

A plate of green figs, and a large water melon--the cocomero--made up the repast.

"Giuseppe! you are late for supper," said the old patriarch, as the boy approached to whisper his introduction of the stranger.

The old man waved his hand courteously--made a short apology for the humble viands--and pointed to a vacant seat.

"Many thanks," said George, "but my supper already awaits me. I will not, however, interfere with my young guide. Show me the ruins, Giuseppe, and I will trouble you no further."

The boy moved on towards what were indeed ruins, or rather the vestige of such.

Here a misshapen stone--there a shattered column--decaying walls, overgrown with nettles--arches and caves, choked up with rank vegetation--bespoke remains unheeded, and but rarely visited.

George threw the boy a piece of silver--heard his repeated cautions as to his way to Storta--and wished him good night, as he hurried back to the cottage.

George Delm� sat on the shaft of a broken pillar, his face almost buried in his hands, as he looked around him on a scene once so famous.

But with him classic feelings were not upper-most. The widowed heart mourned its loneliness; and in that calm hour found the full relief of tears.

The mourner rose, and turned his face homeward, slowly--sadly--but resignedly.

The heavens had become more overcast--and clouds occasionally were hiding the moon.

It was with some difficulty that George avoided the pieces of rock which obstructed the path.

The road seemed longer, and wilder, than he had previously thought it.

Suddenly the loud bay of dogs was borne to his ear; and almost, before he had time to turn from the path, two large hounds brushed past him, followed by a rider--his gun slung before his saddle--and his horse fearlessly clattering over the loose stones.

The horseman seemed a young Roman farmer. He did not salute, and probably did not observe our traveller. As the sound from the horse receded, and the clamour of the dogs died away, a feeling almost akin to alarm crossed George's mind.

George was one, however, who rarely gave way to vague fears.

It so happened that he was armed.

Delancey had made him a present of a brace of pocket pistols, during the days of their friendship; and, very much to Sir Henry's annoyance, George had been in the habit, since leaving Malta, of constantly carrying these about him.

He strode on without adventure, until entering the field of rye.

The pathway became very narrow--so that on either side him, he grazed against the bearded ears.

Suddenly he heard a rustling sound. The moon at the moment broke from a dark cloud, and he fancied he discerned a figure near him half hid by the rye.

Again the moon was shrouded.

A rustling again ensued.

George felt a ponderous blow, which, aimed at the left shoulder, struck his left arm.

The collar of his coat was instantaneously grasped.

For a moment, George Delm� felt irresolute--then drew a pistol from his pocket and fired.

The hold was loosened--a man fell at his feet.

The pistol's flash revealed another figure, which diving into the corn--fled precipitately.

Let us turn to Sir Henry Delm� and to Thompson.

For some time after George's departure, they were busily engaged in preparing supper.

While they were thus occupied, they noticed that the Papal soldiers whispered much together--but this gave rise to no suspicion on their part.

One by one the soldiers strolled out, and the landlord betook himself to the kitchen.

The punch was duly made, and Sir Henry, leaving the room, paced thoughtfully in front of the inn.

At length it struck him, that it was almost time for his brother to return.

He was entering the inn, for the purpose of making some enquiries; when he saw one of the soldiers cross the road hurriedly, and go into the courtyard, where he was immediately joined by the vetturino.

Delm� turned in to the house, and called for the landlord.

Before the latter could appear, George rushed into the room.

His hat was off--his eyes glared wildly--his long hair streamed back, wet with the dews of night. He dragged with him the body of one of the soldiers; and threw it with supernatural strength into the very centre of the room.

"Supper!" said he, "ha, ha, ha! I have brought you supper!"

The man was quite dead.

The bullet had pierced his neck and throat. The blood was yet flowing, and had dabbled the white vest. His beard and hair were clotted with gore.

Shocked as Sir Henry was, the truth flashed on him. He lost not a moment in beckoning to Thompson, and rushing towards the stable. The driver was still there, conversing with the soldier.

As Sir Henry approached, they evinced involuntary confusion; and the vetturino---at once unmanned--fell on his knees, and commenced a confession.

They were dragged into the inn, and the officers of justice were sent for.

Sir Henry Delm�'s anxious regards were now directed to his brother.

George had taken a seat near the corpse; and was sternly regarding it with fixed, steady, and unflinching gaze.

It is certainly very fearful to mark the dead--with pallid complexion--glazed eye--limbs fast stiffening--and gouts of blood--standing from out the face, like crimson excrescences on a diseased leaf.

But it is far more fearful than even this, to look on one, who is bound to us by the nearest and most cherished ties--with cheek yet glowing--expression's flush mantling still--and yet to doubt whether the intellect, which adorned that frame--the jewel in the casket--hath not for ever left its earthly tenement.

Chapter VII.

The Vetturini.

"Far other scene is Thrasymene now."

   *       *       *       *       *

"Fair Florence! at thy day's decline When came the shade from Appennine, And suddenly on blade and bower The fire-flies shed the sparkling shower, As if all heaven to earth had sent Each star that gems the firmament; 'Twas sweet at that enchanting hour, To bathe in fragrance of the Italian clime, By Arno's stream."

The brothers were detained a few days at Storta; while the Roman police, who, to do them justice, were active on the occasion, and showed every anxiety to give the travellers as little trouble as possible--were investigating the occurrences we have described. It appeared that some suspicion had previously attached itself to Vittore Santado, and that the eyes of the police had been on him for some time.

It now became evident, both from his own confession, and subsequent discoveries, that this man had for years trafficked in the lives and property of others;--and that the charge connected with George, was one of the least grave, that would be brought against him.

It was shown that he was an active agent, in aiding the infamous designs of that inn, on the Italian frontier, whose enormities have given rise to more than one thrilling tale of fiction, far out-done by the reality--that inn--where the traveller retired to rest--but rose not refreshed to prosecute his journey:--where--if he slumbered but once, that sleep was his last.

Until now, his career had been more than usually successful.

The crafty vetturino had had the art to glean a fair reputation even from his crimes.

More than once, had he induced a solitary traveller to leave the high road and his carriage, for the purpose of visiting some ruin, or viewing some famous prospect.

On such occasions, Vittore's accomplices were in waiting; and the unsuspecting stranger--pillaged and alarmed, would return to the vettura penniless.

Vittore would be foremost in his commiseration; and with an air of blunt sincerity, would proffer the use of his purse; such conduct ensuring the gratitude, and the after recommendations of his dupe.

It is supposed that the vetturino had contemplated rifling the carriage in the inn yard; but some suspicion as to the servant's not leaving the luggage, and the sort of dog fidelity displayed by Thompson towards the brothers; had induced him rather to sanction an attempt on George during his imprudent excursion to Barberini.

Vittore Santado was executed near the Piazza del Popolo, and to this day, over the chimney-piece of many a Roman peasant, may be seen the tale of his crimes--his confessions--and his death; which perused by casual neighbour guests--calls up many a sign of the cross--and devout look of rustic terror.

After the incident we have related in the last chapter, George Delm�, contrary to Sir Henry's previous misgivings, enjoyed a good night's rest, and arose tolerably calm and refreshed.

The following night he was attacked with palpitation of the heart.

His brother and Thompson felt greatly alarmed; but after an hour's severe suffering, the paroxysm left him.

Nothing further occurred at Storta, to induce them to attach very great importance to the shock George's nerves had experienced; but in after life, Sir Henry always thought, he could date many fatal symptoms from that hour of intense excitement.

Delm� was in Rome two days; during which period, his depositions, as connected with Santado, were taken down; and he was informed that his presence during the trial would not be insisted on.

Delm� took that opportunity again to consult his medical friend; who accompanied him to Storta, to visit George; and prescribed a regimen calculated to invigorate the general system.

He directed Delm� not to be alarmed, should the paroxysm return; and recommended, that during the attack, George should lie down quietly--and take twenty drops of Battley's solution of opium in a wine glass of water.

As his friend did not appear alarmed, Delm�'s mind was once more assured; and he prepared to continue their journey to Florence, by the way of Perugia.

Punctual to his time, the new vetturino--as to whose selection Sir Henry had been very particular--arrived at Storta; and the whole party, with great willingness left the wretched inn, and its suspicious inmates.

There certainly could not be a greater contrast, than between the two Vetturini.

Vittore Santado was a Roman; young--inclined to corpulency---oily faced--plausible--and a most consummate rascal.

Pietro Molini was a Milanese;--elderly--with hardly an ounce of flesh on his body--with face scored and furrowed like the surface of the hedge pippin--rough in his manners--and the most honest of his tribe.

Poor Pietro Molini! never did driver give more cheering halloo to four-footed beast! or with spirit more elate, deliver in the drawling patois of his native paesi, some ditty commemorative of Northern liberty! Honest Pietro! thy wishes were contained within a small compass! thy little brown cur, snarling and bandy-legged--thy raw-boned steeds--these were thy first care;--the safety of thy conveyance, and its various inmates, the second.

To thee--the most delightful melody in this wide world, was the jingling of thy horses' bells, as all cautiously and slowly they jogged on their way:--the most discordant sound in nature, the short husky cough, emitted from the carcase of one of these, as disease and continued fatigue made their sure inroads.

Poor simple Pietro! his only pride was encased in his breeches pocket, and it lay in a few scraps of paper--remembrances of his passengers.

One and all lavished praise on Pietro!

Yes! we have him again before us as we write--his ill-looking, but easy carriage--his three steeds--the rude harness, eked out with clustering knots of rope--and the happy driver, seated on a narrow bench, jutting over the backs of his wheelers, as he contentedly whiffs from his small red clay pipe--at intervals dropping off in a dose, with his cur on his lap. At such a time, with what perfect nonchalance would he open his large grey eyes, when recalled to the sense of his duties, by the volubly breathed execration of some rival whip--and with what a silent look of ineffable contempt, would he direct his horses to the side of the road, and again steep his senses in quiescent repose.

At night, Pietro's importance would sensibly increase, as after rubbing down the hides of his favourites, and dropping into the capacious manger the variegated oats; he would wait on his passengers to arrange the hour of departure--would accept the proffered glass of wine, and give utterance to his ready joke.

A King might have envied Pietro Molini, as---the straw rustling beneath him--he laid down in his hairy capote, almost between the legs of his favourite horse.

To do so will be to anticipate some years!

Yet we would fain relate the end of the Vetturino.

Crossing from Basle to Strasbourg, in the depth of winter, and descending an undulated valley, Pietro slept as usual.

Implicitly relying on the sure footedness of his horses, a fond dream of German beer, German tobacco, and German sauerkraut, soothed his slumbers.

A fragment of rock had been loosened from its ancient bed, and lay across the road.

Against this the leader tripped and fell.

The shock threw Pietro and his dog from their exalted station.

The pipe, which--whether he were sleeping or waking--had long decked the cheek of the honest driver, now fell from it, and was dashed into a thousand pieces.

It was an evil omen.

When the carriage was stopped, Pietro Molini was found quite lifeless. He had received a kick from the ungrateful heel of his friend Bruno, and the wheel of the carriage, it had been his delight to clean, had passed over the body of the hapless vetturino.

Ah! as that news spread! many an ostler of many a nation, shook his head mournfully, and with saddened voice, wondered that the same thing had not occurred years before.

At the time, however, to which we allude--viz., the commencement of the acquaintance between our English travellers, and Pietro; the latter thought of anything rather than of leaving a world for which he had an uncommon affection.

He and Thompson soon became staunch allies; and the want of a common language seemed only to cement their union.

Not Noblet, in her inimitable performance of the Muette, threw more expression into her sweet face--than did Pietro, into the furrowed lines of his bronzed visage, as he endeavoured to explain to his friend some Italian custom, or the reason why he had selected another dish, or other wine; rather than that, to which they had done such justice the previous day.

Thompson's gestures and countenance in reply, partook of a more stoical character; but he was never found wanting, when a companion was needed for a bottle or a pipe.

Their friendship was not an uninstructive one.

It would have edified him, who prides himself on his deep knowledge of human nature, or who seizes with avidity on the minuter traits of a nation, to note with what attention the English valet, would listen to a Milanese arietta; whose love notes, delivered by the unmusical Pietro, were about as effectively pathetic as the croak of the bull frog in a marsh, or screech of owl sentimentalising in ivied ruin; and to mark with what gravity, the Italian driver would beat his hand against the table; in tune to "Ben Baxter," or "The British Grenadiers," roared out more Anglico.

There are two grand routes from Home to Florence:--the one is by Perugia, the other passes through Sienna. The former, which is the one Sir Henry selected, is the most attractive to the ordinary traveller; who is enabled to visit the fall of Terni, Thrasymene, and the temple of Clitumnuss The first, despite its being artificial, is equal in our opinion, to the vaunted Schaffhausen;--the second is hallowed in story;--and the third has been illustrated by Byron.

"Pass not unblest the genius of the place! If through the air a zephyr more serene Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace Along the margin a more eloquent green, If on the heart, the freshness of the scene Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust Of weary life a moment lave it clean With nature's baptism,--'tis to him ye must Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust."

Poor George Delm� showed little interest in anything connected with this journey. Sir Henry embarked on the lake above, in order to see the cascade of Terni in every point of view; and afterwards took his station with George, on various ledges of rock below the fall--whence the eye looks upward, on that mystic scene of havoc, turbulence, and mighty rush of water.

But the cataract fell in snowy sheet--the waves hissed round the sable rocks--and the rainbow played on the torrent's foam;--but these possessed not a charm, to rouse to a sense of their beauty, the sad heart of the invalid.

Near the lake of Thrasymene, they passed some hours; allowing Pietro to put up his horses at Casa di Piano. Sir Henry, with a Livy in his hand, first proceeded to the small eminence, looking down on the round tower of Borghetto; and on that insidious pass, which his fancy peopled once more, with the advancing troops of the Consul.

The soldier felt much interested, and attempted to impart that interest to George; but the widowed husband shook his head mournfully; and it was evident, that his thoughts were not with Flaminius and his entrapped soldiers, but with the gentle Acm�, mouldering in her lonely grave.

From Borghetto, they proceeded to the village of Torre, where Delm� was glad to accept the hospitable offer of its Priest, and procure seats for himself and George, in the balcony of his little cottage. From this point, they looked down on the arena of war.

There it lay, serene and basking in the rays of the meridian sun.

On either side, were the purple summits of the Gualandra hills.

Beneath flowed the little rivulet, once choked by the bodies of the combatants; but which now sparkled gaily through the valley, although at intervals, almost dried up by the fierce heat of summer.

The lake was tranquil and unruffled--all on its margin, hushed and moveless. What a contrast to that exciting hour, which Sir Henry was conjuring up again; when the clang of arms, and crash of squadrons, commingled with the exulting shout, that bespoke the confident hope of the wily Carthaginian; and with that sterner response, which hurled back the indomitable spirit of the unyielding, but despairing Roman!

Our travellers quitted the Papal territories; and entering Tuscany, passed through Arezzo, the birth-place of Petrarch; arriving at Florence just previous to sunset.

As they reached the Lung' Arno, Pietro put his horses to a fast trot, and rattling over the flagged road, drew up in front of Schneidorff's with an air of greater importance, than his sorry vehicle seemed to warrant.

The following morning, George Delm� was taken by his brother, to visit the English physician resident at Florence; and again was Delm� informed, that change of scene, quiet, and peace of mind, were what his brother most required.

George was thinner perhaps, than when at Rome, and his lip had lost its lustrous red; but he concealed his physical sufferings, and always met Henry with the same soft undeviating smile.

On their first visit to the Tribune, George was struck with the Samian Sibyl of Guercino.

In the glowing lip--the silken cheek--the ivory temple--the eye of inspiration--the bereaved mourner thought he could trace, some faint resemblance to the lost Acm�. Henceforward, it was his greatest pleasure, to remain with eyes fixed on that masterpiece of art.

Sir Henry Delm�, accompanied by the custode, would make himself acquainted with the wonders of the Florentine gallery; and every now and then, return to whisper some sentence, in the soothing tones of brotherly kindness. At night, their usual haunt was the public square--where the loggio of Andrea Orcagna presents so much, that may claim attention.

There stands the David! in the freshness of his youth! proudly regarding his adversary--ere he overthrow, with the weapon of the herdsman, the haughty giant.

The inimitable Perseus, too! the idol of that versatile genius, Benvenuto Cellini:--an author! a goldsmith! a cunning artificer in jewels! a founder in bronze! a sculptor in marble! the prince of good fellows! the favored of princes! the warm friend and daring lover! as we gaze on his glorious performance, and see beside it the Hercules, and Cacus of his rival Baccio Bandanelli,--we seem to live again in those days, with which Cellini has made us so familiar:--and almost naturally regard the back of the bending figure, to note if its muscles warrant the stinging sarcasm of Cellini, which we are told at once dispelled the pride of the aspiring artist--"that they resembled cucumbers!"

The rape of the Sabines, too! the white marble glistening in the obscurity, until the rounded shape of the maiden seems to elude the strong grasp of the Roman!

Will she ever fly from him thus? will the home of her childhood be ever as dear? No! the husband's love shall replace the father's blessing; and the affections of the daughter, shall yield to the tender yearnings of the mother's bosom.

We marvel not that George's footsteps lingered there!

How often have we--martyrs to a hopeless nympholepsy--strayed through that piazza, at the self same hour--there deemed that the heart would break--but never thought that it might slowly wither.

How often have we gleaned from those beauteous objects around, but aliment to our morbid griefs;--and turning towards the gurgling fountain of Ammonati, and gazing on its trickling waters, have vainly tried to arrest our trickling tears!

Chapter VIII.

Argu�.

"There is a tomb in Arqu�: rear'd in air, Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover."

     *       *       *       *       *

"I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs."

How glorious is the thrill, which shoots through our frame, as we first wake to the consciousness of our intellectual power; as we feel the spirit--the undying spirit--ready to burst the gross bonds of flesh, and soar triumphant, over the sneers of others, and our own mistrust.

How does each thought seem to swell in our bosom, as if impatient of the confined tenement--how do the floating ideas congregate--how does each impassioned feeling subdue us in turn, and long for a worthy utterance!

This is a very bright moment in the history of our lives. It is one in which we feel--indubitably feel--that we are of the fashioning of God;--that the light which intellect darts around us, is not the result of education--of maxims inculcated--or of principles instilled;--but that it is a ray caught from the brightness of eternity--that when our wavering pulse has ceased to beat, and the etherialised elements have left the baser and the useless dust--that ray shall not be quenched; but shall again be absorbed in the full effulgence from which it emanated.

Surely then, if such a glorious moment as this, be accorded to even the inferior votaries of knowledge--to the meaner pilgrims, struggling on towards the resplendent shrines of science:--how must he--the divine Petrarch, who could so exquisitely delineate love's hopes and story, as to clothe an earthly passion, with half the attributes of an immortal affection:--how must he have revelled in the proud sensations called forth at such a moment!

It is the curse of the poet, that he must perforce leave the golden atmosphere of loftiest aspirations--step from the magic circle, where all is pure and etherial--and find himself the impotent denizen, of a sombre and an earthly world,

It was in the early part of September, that the brothers turned their backs on the Etrurian Athens. Their destination was Venice, and their route lay through Bologna and Arqu�.

They had been so satisfied, under the guidance of their old vetturino, that Sir Henry made an arrangement, which induced him to be at Florence, at the time of their departure;--and Pietro and Thompson were once more seated beside each other.

Before commencing the ascent of the Appennines, our travellers visited the country seat of the Archduke; saw the gigantic statue executed by John of Bologna, which frowns over the lake; and at Fonte-buona, cast a farewell glance on Florence, and the ancient Fiesole.

As they advanced towards Caravigliojo, the mountains began to be more formidable, and the scenery to lose its smiling character.

Each step seemed to add to the barrenness of the landscape.

The wind came howling down from the black volcanic looking ridges--then swept tempestuously through some deep ravine.

On either side the road, tall red poles presented themselves, a guide to the traveller during winter's snows; while, in one exposed gully, were built large stone embankments for his protection--as a Latin inscription intimated--from the violence of the gales.

Few signs of life appeared.

Here and there, her white kerchief shading a sun-burnt face, a young Bolognese shepherd girl might be seen on some grassy ledge, waving her hand coquettishly; while her neglected flock, with tinkling bell, browsed on the edge of the precipice. As they neared Bologna, however, the scenery changed.

Festoons of grapes, trained to leafy elms, began to appear--white villas chequered the suburbs--and it was with a pleasurable feeling, that they neared the peculiar looking city, with its leaning towers, and old fa�ades. It is the only one, where the Englishman recals Mrs. Ratcliffe's harrowing tales; and half expects to see a Schedoni, advancing from some covered portico.

The next day found them in the Bolognese gallery, which is the first which duly impresses the traveller, coming from the north, with the full powers of the art.

The soul of music seems to dwell in the face of the St. Cecilia; and the cup of maternal anguish to be filled to the brim, as in Guide's Murder of the Innocents, the mother clasps to her arms the terrified babe, and strives to flee from the ruthless destroyer.

It was on the fourth morning from their arrival in Bologna, that they approached the poet's "mansion and his sepulchre."

As they threaded the green windings of vine covered hills, these gradually assumed a bolder outline, and, rising in separate cones, formed a sylvan amphitheatre round the lovely village of Arqu�.

The road made an abrupt ascent to the Fontana Petrarca. A large ruined arch spanned a fine spring, that rushes down the green slope.

In the church-yard, on the right, is the tomb of Petrarch.

Its peculiarly bold elevation--the numberless thrilling associations connected with the poet--gave a tone and character to the whole scene. The chiaro-scuro of the landscape, was from the light of his genius--the shade of his tomb.

The day was lovely--warm, but not oppressive. The soft green of the hills and foliage, checked the glare of the flaunting sunbeams.

The brothers left the carriage to gaze on the sarcophagus of red marble, raised on pilasters; and could not help deeming even the indifferent bronze bust of Petrarch, which surmounts this, to be a superfluous ornament in such a scene.

The surrounding landscape--the dwelling place of the poet--his tomb facing the heavens, and disdaining even the shadow of trees--the half-effaced inscription of that hallowed shrine--all these seemed appropriate, and melted the gazer's heart.

How useless! how intrusive! are the superfluous decorations of art, amid the simpler scenes of nature.

Ornament is here misplaced. The feeling heart regrets its presence at the time, and attempts, albeit in vain, to banish it from after recollections.

George could not restrain his tears, for he thought of the dead; and they silently followed their guide to Petrarch's house, now partly used as a granary. Passing through two or three unfinished rooms, whose walls were adorned with rude frescoes of the lover and his mistress, they were shown into Petrarch's chamber, damp and untenanted.

In the closet adjoining, were the chair and table consecrated by the poet.

There did he sit--and write--and muse--and die!

George turned to a tall narrow window, and looked out on a scene, fair and luxuriant as the garden of Eden.

The rich fig trees, with their peculiar small, high scented fruit, mixed with the vines that clustered round the lattice.

The round heads of the full bearing peach trees, dipped down in a leafy slope beneath a grassy walk;--and this thicket of fruit was charmingly enlivened, by bunches of the scarlet pomegranate, now in the pride of their blossom.

The poet's garden alone was neglected--rank herbage choking up its uncultivated flowers.

A thousand thoughts filled the mind of George Delm�.

He thought of Laura! of his own Acm�!

With swimming glance, he looked round the chamber.

It was almost without furniture, and without ornament. In a niche, and within a glass case, was placed the skeleton of a dumb favourite of Petrarch's.

Suddenly George Delm� felt a faintness stealing over him:--and he turned to bare his forehead, to catch the slight breeze from below redolent of sweets.

This did not relieve him.

A sharp pain across the chest, and a fluttering at the heart, as of a bird struggling to be free, succeeded this faintness.

Another rush of blood to the head:--and a snap, as of some tendon, was distinctly felt by the sufferer.

His mouth filled with blood.

A small blood-vessel had burst, and temporary insensibility ensued.

Sir Henry was wholly unprepared for this scene.

Assisted by Thompson, he bore him to the carriage--sprinkled his face with water--and administered cordials.

George's recovery was speedy; and it almost seemed, as if the rupture of the vessel had been caused by the irregular circulation, for no further bad effects were felt at the time.

The loss of blood, however, evidently weakened him; and his spasms henceforward were more frequent.

He became less able to undergo fatigue; and his mind, probably in connection with the nervous system, became more than ordinarily excited.

There was no longer wildness in his actions; but in his thoughts and language, was developed a poetical eccentricity--a morbid sympathy with surrounding scenes and impressions, which kept Sir Henry Delm� in a constant state of alarm,--and which was very remarkable.

   *       *       *       *       *

"What! at Mestr� already, Pietro?" said Sir Henry.

"Even so, Signore! and here is the gondola to take you on to Venice."

"Well, Pietro! you must not fail to come and see us at the inn."

The vetturino touched his hat, with the air of a man who would be very sorry not to see them.

It was not long ere the glittering prow of the gondola pointed to Venice.

Before the travellers, rose ocean's Cybele; springing from the waters, like some fairy city, described to youthful ear by aged lip.

The fantastic dome of St. Mark--the Palladian churches--the columned palaces--the sable gondolas shooting through the canals--made its aspect, as is its reality, unique in the world.

"Beautiful, beautiful city!" said George, his eye lighting up as he spoke, "thou dost indeed look a city of the heart--a resting place for a wearied spirit. And our gondola, Henry, should be of burnished silver; and those afar--so noiselessly cutting their way through the glassy surface--those should be angels with golden wings; and, instead of an oar flashing freely, a snowy wand of mercy should beat back the kissing billows.

"And Acm�, with her George, should sit on the crystal cushion of glory--and we would wait expectant for you a long long time--and then you should join us, Henry, with dear Emily.

"And Thompson should be with us, too, and recline on the steps of our bark as he does now.

"And together we would sail loving and happy through an amethystine sea."

During their stay in Venice, George, in spite of his increasing languor, continued to accompany his brother, in his visits to the various objects of interest which the city can boast.

The motion of the gondola appeared to have a soothing influence on the mind of the invalid.

He would recline on the cushions, and the fast flowing tears would course down his wan cheeks.

These, however, were far from being a proof of suffering;--they were evidently a relief to the surcharged spirit.

One evening, a little before sunset, they found themselves in the crowded piazza of Saint Mark. The caf�s were thronged with noble Venetians, come to witness the evening parade of an Austrian regiment. The sounds of martial music, swelled above the hum of the multitude; and few could listen to those strains, without participating in some degree, in the military enthusiasm of the hour.

But the brothers turned from the pageantry of war, as their eyes fell on the emblems of Venice free--the minarets of St. Mark, with the horses of Lysippus, a spoil from Byzantium--the flagless poles that once bore the banners of three tributary states--the highly adorned azure clock--the palaces of the proud Doges--where Faliero reigned--where Faliero suffered:--these were before them.

Their steps mechanically turned to the beautiful Campanile.

George, leaning heavily on Sir Henry's arm, succeeded in gaining the summit: and they looked down from thence, on that wonderful city.

They saw the parade dismissed--they heard the bugle's fitful blast proclaim the hour of sunset. The richest hues of crimson and of gold, tinted the opposite heavens; while on those waters, over which the gondolas were swiftly gliding, quivered another city, the magic reflection of the one beneath them.

They gazed on the scene in silence, till the grey twilight came on.

"Now, George! it is getting late," said Sir Henry. "I wonder whether we could find some old mariner, who could give us a chaunt from Tasso?"

Descending from the Campanile, Sir Henry made enquiries on the quay, and with some difficulty found gondoliers, who could still recite from their favourite bard.

Engaging a couple of boats, and placing a singer in each, the brothers were rowed down the Canale Giudecca--skirted many of the small islands, studding the lagoons; and proceeded towards the Adriatic.

Gradually the boats parted company, and just as Sir Henry was about to speak, thinking there might be a mistake as to the directions; the gondolier in the other boat commenced his song,--its deep bass mellowed by distance, and the intervening waves. The sound was electric.

It was so exquisitely appropriate to the scene, and harmonised so admirably, with the associations which Venice is apt to awaken, that one longed to be able to embody that fleeting sound--to renew its magic influence in after years. The pen may depict man's stormy feelings: the sensitive caprice of woman:--the most vivid tints may be imitated on the glowing canvas:--the inspired marble may realise our every idea of the beauty of form:--a scroll may give us at will, the divine inspiration, of Handel:--but there are sounds, as there are subtle thoughts, which, away from the scenes, where they have charmed us, can never delight us more.

It was not until the second boatman answered the song, that the brothers felt how little the charm lay, in the voice of the gondolier, and that, heard nearer, the sounds were harsh and inharmonious.

They recited the death of Clorinda; the one renewing the stanza, whenever there was a momentary forgetfulness on the part of the other.

The clock of St. Mark had struck twelve, before the travellers had reached the hotel. George had not complained of fatigue, during a day which even Sir Henry thought a trying one; and the latter was willing to hope that his strength was now increasing.

Their first design had been to proceed though Switzerland, resting for some time at Geneva. Their plans were now changed, and Sir Henry Belme determined, that their homeward route should be through the Tyrol and Bavaria, and eventually down the Rhine.

He considered that the water carriage, and the very scenes themselves, might prove beneficial to the invalid.

Thompson was sent over to Mestr�, to inform Pietro; and they prepared to take their departure.

"You have been better in Venice," said Sir Henry, as they entered the gondola, that was to bear them from the city. "God grant that you may long remain so!"

George shook his head doubtingly.

"My illness, Henry, is not of the frame alone, although that is fragile and shattered.

"The body lingers on without suffering; but the mind--a very bright sword in a worthless sheath--is forcing its way through. Some feelings must remain to the last--gratitude to you--love to dear Emily! Acm�, wife of my bosom! when may I join you?"

Chapter IX.

Inspruck.

"Oh there is sweetness in the mountain air, And life, that bloated ease can never hope to share."

Inspruck! a thousand recollections flash across us, as we pronounce the word!

We were there at a memorable period; when the body of the hero of the Tyrol--the brave, the simple-minded Anderl Hofer--was removed from Mantua, where he so nobly met a patriot's death, to the capital of the country, which he had so gallantly defended.

The event was one, that could not fail to be impressive; and to us it was doubly so, for that very period formed an epoch in our lives.

We had lost! we had suffered! we had mourned! Our mind's strength was shook. Ordinary remedies were worse than futile.

We threw ourselves into the heart of the Tyrol, and became resigned if not happy.

Romantic country! did not duty whisper otherwise, how would we fly to thy rugged mountains, and find in the kindly virtues of thine inhabitants, wherewithal to banish misanthropy, and it may be purchase oblivion.

Noble land! where the chief in his hall--the peasant in his hut--alike open their arms with sheltering hospitality, to welcome the stranger--where kindness springs from the heart, and dreams not of sordid gain--where courtesy attends superior rank, without question, but without debasement--where the men are valiant, the women virtuous--where it needed but a few home-spun heroes--an innkeeper and a friar--to rouse up to arms an entire population, and in a brief space to drive back the Gallic foeman! Oh! how do we revert with choking sense of gratitude, to the years we have spent in thy bosom!

Oh! would that we were again treading the mountain's summit--the rifle our comrade--and a rude countryman, our guide and our companion.

In vain! in vain! the net of circumstance is over us!

We may struggle! but cannot escape from its close meshes.

We have said that we were at Inspruck at this period.

It was our purpose, on the following morning, to take our departure.

With renewed health, and nerves rebraced, we hoped to combat successfully, a world that had already stung us.

There was a group near the golden-roofed palace, that attracted our attention. It consisted of a father and his five sons.

They were dressed in the costume of the country; wearing a tapering hat, with black ribbons and feather--a short green jerkin--a red vest surmounted by broad green braces--and short boots tightly laced to the ancle.

They formed a picture of free mountaineers.

We left our lodging, and passed them irresolutely twice or thrice.

The old man took off his hat to the stranger.

"Sir! I am of Sand, in Passeyer.

"Anderl Hofer was my schoolfellow; and these are my boys, whom I have brought to see all that remains of him. Oh! Sir! they did not conquer him, although the murderers shot him on the bastion; but, as he wrote to Pulher--his friend and mine--it was indeed 'in the name, and by the help of the Lord, that he undertook the voyage,'"

We paced through the city sorrowfully. It was night, as we passed by the church of the Holy Cross.

Solemn music there arrested our footsteps; and we remembered, that high mass would that night be performed, for the soul of the deceased patriot.

We entered, and drew near the mausoleum of Maximilian the First:--leaning against a colossal statue in bronze, and fixing our eyes on a bas relief on the tomb: one of twenty-four tablets, wrought from Carrara's whitest marble, by the unrivalled hand of Colin of Malines!

One blaze of glory enveloped the grand altar:--vapours of incense floated above:--and the music! oh it went to the soul!

Down! down knelt the assembled throng!

Our mind had been previously attuned to melancholy; it now reeled under its oppression.

We looked around with tearful eye. Old Theodoric of the Goths seemed to frown from his pedestal.

We turned to the statue against which we had leant.

It was that of a youthful and sinewy warrior.

We read its inscription.

Artur, Konig Von England

"Ah! hast thou too thy representative, my country?"

We looked around once more.

The congregation were prostrate before the mysterious Host; and we alone stood up, gazing with profound awe and reverence on the mystic rite.

The rough caps of the women almost hid their fair brows. In the upturned features of the men, what a manly, yet what a devout expression reigned!

Melodiously did the strains proceed from the brazen-balustraded orchestra; while sweet young girls smiled in the chapel of silver, as they turned to Heaven their deeply-fringed eyes, and invoked pardon for their sins.

Alas! alas! that such as these should err, even in thought! that our feelings should so often mislead us,--that our very refinement, should bring temptation in its train,--and our fervent enthusiasm, but too frequently terminate in vice and crime!

Our whole soul was unmanned! and well do we remember the morbid prayer, that we that night offered to the throne of mercy.

"Pity us! pity us! Creator of all!

"With thousands around, who love--who reverence--whose hearts, in unison with ours, tremble at death, yet sigh for eternity;--who gaze with eye aspiring, although dazzled--as, the curtain of futurity uplifted, fancy revels in the glorious visions of beatitude:--even here, oh God! hear our prayer and pity us!

"We are moulded, though faintly, in an angel's form. Endow us with an angel's principles. For ever hush the impure swellings of passion! lull the stormy tide of contending emotions! let not circumstances overwhelm!

"Receive our past griefs: the griefs of manhood, engrafted on youth; accept these tears, falling fast and bitterly! take them as past atonement,--as mute witnesses that we feel:--that reason slumbers not, although passion may mislead:--that gilded temptation may overcome, and gorgeous pleasure intoxicate:--but that sincere repentance, and bitter remorse, are visitants too.

"Oh guide and pity us!"

A cheerless dawn was breaking, and a thick damp mist was lazily hanging on the water's surface, as our travellers waved the hand to Venice.

"Fare thee well!" said George, as he rose in the gondola to catch a last glimpse of the Piazzetta, "sea girt city! decayed memorial of patrician splendour, and plebeian debasement! of national glory, blended with individual degradation!--fallen art thou, but fair! It was not with freshness of heart, I reached thee:--I dwelt not in thee, with that jocund spirit, whose every working or gives the lip a smile, or moistens the eye of feeling with a tear.

"Sad were my emotions! but sadder still, as I recede from thy shores, bound on a distant pilgrimage. Acm�! dear Acm�! would I were with thee!"

Passing through Treviso, they stopped at Castel Franco, which presents one of the best specimens of an Italian town, and Italian peasantry, that a stranger can meet with.

At Bassano, they failed not to visit the Municipal Hall, where are the principal pictures of Giacomo da Ponte, called after his native town.

His style is peculiar.

His pictures are dark to an excess, with here and there a vivid light, introduced with wonderful effect.

From this town, the ascent of the mountains towards Ospedale is commenced; and the route is one full of interest.

On the right, lay a low range of country, adorned with vineyards; beyond which, the mountains rose in a precipitous ridge, and closed the scene magnificently.

The Brenta was then reached, and continued to flow parallel with the road, as far as eye could extend.

Farther advanced, the mountains presented a landscape more varied:--here chequered with hamlets, whose church hells re-echoed in mellow harmony: there--the only break to their majesty, being the rush of the river, as it formed rolling cascades in its rapid route; or beat in sparkling foam, against the large jagged rocks, which opposed its progress.

At one while, came shooting down the stream, some large raft of timber, manned by adventurous navigators, who, with graceful dexterity, guided their rough bark, clear of the steep banks, and frequent fragments of rock;--at another--as if to mark a road little frequented, a sharp turn would bring them on some sandalled damsel, sitting by the road side, adjusting her ringlets. Detected in her toilet, there was a mixture of frankness and modesty, in the way in which she would turn away a blushing face, yet neglect not, with native courtesy, to incline the head, and wave the sun-burnt hand.

From Ospedale, nearing the bold castle of Pergini, which effectually commands the pass; the travellers descended through regions of beauty, to the ancient Tridentum of Council celebrity.

The metal roof of its Duomo was glittering in the sunshine; and the Adige was swiftly sweeping by its fortified walls.

Leaving Trent, they reached San Michele, nominally the last Italian town on the frontier; but the German language had already prepared them for a change of country.

The road continued to wind by the Adige, and passing through Lavis, and Bronzoli, the brothers halted for the night at Botzen, a clean German town, watered by the Eisach.

The following day's journey, was one that few can take, and deem their time misspent.

Mossy cliffs--flowing cascades--"chiefless castles breaking stern farewells"--all these were met, and met again, as through Brixen, they reached the village of M�lks.

They had intended to have continued their route; but on drawing up at the post-house, were so struck with the gaiety of the scene, that they determined to remain for the night.

Immediately in rear of the small garden of the inn, and with a gentle slope upwards, a wide piece of meadow land extended. On its brow, was pitched a tent, or rather, a many-coloured awning; and, beside it, a pole adorned with flags. This was the station for expert riflemen, who aimed in succession at a fluttering bird, held by a silken cord.

The sloping bank of the hill was covered with spectators.

Age looked on with sadness, and mourned for departed manhood--youth with envy, and sighed for its arrival.

After seeing their bedrooms, George leant on Henry's arm, and, crossing the garden, they took a by-path, which led towards the tent.

The strangers were received with respect and cordiality.

Seats were brought, and placed near the scene of contest.

The trial of skill over, the victor took advantage, of his right, and selected his partner from the fairest of the peasant girls.

Shrill pipes struck up a waltz--a little blind boy accompanied these on a mandolin--and in a brief space, the hill's flat summit was swarming with laughing dancers.

Nor was youth alone enlisted in Terpsichore's service.

The mother joined in the same dance with the daughter; and not unfrequently tripped with foot as light.

Twilight came on, and the patriarchs of the village, and with them our travellers, adjourned to the inn.

The matrons led away their reluctant charges, and the youth of the village alone protracted the revels.

The brothers seated themselves at a separate table, and watched the village supper party, with some interest.

Bowls of thick soup, with fish swimming in butter, and fruit floating in cream, were successively placed in the middle of the table.

Each old man produced his family spoon, and helped himself with primitive simplicity:--then lighted his pipe, and told his long tale, till he had exhausted himself and his hearers.

Nor must we forget the comely waiter.

A bunch of keys hanging on one side,--a large leathern purse on the other--with a long boddice, and something like a hoop--she really resembled, save that her costume was more homely, one of the portraits of Vandyke.

The brothers left M�lks by sunrise, and were not long, ere they reached the summit of the Brenner, the loftiest point of the Tyrol.

From the beautiful town of Gries, embosomed in the deep valley, until they trod the steep Steinach, the mountain scenery at each step become more interesting. The road was cut on the face of a mountain. On one side, frowned the mountain's dark slope; on the other, lay a deep precipice, down which the eye fearfully gazed, and saw naught but the dark fir trees far far beneath. Dividing that dense wood, a small stream, entangled in the dark ravine, glided on in graceful windings, and looked more silvery from its contrast with the sombre forest.

At the Steinach Pietro pulled up, to show the travellers the capital of the Tyrol, and to point in the distance to Hall, famous for its salt works.

Casting a hasty glance, on the romantic vale beneath them:--the fairest and most extensive in the northern recesses of the Alps, Sir Henry desired his driver to continue his journey.

They rapidly descended, and passing by the column, commemorative of the repulse of the French and Bavarian armies, soon found themselves the inmates of an hotel in Inspruck.

Chapter X.

The Students' Stories.

"The lilacs, where the robins built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birth-day-- The tree is living yet."

At Inspruck, Delm� had the advantage of a zealous, if not an appropriate guide, in the red-faced landlord of the hotel, whose youth had been passed in stirring times, which had more than once, required the aid of his arm, and which promised to tax his tongue, to the last day of his life.

He knew all the heroes of the Tyrolese revolution--if revolution it can be called--and had his tale to tell of each.

He had got drunk with Hofer,--had visited Joseph Speckbacker, when hid in his own stable,--and had confessed more than once to Haspinger, the fighting Capuchin.

His stories were very characteristic; and, if they did not breathe all the poetry of patriotism, were at least honest versions, of exploits performed in as pure and disinterested a spirit, as any that have ever graced the sacred name of Liberty.

After seeing all its sights, and making an excursion to some glaciers in its neighbourhood, Delm� and George left the capital of the Tyrol, to proceed by easy stages to Munich.

In the first day's route, they made the passage of the Zirl, which has justly been lauded; and Pietro failed not to point to a crucifix, placed on a jutting rock, which serves to mark the site of Maximilian's cave.

The travellers took a somewhat late breakfast, at the guitar-making Mittelwald, where chance detained them later than usual. They were still at some distance from their sleeping place, the hamlet of Wallensee, when the rich hues of sunset warned Pietro, that if he would not be benighted, he must urge on his jaded horses.

The sun's decline was glorious. For a time, vivid streaks of crimson and of gold, crowned the summits of the heaving purple mountains. Gradually, these streaks became fainter, and died away, and rolling, slate-coloured clouds, hung heavily in the west.

The scene and the air seemed to turn on a sudden, both cold and grey; and, as the road wound through umbrageous forests of pine, night came abruptly upon them; and it was a relief to the eye, to note the many bright stars, as they shone above the tops of the lofty trees.

A boding stillness reigned, on which the sound of their carriage wheels ungratefully broke. The rustling of each individual bough had an intonation of its own; and the deep notes of the woodman, endeavouring to forget the thrilling legends of his land, mingled fitfully with the hollow gusts, which came moaning through the leafless branches below.

Hist! can it be the boisterous revel of the forst geister, that meets his ear? or is it but the chirp of insects, replying from brake to underwood?

Woodman! stay not thy carol!

Yon sound may be the wild laugh of the Holz K�nig! Better for thee, to deem it the whine of thine own dog, looking from the cottage door, and awaiting but thy presence, to share in the homely meal.

Arrived on the summit of the hill, the lights of the hamlet at length glistened beneath them. The tired steeds, as if aware of the near termination of their labours, shook their rough manes, and jingled their bells in gladness.

An abrupt descent--and they halted, at the inn facing the lake.

And here may we notice, that it has been a source of wonder to us, that English tourists, whose ubiquity is great, have not oftener been seen straying, by the side of the lake of Wallensee.

A sweeter spot exists not;--whether we rove by its margin, and perpetrate a sonnet; limn some graceful tree, hanging over its waters; or gaze on its unruffled surface, and, noting its aspect so serene, preach from that placid text, peace to the wearied breast.

They were shown into a room in the inn, already thronged with strangers. These were students on their way to Heidelberg.

They were sitting round a table, almost enveloped in smoke; and were hymning praises to their loved companion--beer.

As being in harmony with the moustaches, beard, and bandit propensities--which true b�rschen delight to cultivate--they received the strangers with an unfriendly stare, and continued to vociferate their chorus.

Sir Henry, a little dismayed at the prospect before them, called for the landlord and his bill of fare; and had the pleasure of discovering, that the provisions had been consumed, and that two hours would elapse, before more could be procured.

At this announcement, Delm� looked somewhat blank. One of the students, observing this, approached, and apologising, in English, for their voracity, commenced conversing with the landlord, as to the best course to be pursued towards obtaining supper.

His comrades, seeing one of their number speaking with the travellers, threw off some part of their reserve, and made way for them at the table.

George and Henry accepted the proffered seats, although they declined joining the drinking party.

The students, however, did not appear at ease. As if to relieve their embarrassment, one of them addressed the young man, with whom Sir Henry had conversed.

"Carl! it is your turn now! if you have not a song, we must have an original story."

Carl at once complied, and related the following.

The First Story.

Perhaps some of you remember Fritz Hartmann and his friend Leichtberg. They were the founders of the last new liberty club, and were famous at renowning.

These patriots became officers of the Imperial Guard, and at Vienna were soon known for their friendship and their gallantries.

Fritz had much sentiment and imagination; but some how or other, this did not preserve him from inconstancy.

If he was always kind and gentle, he was not always faithful.

His old college chums had the privilege of joking him on these subjects; and we always did so without mercy. Fritz would sometimes combat our assertions, but they ordinarily made him laugh so much, that a stranger would have deemed he assented to their truth.

One night after the opera, the friends supped together at Fritz's.

I was of the party, and brought for my share a few bottles of Johannisberg, that had been sent me by my uncle from the last vintage. Over these we got more than usually merry, and sang all the songs and choruses of Mother Heidelberg, till the small hours arrived. The sitting room we were in, communicated on one side with the bedroom;--on the other, with a little closet, containing nothing but some old trunks.

This last was closed, but there was a small aperture in the door, over which was a slight iron lattice work.

The officer who had last tenanted Fritz's quarters, had kept pheasants there, and had had this made on purpose.

After one of our songs, Leichtberg attacked Fritz on the old score.

"Fritz! you very Werter of sentiment! I was amazed to see you with no loves to-night at the opera. Where is the widow with sandy hair? or the actress who gave your kirschenwasser such a benefit? where our sallow-faced friend? or more than all, where may the fair Pole be who sells such charming fruit? Fritz! Fritz! your sudden attachment to grapes is too ominous."

"Come, Leichtberg!" said Hartmann, laughing, "this is really not fair. Do you know I think myself very constant, and as to the Pole, I have thought of little else for these three months."

"Not so fast! not so fast! Master Hartmann. Was it not on Wednesday week I met you arm in arm with the actress? Were you not waltzing with the widow at the Tivoli? have you not"--

"Come, come!" said Fritz, reddening, "let us say no more. I confess to having made a fool of myself with the actress, but she begged and prayed to see me once more, ere we parted for ever. With this exception----"

"Yes, yes!" interrupted Leichtberg, "I know you, Master Fritz, and all your evil doings. Have you heard of our Polish affaire de coeur, Carl?", and he turned to me.

"No!" replied I, "let me hear it."

"Well, you must know that a certain friend of ours is very economical, and markets for himself. He bargains for fruit and flowers with the peasant girls, and the prettiest always get his orders, and bring up their baskets, and--we will say no more. Well! our friend meets a foreign face, dark eye--Greek contour--and figure indescribable. She brings him home her well arranged bouquets. He swears her lips are redder than her roses--her brow whiter than lilies--and her breath--which he stoops to inhale--far sweeter than her jasmines. To his amazement, the young flower girl sees no such great attractions in the Imperial Guardsman; leaves her nosegays,--throws his Napoleon, which he had asked her to change, in his face,--and makes her indignant exit. Our sentimental friend finds out her home, and half her history;--renews his flattering tales--piques her pride,--rouses her jealousy;--and makes her love him, bon gr�--mal gr�, better than either fruit or flowers.

"Fritz swears eternal constancy, and keeps it, as I have already told you, with the actress and the sandy haired widow."

Leichtberg told this story inimitably, and Fritz laughed as much as I did. At length we rose to wish him good night, and saw him turn to his bedroom door, followed by a Swiss dog, which always slept under his bed. The rest of the story we heard from his dying lips.

It was as near as he could guess, between two and three in the morning, that he awoke with the impression that some one was near him. For a time he lay restless and ill at ease; with the vague helpless feeling, that often attacks one, after a good supper.

Fritz had just made up his mind to ascribe to this cause, all his nervousness; when something seemed to drop in the adjoining room; and his dog, starting to its feet, commenced barking furiously.

Again all was still.

He got up for a moment, but fancying he heard a footstep on the stair, concluded that the noise proceeded from one of the inmates of the house, who was come home later than usual.

But Fritz could not sleep; and his dog seemed to share his feelings; for he turned on his side restlessly, and occasionally gave a quick solitary bark.

Suddenly a conviction flashed across Hartmann, that there was indeed some one in the chamber.

His curtain stirred.

He sprang from his bed, and reached his tinder box. As the steel struck sparks from the flint, these revealed the face of the intruder.

It was the young Polish girl.

A fur cloak was closely folded around her;--her face was deadly pale;--with one hand she drew back her long dark hair, while she silently uplifted the other.

Our friend's last impression was his falling back, at the moment his dog made a spring at the girl.

The inmates of the house were alarmed. His friends were all sent for.

I arrived among the earliest. What a sight met me!

The members of the household were so stupefied that they had done nothing. Fritz Hartmann lay on the floor insensible:--his night shirt steeped in blood, still flowing from a mortal wound in his breast.

At his feet, moaning bitterly, its fangs and mouth filled with mingled fur and gore, lay the Swiss dog, with two or three deep gashes across the throat. In the adjoining room, thrown near the door, was the instrument of Fritz's death--one of the knives we had used the evening before.

Beside it, lay a woman's cloak, the fur literally dripping with blood.

Fritz lingered for five hours. Before death, he was sensible, and told us what I have stated:--and acknowledged that he had loved the girl, more than her station in life might seem to warrant.

Of course, the young Pole had been concealed in the closet, and heard Leichtberg's sallies. Love and jealousy effected the rest.

We never caught her, although we had all the Vienna police at our beck; and accurate descriptions of her person were forwarded to the frontiers.

We were not quite certain as to her fate, but we rather suppose her to have escaped by a back garden; in which case she must have made a most dangerous leap; and then to have passed as a courier, riding as such into Livonia.

Where she obtained the money or means to effect this, God knows. She must have been a heroine in her way, for this dog is not easily overpowered, and yet--look here! these scars were given him by that young girl.

The student whistled to a dog at his feet, which came and licked his hand, while he showed the wounds in his throat.

"I call him Hartmann," continued he, "after my old friend. His father sent him to me just after the funeral, and Leichtberg has got his meershaum."

   *       *       *       *       *

The students listened attentively to the story, refilling their pipes during its progress, with becoming gravity. Carl turned towards his right hand neighbour. "Wilhelm! I call on you!"

The student, whom he addressed, passed his hand through his long heard, and thus commenced.

The Second Story.

My father's brother married at Lausanne, in the Canton de Vaud, and resided there. He died early, and left one son; who, as you may suppose, was half a Frenchman. In spite of that, I thought Caspar von Hazenfeldt a very handsome fellow. His chestnut hair knotted in curls over his shoulders. His eyes, the veins of his temples, and I would almost say, his very teeth, had a blueish tint, that I have noticed in few men; and which must, I think, be the peculiar characteristic of his complexion. When engaged in pleasure parties, either pic-nicing at the signal, or promenading in the evening on Mont Benon, or sitting t�te-�-t�te at Languedoc, he had no eyes or ears but for Caroline de Werner.

He waltzed with her--he talked with her--and he walked with her--until he had fairly talked, walked, and waltzed himself into love.

She was the daughter of a rich old colonel of the Empire:--he was the poor son of a poorer widow. What could he do? Caspar von Hazenfeldt could gaze on the house of the old soldier; but the avenue of elms, the waving corn-fields, and the luxuriant gardens, told him that the heiress of Beau-S�jour could never be his.

He was one evening sitting on a stone, in a little ruined chapel, near the house of his beloved; ruminating as usual on his ill fate, and considering which would be the better plan, to mend his fortunes by travel, or mar them by suicide;--when an elderly gentleman, dressed in a plain suit of black, appeared hat in hand before him.

After the usual compliments, they entered into conversation, and at last, having walked for some distance, towards Hazenfeldt's house, agreed to meet again at the chapel on the next evening.

Suffice it to say that they often met, and as often parted, on the margin of the little stream, that ran before the door of Caspar's mother's house:--that they became great friends;--and that the young man confided the tale of his love, hopes, and miseries, to the sympathising senior.

At last the old gentleman, for such he really was, told Caspar that he would help him in a trice, through all his difficulties.

"There is one condition, Caspar!" said he, "but that is a mere trifle. You are young, and would be quite happy, were it not for this love affair of yours:--you sleep soundly, you seek and quit your bed early, and you care not for night-roving. Henceforth, lend me your body from ten at night, until two in the morning, and I promise that Caroline de Werner shall be yours. Here she is!" continued he, as he opened his snuff box, and showed the lid to Caspar, "here she is!"

And sure enough, there she was on the inside of the lid, apparently reading to the gouty old colonel, as he sat in his easy chair in the petit salon of Beau-Sejour.

One evening, the old gentleman delighted Caspar, by telling him that he had authority from Colonel de Werner, to bring a guest to a ball at Beau-S�jour, and by begging Caspar to be his shade--to use our Continental expression--on the occasion.

Caspar von Hazenfeldt and he became greater friends than ever, since their singular contract had been made; for made it was in a thoughtless unguarded moment.

Hazenfeldt was introduced to Caroline in due form, and engaged her for the first dance.

Before the quadrille began, his friend in black came to present his compliments, and to say that he had never seen a more beautiful pair.

"Caspar!" continued he, "when your dance is over, give me a few minutes in the next room. We will chat together, and sip our negus."

Caspar did so, and did sip his negus. The little gentleman in black, was very facetious, and very affable.

"Are you not going to dance again, Caspar? Look at all those pretty girls, waiting for partners! Why do you not lead one to the country dance?"

As he ended speaking, a sylph-like figure, with long golden ringlets, floated past them.

"I can, and I will," replied Caspar, laughing, as he took the fair-haired girl by the hand, and led her to the dance.

He turned to address his friend in triumph, but he had disappeared.

The dance was over, and Caspar led the stranger towards a silken ottoman.

"Will you not try one waltz?" said the beautiful girl, as she shook her ringlets, over his flushed cheek; "but I must not ask you, if you are tired."

"How can I refuse?" rejoined Caspar.

Caroline was forgotten, as his partner's golden hair floated on his shoulders, and her soft white arms were twined around him, as they danced the mazy coquettish waltz, which was then the fashion in Lausanne.

"How warm these rooms are!" she exclaimed at last. "The moon is up: let us walk in the avenue."

Caspar assented; for he grew fonder of his new partner, and more forgetful of Caroline. She pressed closer and closer to his side. A distant clock struck ten. Entwined in her tresses, encircled in her arms, he sunk senseless to the ground.

When Caspar recovered from the trance, into which he had fallen, the cold morning breeze, that precedes the dawn, was freshening his cheek; a few faint streaks on the horizon, reflected the colours of the coming sun; and the night birds were returning tired to the woods, as the day birds were merrily preparing for their flight. He was not where he had fallen: he was sitting on a rustic bench, beneath a moss-grown rock.

Caroline de Werner was beside him.

Her white frock was torn; her hair was hanging in Bacchante curls, twined with the ivy that had wreathed it; her eyes glared wildly, and blood bubbled from her mouth. Her hand was fast locked in that of Hazenfeldt.

"Caroline!" he exclaimed, in a tone of wonderment, as one who awakes from a deep sleep, "Caroline! why are we here? what means this disorder?"

"You now speak," said she, "as did my Caspar,"

Caroline de Werner is in a mad-house near Vevay:--the man in black has not been seen since he disappeared from the ball room of Beau-S�jour:--my cousin, Caspar von Hazenfeldt, took to wandering alone over the Swiss mountains; and before three months had elapsed, from the time he met the old gentleman, was buried in the fall of an avalanche, near the pass of the Gemmi.

   *       *       *       *       *

Supper was not ready as the student finished this story; and George proposed a stroll. The change from the heated room to the margin of the lake, was a most refreshing one. As the brothers silently gazed upwards, a young lad approached, and accosted them.

"Gentlemen! I have seen the horses fed, and they are now lying down."

"Have you?" said Delm�, drily.

"A very fine night! gentlemen! Perhaps you have heard of the famous echo, on the other side of the lake. It will be a good hour, I am sure, before your supper is ready. My boat lies under that old tree. If you like it, I will loose the chain, and row you over."

The brothers acquiesced. They were just in the frame of mind for an unforeseen excursion. The motion of the boat, too, would be easy for George, and he might there unrestrainedly give way to his excited feelings, or commune ungazed on, with the current of his thoughts.

A thin crescent of a moon had risen. It was silvering the tops of the overhanging boughs, and was quiveringly mirrored on the light ripple. George leant against the side of the boat, and listened to the liquid music, as the broad paddle threw back the resisting waters.

How soothing is the hour of night to the wounded spirit!

The obscurity which shrouds nature, seems to veil even man's woes--the harsh outline of his sufferings is discerned no more. Grief takes the place of despair--pensive melancholy of sorrow.

As we gaze around, and feel the chill air damp each ringlet on the pallid brow; know that that hour hath cast a shade on each inanimate thing around us; we feel resigned to our bereavements, and confess, in our heart's humility, that no changes should overwhelm, and that no grief should awaken repinings.

To many a bruised and stricken spirit, night imparts a grateful balm.

In the morning, the feelings are too fresh;--oblivion is exchanged for conscious suffering;--the merriment of the feathered songsters seems to us as a taunt;--our sympathies are not with waking nature. The glare and splendour of noon, bid us recal our hopes, and their signal overthrow. The zenith of day's lustre meets us as a wilful mockery.

Eve may bring rest, but on her breast is memory. But at night! when the mental and bodily energies are alike worn out by the internal struggle;--when hushed is each sound--softened each feature--dimmed each glaring hue;--a calm which is not deceptive, steals over us, and we regard our woes as the exacted penalty of our erring humanity.

Calumniated night! to one revelling in the full noon-tide of hope and gladness:--to the one, to whom a guilty conscience incessantly whispers, "Think! but sleep not!"--to such as these, horrors may appear to bound thy reign!--but to him who hath loved, and who hath lost,--to many a gentle but tried spirit, thou comest in the guise of a sober, and true friend.

The boat for some time, kept by the steep bank, under the shadows of the trees. As it emerged from this, towards where the moon-beams cast their light on the water, the night breeze rustled through the foliage, and swept a yet green leaf from one of the drooping boughs.

It fell on the surface of the lake, and George's eye quickly followed it.

"Look at that unfaded leaf! Henry. What a gentle breeze it was, that parted it from its fellows! To me it resembles a youthful soul, cut off in its prime, and wandering mateless in eternity."

Sir Henry only sighed.

The young rower silently pursued his course across the lake; running his boat aground, on a small pebbly strand near a white cottage.

Jumping nimbly from his seat, and fastening the boat to a large stone, the guide, followed by the brothers, shouted to the inmates of the cottage, and violently kicked at its frail door.

An upper window was opened, and the guardian of the echo--a valorous divine in a black night-cap--demanded their business. This was soon told. The priest descended--struck a light--unbarred the door--and with the prospect of gain before him, fairly forgot that he had been aroused from a deep slumber.

They were soon ushered into the kitchen. An aged crone descended, and raking the charcoal embers, kindled a flame, by which the rower was enabled to light his pipe.

The young gentleman threw himself into an arm chair, and puffed away with true German phlegm. The old man bustled about, in order to obtain the necessary materials for loading an ancient cannon; and occupied himself for some minutes, in driving the charge into the barrel.

This business arranged, he led the way towards the beach; and aided by the old woman, pointed his warlike weapon. A short pause--it was fired! Rebounding from hill to hill, the echo took its course, startling the peasant from his couch, and the wolf from his lair.

Again all was still;--then came its distant reverberation--a tone deep and subdued--dying away mournfully on the ear.

"How wonderfully fine!" said George, "but let us embark, for I feel quite chilled."

"I will run for the youngster," replied his brother. As he moved towards the cottage, the priest seized him by the collar of the coat, and held up the torch, by which he had fired the cannon.

"This echo is indeed a wonderful one! It has nineteen distinct repetitions; the first twelve being heard from this side of a valley, which, were it day, I would point out; the other seven, on the opposite side. Tradition tells us, that nineteen castles in ancient times, stood near the spot; that each of these laid claim to the echo; and that, as it passes the ruin, where once dwelt Sigismund of the Bloody Hand, the chief springs from the round ivied tower--waves his sword thrice, the drops of blood falling from its hilt as he does so--and proclaims aloud, that whosoever dare gainsay"--

"I am sorry to leave you," interrupted Sir Henry, as he shook him off, "particularly at this interesting part of the story; but it is late, and my brother feels unwell, and I wish to go to the cottage to call our guide."

Delm� was pursued by the echo's elucidator, who being duly remunerated, allowed Sir Henry to accompany the guide towards the boat. George was not standing where he had left him. Delm� stepped forward, and nearly fell over a prostrate body.

It was the motionless one of his brother.

He gave a shriek of anguish; flew towards the house, and in a moment, was again on the spot, bearing the priest's torch. He raised his brother's head. One hand was extended over the body, and fell to the earth like a clod of clay as it was.

He gazed on that loved face. In that gaze, how much was there to arrest his attention.

On those features, death had stamped his seal.

But there was a thought, which bore the ascendancy over this in Delm�'s mind. It was a thought which rose involuntarily,--one for which he could not then account, and cannot now. For some seconds, it swayed his every emotion. He felt the conviction--deep, undefinable--that there was indeed a soul, to "shame the doctrine of the Sadducee."

He deemed that on those lineaments, this was the language forcibly engraven! The features were still and fixed:--the brow alone revealed a dying sense of pain.

The lips! how purple were they! and the eye, that erst flashed so freely:--the yellow film of death had dimmed its lustre.

The legs were apart, and one of the feet was in the lake. Henry tried to chafe his brother's forehead.

In vain! in vain! he knew it was in vain!

He let the head fall, and buried his face in his hands.

He turned reproachfully, to gaze on that cloudless Heaven, where the moon, and the brilliant stars, and the falling meteor, seemed to hold a bright and giddy festival.

He clasped his hands in mute agony. For a brief moment--his dark eye seeming to invite His wrath--he dared to arraign the mercy of God, who had taken what he had made.

It was but for a moment he thus thought.

He had watched that light of life, until its existence was almost identified with his own. He had seen it flicker--had viewed it reillumed--blaze with increased brilliancy--fade--glimmer--and fade. Now! where was it?

A bitter cry escaped! his limbs trembled convulsively, and could no longer support him.

He fell senseless beside his brother.