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itants of these untamed forests, betaken themselves to their fastnesses, and there remained with a savage fortitude that defied hunger all the time we were out, we should have vanquished them with as great slaughter as befell the Boii, and Nervii, the Helvetians, the Acquitanii, Vercingetorix, Orgetorix, Dumnorix, Benorix, and all the other Orixes, at the hands of Julius-roasted and devoured some of them too, next thing to alive.

But enough. The reader is, no doubt, by this time, impressed with a due sense of the dignity of our undertaking. Let us not then any longer dally with our narrative, but hasten on to the field of our





AFTER an early breakfast at about sunrise, we left the hotel in Winchester on the morning of the 1st of June; and taking out the Northwestern road, we went on our way rejoicing. Passing through the North mountain, five miles out, where it breaks down almost on a level with the valley we had just left, we entered fairly into the mountain region whence it is nothing but chain after chain, until you cross over the broad belt to the great, spreading, western, shining plain, watered by the Mississippi and its tributaries.

For several hours we travelled along without stint or stay, filled with the bliss of this first morning of June. Our horses tread the ground lightly, vigorous and nimble-footed, no touch of weariness yet upon them; and our swift wheels turn with scarce-perceptible sound-a mere low hum along the slaty road. Delicious is the summer's day, delicious to both soul and sense! No poet's dream of June was ever so enchanting. It has rained over

night, and fresh and fragrant everywhere is the morning. The forest-leaves are all washed clean as the waters of heaven can make them, and the grasses are more delicately green in their renewal. The rain-drops, not yet dried up, sparkle all over the forest, in the glittering sunshine, like beads of pearl. All nature, animate and inanimate-on four legs, two, or none-feels the heavenly influence of the hour. The woods are vocal with the rapturous voice. of birds. The wild-flowers-the wild-rose and the wood-violet, the gorgeous laurel, and the sweet elderbloom—in all their freshened glory, give their delicate perfumes to the liberal air, and their hues of heaven to the enraptured sight. The streams, sometimes crossing our path, and sometimes flowing on by our side-seeming to go with us whichever way we go-flowing on adown the dell or by the rifted rock, and all embowered with shrubs and tangled vines: these sing their sweet songs tuneful to the ear, until at length, ecstasy-born of the murmuring waters, the balm of the air, the glory of the wild-flowers, the warble of the birds, and the smooth velocity of your rheda-enters into the heart, and pervades your countenance with a radiance that is almost divine.

Thus full of all joy that is born of summer and the mountains, we speed on our way-to happiness and to Winston! On we drive, over the smooth road, through gorge, and dell, and valley, when by

and-by we ascend a mountain, winding up its side like the track of a snake, until we reach the top. Here a magnificent panorama of distant-blending valleys and mountains piled on mountains, breaks suddenly on our view; and, seized with a shouting spirit of exultation

"We call a halt, and make a stand,

And cry, 'St. George for merry England!".

meaning thereby this all-hailed land of ours, which the patriotic reader will of course understand.

The day is now some four hours old by the shadow; and before yet the last echoes of our voices have died away in the hills and rocks around, a wayfarer, all in minstrel array bedight, walked in wearily among us. He called a halt, and made a stand, too, on the mountain's brow. This was a wandering Italian, with his hand-organ strapped to his back, who had ascended from the other side; and it was not long before he had unburdened himself of his bread-winner, and given us a specimen of what his art could do. His instrument was a very good one, and our imaginations had by this time. thrown around him an air of romance and poetry. Had we encountered him in the streets of a city, he would have been nothing more than an ordinary strolling minstrel to us; but here, in the forest, his music struck upon the ear pleasantly enough, and brought to its aid much poetic association. It sound

ed of the days when the old harper begged his bread from door to door: and the hand-organ is already half-elevated into the harp, and he who turns it has a soul alive to poetry and song. Happy power of illusion! it is better than gold in gilding this bare life-this life so bare and hard to the pure reason, so full of charm to the imagination!

Thus idealizing the hand-organ and the very goodlooking, rather handsome man, who turned it, we now left our wagons; and, out in the road, and face to face, we hold friendly parley with the stranger. The wandering minstrel is a Neapolitan; and the Signor Strozzi, our artist, glad of a chance to refresh himself with a little Italian, immediately enlarges upon the renowned city-its towers and palaces, the bay, the towns around, and the neighboring volcano lurid in the heavens. Not unmindful of his country, there is moisture in the eye of the minstrel, and something very like a tear is on his cheek. There is something sympathetic in all show of feeling; and when the prior of St. Philips repeated in feeling tones the song of the harper in Rokeby—

"Wo came with war, and want with wo,
And it was mine to undergo

Each outrage of the rebel foe:

Can aught atone

My fields laid waste, my cot laid low?
My harp alone!

"Ambition's dreams I've seen depart,

Have rued of penury the smart,

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