BY RANDOLPH Ll. HODGSON WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY MARY, PRINCESS OF THURN AND TAXIS London MACMILLAN AND CO. Limited NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1896 All rights reserved...

Here where the world is quiet. Swinburne. We were talking the other day of the many and interesting books of travel that have been written lately, books so full of valuable information and precise descriptions that you almost feel that Inner Africa and the North Pole are as familiar to you as Piccadilly and Oxford Street. "It is a blessing that such books exist," said our host, who has rather a philosophical turn of mind. "Of course, I never read them; personally, I think that reading and writin

Hast thou seen that lordly castle, That Castle by the Sea? Golden and red above it The clouds float gorgeously. Longfellow. I never read an account of any pile of stones, dignified by the name of "castle" and situated near the sea, that did not begin with these lines of Longfellow's. It is not the force of example, however, that makes me prefix them to this attempt at a description of one, but it is the fact that they really suit Duino. It looks lordly and imposing enough standing out grand and

Full of long-sounding corridors it was, That over-vaulted grateful gloom, Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass, Well pleased, from room to room. Tennyson. The covered passage before mentioned leads one straight to the principal staircase. It is a graceful winding staircase, and rare and interesting prints cover the walls. On the first landing, after passing through two anterooms (the second of which contains a collection of fine old Viennese china), one enters the dining-room. It is a l

And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. E. A. Poe. On Friday, 31st May, we all went to Miramar, eleven of us. We drove to Nabresina, the nearest station to Duino, went from there to Miramar by train (it gave some trouble to the engine-driver, as he had to stop the train on purpose for us to get out), and then walked from the station to the castle. It was a stupid way of getting there; it would have been much better to ha

O water whispering Still through the dark into mine ears. D. G. Rossetti. I made two excursions to the Timavo and San Giovanni. The first was with the "Fat Boy." It was a rainy sort of day, and there was nothing to be done in the way of exercise but to go for a walk, so I beguiled the "Fat Boy" into accompanying me. I like to take him for walks. I feel I am doing good to suffering humanity—he may get rid of a little of his superfluous flesh by the exertion. I cannot say that up to now he has exh

The rain came down upon my head Unsheltered, and the heavy wind Rendered me mad, and deaf, and blind. E. A. Poe. It was not quite so bad as all that. I did not go out in the rain, and at present I am neither deaf nor blind. I cannot be sure about the madness. It was very wet, though, but it cleared up before the evening. A really wet day may be dreary, but still it is rather pleasant to have one sometimes. The rain affords such a grand excuse to be idle and do nothing. One can lounge about, and

We were a gallant company. Byron. On Tuesday, 4th June, we had a regular "day out." We were twelve—the original eleven who went to Miramar, with the addition of "our host." We started at 7.30 in the morning, and this involved getting up at six. There is nothing I object to more than early rising. Since my earliest infancy I have always been told what an excellent thing it is to get up early, and the ancient proverb (which you may have heard)— Early to bed and early to rise Makes a man healthy, w

Gray twilight pour'd On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep—all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace. Tennyson. My collaborator and I drove to Villa Vicentina on Friday, June 7th. We took a lady who is possessed with the photographic mania with us, thinking she might be useful, and the Other Boy to carry her camera, etc. There was no rising at unearthly hours in the morning this time—we started at a respectable hour in the afternoon. The early part of our drive was along the

Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sunny air. Longfellow. The usual quartette went to Sagrado and Gradisca—two little Italian-like towns—on Saturday, 15th June. There is one great drawback about Duino—there are only two roads. One goes to Trieste and the other doesn't. It is rather monotonous always driving along the same road. Familiarity breeds contempt, and even poplar-trees and marshes pall on one in time. However, "what can't be cured must be endured," and if you do not want to go to Trieste

All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table than the hosts Invited; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall. Longfell

Happy star reign now! Here comes Bohemia. Shakespeare ( The Winter's Tale ). This chapter is remarkable, since it introduces a new and interesting character to the public, to wit the "Gentle Lunatic," who rushed down upon us from the wild and boundless forests of Bohemia. We journeyed to Capodistria on Saturday, 22nd June, the "Gentle One" filling the place of the "Other Boy" in the usual quartette. We left Duino at 8 o'clock in the morning (another early start), and drove to Nabresina; from the

In the greenest of our valleys. E. A. Poe. On Monday, 24th June, we went to Goritz—my collaborator, the "Gentle Lunatic," and I. Our party had already broken up—the "Energetic Lady" and the "Seal," Miss Umslopogaas, the two learned men, the Thin Boy, the Other Boy, even "our host"—all had gone. And now we left too. My collaborator was going on to Venice from Goritz, and the G. L. and I, after picking up the Fat Boy at Nabresina, were going to Vienna by the night train. We drove to Monfalcone, an

Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir. My collaborator is to blame for this chapter. She found that when the eleven chapters already written and the Introduction and the Conclusion (reckoning the two last as chapters) were added together, the result would be thirteen. And so I am to write one more, and there is nothing to write about. I feel myself to be a martyr offered up on the altar of superstition. Superstition is all very well, but I think it can be carried too far. I was a victim

What ... I did not well I meant well. Shakespeare ( The Winter's Tale ). And now these sketches are finished, and there is nothing left but to take farewell. It is always painful to say good-bye, whether to friends or places. Life is a curious drama, and the scenes change very quickly. Accident, destiny, fate (call it what you like) sends us to some place; we stay there a few days, or weeks, or years; we make friends, we are on the most intimate terms with them; something calls us away; we never