"Far other scene is Thrasymene now."
"Fair Florence! at thy day's declineWhen came the shade from Appennine,And suddenly on blade and bowerThe fire-flies shed the sparkling shower,As if all heaven to earth had sentEach 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 Delmé, 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.
Delmé 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.
Delmé 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 Delmé 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, Delmé'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 sereneWin to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye traceAlong the margin a more eloquent green,If on the heart, the freshness of the sceneSprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dustOf weary life a moment lave it cleanWith nature's baptism,--'tis to him ye mustPay orisons for this suspension of disgust."
Poor George Delmé 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 Acmé, mouldering in her lonely grave.
From Borghetto, they proceeded to the village of Torre, where Delmé 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 Delmé was taken by his brother, to visit the English physician resident at Florence; and again was Delmé 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 Acmé. Henceforward, it was his greatest pleasure, to remain with eyes fixed on that masterpiece of art.
Sir Henry Delmé, 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 havewe--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 havewegleaned 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!
"There is a tomb in Arquà: rear'd in air,Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, reposeThe 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 musthe--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 musthehave 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 Arquà.
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 façades. 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 Arquà.
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 Delmé.
He thought of Laura! of his own Acmé!
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 Delmé 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 Delmé in a constant state of alarm,--and which was very remarkable.
"What! at Mestré 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 sorrynotto 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 Acmé, 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 cafés 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 Mestré, 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! Acmé, wife of my bosom! when may I join you?"
"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--hisfriend 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! hastthoutoo 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 theseshoulderr, 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. Acmé! dear Acmé! 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:--herechequered 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 Mülks.
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 Mülks 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.