A Love Story, by a Bushman, - [books for 8th graders txt] 📗

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 sunburnt 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.

 

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, Delmé 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, Delmé 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 König! 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 bürschen 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, Delmé 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