ITALY. westward, and the cliffs t everlastingly y mighty voice, red in the mist) e, were left at length and on we strayed ng hospitable or green or dry, he cottage-door, en LUIGI cried, ks we chose the best!" , oracular once, ain-the floor yet grey here roughest, hung n the moon is high, attering round ry lights, as described by VIRGIL full of beautiful scenery. Who here, to visit the Reatine Tempe That place illumined. Ah, who should she be, who should she be hen last we met gere half was said, dieu, her voice, like a spell); t day we gave bian tale 1 Perhaps the most beautiful villa of that day was the VILLA MADAMA. now a ruin; but enough remains of the plan and the grotesque-work to Vasari's account of it. The Pastor Fido, if not the Aminta, used to be often represented there; theatre, such as is here described, was to be seen in the gardens very lately. 2 A fashion for ever reviving in such a climate. In the year 1783 the Ni Paesiello was performed in a small wood near Caserta. MONTORIO, GENEROUS, and ardent, and as romantic as he could be TORIO was in his earliest youth, when, on a summer eveni many years ago, he arrived at the Baths of ***. With a heart, and with many a blessing on his head, he had set out travels at daybreak. It was his first flight from home; but now to enter the world; and the moon was up and in the when he alighted at the Three Moors,' a venerable house dimensions, and anciently a palace of the Albertini family. arms were emblazoned on the walls. Every window was full of light, and great was the stir, ab below but his thoughts were on those he had left so late retiring early to rest, and to a couch, the very first for which ever exchanged his own, he was soon among them once undisturbed in his sleep by the music that came at intervals pavilion in the garden, where some of the company had as to dance. But, secluded as he was, he was not secure from intrusi Fortune resolved on that night to play a frolic in his cha frolic that was to determine the colour of his life. Boccaccic has not recorded a wilder; nor would he, if he had known left the story untold. At the first glimmering of day he awaked; and, looking he beheld, it could not be an illusion; yet anything so l angelical, he had never seen before-no, not even in his dre Lady still younger than himself, and in the profoundest, the slumber by his side. But, while he gazed, she was gone, and I Tre Mauri. ITALY. MONTOKIO d as romantic as he could be. M ath, when, on a summer evening not at the Baths of *** With a heavy g on his head, he had set out on his is first flight from home; but he was ht, and great was the stir, above and s not secure from intrusion; and play a frolic in his chamber, a ur of his life. Boccaccio himself ld he, if he had known it, have e awaked; and, looking round. on; yet anything so lovely, so no, not even in his dreams-a the profoundest, the sweetest ed, she was gone, and through a door that had escaped his notice. Like a Zephyr she trod floor with her dazzling and beautiful feet, and, while he gazed was gone. Yet still he gazed; and, snatching up a bracelet w she had dropt in her flight, "Then she is earthly!" he cried. whence could she come? All innocence, all purity, she must wandered in her sleep." When he arose, his anxious eyes sought her everywhere; b vain. Many of the young and the gay were abroad, and movin usual in the light of the morning; but, among them all, there nothing like Her. Within or without, she was nowhere to be s and, at length, in his despair he resolved to address himself to Hostess. "Who were my nearest neighbours in that turret ? " "The Marchioness de **** and her two daughters, the La Clara and Violetta; the youngest beautiful as the day!" "And where are they now?" "They are gone; but we cannot say whither. They set soon after sunrise." At a late hour they had left the pavilion, and had retired to toilet-chamber, a chamber of oak richly carved, that had once an oratory, and afterwards, what was no less essential to a hou that antiquity, a place of resort for two or three ghosts of the fa But, having long lost its sanctity, it had now lost its terrors; gloomy as its aspect was, Violetta was soon sitting there a "Go," said she to her sister, when her mother withdrew for the and her sister was preparing to follow," Go, Clara. I will n long"-and down she sat to a chapter of the Promessi Sposi.1 But she might well forget her promise, forgetting where she She was now under the wand of an enchanter; and she read read till the clock struck three and the taper flickered in the so She started up as from a trance; she threw off her wreath of r she gathered her tresses into a net; and snatching a last look i mirror, her eyelids heavy with sleep, and the light glimmering dying, she opened a wrong door, a door that had been left unlo 1 A Milanese story of the seventeenth century, by Alessandro Manzoni 2 See the Hecuba of Euripides, v. 911, &c. |
