The Initials: A Story of Modern Life

“Do you smoke, Mr. Hamilton?” asked Baron Z—, as he assisted his wife into the carriage.

“I rather like a cigar sometimes.”

“I merely wish to explain to you, that if you wish to smoke now, you had better mount up here,” he said, seating himself on the front seat of the carriage. “My wife is quite German in every respect, but she has not yet learned to like the smell of tobacco.”

“Nor ever will,” said A. Z.; “nor shall I ever learn to like having guns so near me. Why are they not packed, as usual, in the long case?”

“You forget you have changed all arrangements since you find that Mr. Hamilton is called Alfred,” said Baron Z—, laughing.

“I only hope they are not loaded,” she said, carefully avoiding their contact, even with the hem of her garment, “for I have no fancy whatever to have my death announced in the newspapers, after the words, ‘dreadful accident!’”

“They are not loaded,” said her husband, puffing strongly from his newly-lighted cigar, as they drove off.

Hamilton was extremely amused at his comical situation, or rather at the events which had led to it, and after a few ineffectual efforts at suppression, he indulged in a fit of laughter, in which A. Z. joined; and it was some time before she could answer Baron Z—’s repeated inquiries as to the cause of their mirth.

“I really don’t know, Herrmann, excepting that perhaps Mr. Hamilton is amused at finding himself in our company. By-the-by, you do not perhaps know that he speaks very good German.”

“Like an Englishman, eh?”

“His German will prove a better medium of communication than your English, perhaps; but,” she added quickly, changing the subject, and speaking German, “tell me, did you observe the new arrivals at the table d’hôte to-day. Who are those two pretty girls?”

“Rosenthal, or Rosenberg, I believe, is their name.”

“A decided acquisition, so far as appearance is concerned. The one who sat beside Major Stultz at dinner is decidedly beautiful. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, and Major Stultz thinks so too, I should think; he made prodigious efforts to be agreeable, but could neither obtain a smile nor look during dinner. Had I been in his place, I should have tried the other, who is very nearly as pretty, and seems quite disposed to receive any attentions offered to her. I saw her looking towards our end of the table more than once, but could not ascertain whether she looked at me or your friend there.”

“My friend seems rather disposed to appropriate the looks, if I may judge from that rising blush.”

“By no means,” cried Hamilton; “my acquaintance with the young lady is of very recent date.”

“I did not know there was any acquaintance whatever,” said A. Z.

“It scarcely deserves the name. We travelled part of the way from Munich together; their carriage was dreadfully crowded, and I proposed taking some of the travellers. Mademoiselle Crescenz, the nursery-maid, and a kicking boy, called Peppy, were consigned to my care.”

“Such civility was very unusual on the part of Englishmen; at least, our countrymen are here generally supposed to be selfish when travelling,” observing A. Z.

“Perhaps my motives were not quite free from an alloy of selfishness; I rather dreaded the ennui of a long afternoon alone in an uncomfortable carriage; and, besides, I was in search of an adventure.”

“How did it turn out?”

“Oh, we got on famously until we reached Seon; but from the moment Mademoiselle Crescenz saw her step-mother, her manner totally changed; so I concluded she intended to decline my acquaintance, now that I could be of no further use to her.”

“Your conclusion proved how very little you know of German girls in her rank of life.”

“Should one interpret these German girls by contraries?”

“Cela depend.”

“Perhaps, then, her sister intends to be very civil to me—our acquaintance began by her calling me a fool; and I overheard her saying to her sister that I seemed to have an uncommonly good opinion of myself, and looked like an overgrown schoolboy.”

“There is no possibility of mistaking such demonstrations,” said A. Z., smiling, and evidently controlling an inclination to laugh, extremely displeasing to Hamilton.

“You seem,” he said, somewhat distrustfully, “you seem amused—perhaps at my expressing your thoughts in the words of another person.”

“What I thought of you on your first appearance——”

“I already know. You thought me a long-legged, bashful animal; at least you said so to Baron Z—.”

“At that time I fancied I had a sort of right to criticise; and had you really proved to be John or Archy, as I had supposed, you might have often been favoured with equally flattering observations; I should have considered you a sort of relation, and you would, undoubtedly, have thought me a great bore. Now, the case is different, and I shall treat you with all possible respect; but you must allow me to laugh, and promise not to be offended at every idle word——”

“Offended!—oh, no! I should be extremely delighted if you would act towards me as if I were John or Archy.”

“You are too young to appreciate such treatment—and—I don’t feel disposed unnecessarily to undertake the part of mentor.”

“You fear the task would prove too troublesome?”

“Not exactly that—I rather like giving advice; but——”

“You think I should do you no credit!”

“I really do not know, nor do I mean to try. Your search for adventures may bring you into some embarrassments which may not always turn out so well as on the present occasion.”

“My good fortune on the present occasion has been so extraordinary, that I shall tempt fate no further; my plan is formed. I shall spend the winter in Munich, studying German and the Germans. In the domestic circle of a private family——”

“Where there are no boys?” asked A. Z.

“As a proof of my deference to your opinion, I shall make no objection even to five boys; and also promise to avoid a widow with unmarried daughters.”

“I have some hope of you now!”

“Will you then be my mentor during my sojourn in Germany?”

“No.”

“But you said you liked giving advice?”

“And so I do; it is, you know, the only thing that everybody is disposed to give, and nobody likes to take. Ask my advice, and I shall give it; although I know beforehand you will not make use of it.”

“Just as much as either John or Archy.”

“No such thing! My advice to them would have been enforced by a little delegated parental authority, not to mention the probability of their having, from hearsay, very exalted ideas of my wisdom.”

“I doubt if their ideas on that subject could possibly be more exalted than mine.”

“Very appropriately answered—you really are an extremely promising young man.”

Hamilton bit his lip and blushed; there was something in her manner so mocking, so unequivocally ironical, that he felt mortified—his silent irritation betraying itself in spite of all his endeavours at concealment.

“You are offended,” she observed, quietly, after a pause, “and offended without any cause. I have, all my life, had a particular antipathy to very young men—it is quite impossible to talk to them without making remarks which they consider derogatory to their dignity. I did not mean to annoy you, and recall my words; instead of a promising, I now think you an irritable young man. Does that please you better?”

“Infinitely better,” he answered, laughing; “if not the words, certainly the manner is preferable. I can bear anything but being turned into ridicule.”

“What you now call ridicule will a few years hence take the name of badinage; but let us talk of something else, or still better—suppose we read. Here is the Allgemeine Zeitung, or Blackwood’s Magazine.”

“Do you take Blackwood’s?” inquired Hamilton.

“I get it and any books I wish for from the royal library. No one can be more magnificently liberal than the King of Bavaria, in this respect. When you go to Munich, your banker can sign papers making himself answerable for any books which may be lost or injured while in your possession; and this is the only formality necessary to insure you the unlimited use of a library containing upwards of eight hundred thousand volumes.”

“But you do not mean to say that I, a foreigner, may take the books home with me?”

“Your ideas are too English to comprehend such liberality, and so were mine when I first came to Munich; but the fact is, you may take the books to your own apartment and read them at your leisure. Of course you must be careful not to injure them in any way.”

“But if many people enjoy this privilege, the books must be spoiled in time.”

“You think, perhaps, it would be wiser if the eight hundred thousand volumes were put into glass book-cases, and merely exhibited to strangers, instead of being placed at their disposition? As far as I can judge, however, from personal observation, the books are not either spoiled or even soiled; at least, none I have ever required; and, you see,” she said, removing a paper cover from one of them, “they are very nicely bound.”

“Do you read a great deal?” he asked.

“I once thought so, but on referring to the list of books actually read at the end of the year, it was so insignificant that I now make no pretension to being what is called a reader—a few memoirs, travels, an occasional novel, and the newspapers, fill up my time completely. But now you really must take a book, or admire the country in silence, for I cannot allow my Allgemeine Zeitung to remain longer unread. I have only time for one each day, and I get into a fit of despair when they accumulate.”

“I think if you won’t talk to me I should like to smoke a cigar.”

“A most excellent idea! Take the coachman’s place beside Herrmann, who, I am sure, will willingly drive in order to have the pleasure of your company. You can talk over your intended expedition, and boast of the quantity of grouse you would have shot had you been at home this August.”

The day had already closed as they drew near the little village of Siegsdorf; lights glanced gaily from the windows of the houses, and from the small inn the sound of singing and laughter was wafted far and wide.

“I don’t think we could do better than stop here for the night,” observed Baron Z—, turning abruptly to his wife.

“I expected some such proposition as soon as I heard the sound of the zither,” she answered.

“May I?” he asked, playing with the whip; while the horses, apparently unwilling to pass by a stable, the comforts of which they had probably experienced on a former occasion, turned of their own accord into the roughly-paved yard, and stopped at the door of the inn.

The landlady made her way with some difficulty through the passage, which was crowded with peasants, to the door, where she stood to receive the travellers, her rotundity of figure placed in strong relief by the light behind her. Baron Z— merrily returned the innumerable salutations made him, as, followed by his wife and Hamilton, he led the way to a room reserved for guests of the higher classes. One table was still unoccupied, and the landlady, having with her apron swept away the crumbs of bread, and removed some empty glasses which were upon it, placed chairs, asked what they chose for supper, gave the necessary directions to a girl who was standing near her, and then, with a sort of contented sigh, seated herself on a bench at the other end of the table, evidently waiting to be spoken to. Baron Z— looked round him as if in search of some one, and then said:

“Well, how goes the world with you? Are all the children well?”

“All in good health, thank you.”

“Where is my old friend Hauser? I miss him when he is not seated at the head of the table.”

“He is out shooting to-day.”

“Is there, then, a chance of my getting a shot, if I remain here to-morrow?”

“Indeed I cannot promise much. They say the game is getting very scarce. I am sometimes a whole week without venison. You expected better news, I know, for I saw your rifle in the carriage.”

“Not here,” said Baron Z—; “but I am on my way to Reichenhall and Berchtesgaden, and at one place or the other I hope to have a chamois-hunt. A friend of mine wishes to see the sport.”

“Ah, so,” cried the landlady, looking intelligently towards Hamilton. “I have part of a chamois in the house; perhaps the gentleman would like a ragout of it?”

“Should you like some chamois for supper,” asked A. Z., turning to Hamilton.

“Oh! of all things,” he answered eagerly.

“It is rather a dry kind of meat,” she continued, “I have eaten it but twice myself; once from curiosity, the second time from—necessity. You remember, Herrmann?”

“Yes; when we came out of Tyrol and went to the Klamm. I think we ought to show, at least, one of the Klamms to Mr. Hamilton. An expedition of that kind will be something new to him, and a day more or less is of no consequence to us.”

“I am sure you are very kind,” said Hamilton, delighted at the word “expedition,” but not in the least knowing what he was to see.

“We might have the carriage to meet us at Unken, and our landlady will get us a key of the woodman’s house.”

The landlady nodded assent.

“And cold chickens, and tongues, and coffee, and all those sort of things. I shall take guides from Ruhpolding.”

“Herr Baron,” cried a tall peasant, who had been leaning against the half-open door and listening attentively to every word that had been said—“Herr Baron, you promised to employ me the next time you went there. I could go to Frauenstein for the key to-night, and meet you in Ruhpolding to-morrow.”

“Off with you, then,” cried Baron Z—, “and be sure to be there at five o’clock to-morrow.”

“Or at half-past six,” said A. Z.; “and don’t forget to take the largest bags you can find.”

The man nodded his head, scraped one of his heavy shoes upon the floor, and disappeared.

Baron Z—, who was one of the most restless beings Hamilton had ever seen, now walked up and down the room, looked out of the windows as well as the thick leaves of the numerous cactus plants would permit, played with all the ugly, strange dogs in the room, and after having seated himself for a minute or two on every unoccupied chair he could find, he finally joined the guests at the other table, and in a few minutes was discussing politics with an elderly man who had been poring over the pages of the newspapers; then he listened and related sporting anecdotes to another, who from his dress he knew must be a Jäger; with the wood-ranger he talked of timber, the drifts of wood in the neighbourhood; and during the first pause in the conversation, he took up a guitar which was lying on the table and commenced singing Tyrolean songs, with such spirit and humour that his audience unanimously joined in chorus, each taking the part suiting his voice with a precision so surprising to Hamilton that he asked A. Z. if they had often sung together before.

“Never that I am aware of,” she answered examining more attentively the singers; “I do not think Herrmann is acquainted with even one of them.”

The music within seemed to inspire some musicians without, for no sooner had it ceased than the gay notes of a zither were heard—an instrument which Hamilton had never seen, and which A. Z. told him was well worth the trouble of an examination. He was about to leave the room for the purpose, when he met the landlady carrying in the soup for supper; he stopped embarrassed, but Baron Z—, without further ceremony, called in the peasant, who was the best performer, and gave him a place beside him at the table. The man tuned his zither and began to play what he called “Laendlers,” perhaps from the word land or country, simple waltzes to which the peasants dance, and which A. Z. assured Hamilton, when accompanied by a guitar, and the time beaten by the dancing of feet and the snapping of fingers, at a target-shooting match, or a wedding, was the very gayest music she had ever heard.

They were all in high spirits the next morning, when they met soon after sunrise, for the weather promised to be extremely fine, indeed sultry, if an unclouded sky at so early an hour might be depended upon. Hamilton was, therefore, not a little surprised at the number of cloaks and shawls with which the carriage was lumbered, and at Baron Z—’s dress. He had on the same grey shooting jacket and green felt hat in which he had first seen him—but he had also black knee-breeches, and worsted stockings drawn half-way up his thighs, but which were so elastic that they could be pushed below the knees, where clinging to the legs, they formed folds at a distance resembling top-boots. A large pouch hung at his side, and in his hand he carried a long pole with an iron point. Hamilton was also given one as he got into the carriage, and they drove off amidst the heartiest wishes for good weather and their enjoyment of it.

“Mr. Hamilton would have got on better without straps and with thicker boots,” observed Baron Z—.

“It is of no consequence, for to-day we have scarcely any ascent, if I remember right,” answered his wife.

“I ought to have equipped him,” cried Baron Z—, laughing. “How do you think he would look?”

“As he is considerably taller than you are—there would be at least half a yard of leg uncovered.”

“The dress is certainly very becoming,” observed Hamilton, “but I cannot imagine it particularly comfortable.”

“If you had to climb, you would find it as comfortable as becoming,” answered Baron Z—; “and that it is judicious admits of no doubt; all mountaineers have something similar; and you may be sure the dress was originally adopted for its convenience. It is unquestionably advantageous, having the knees uncovered in ascending and descending mountains.”

“And the monstrous shoes”—begun Hamilton——

“Give a steadier footing and preserve the feet from the pointed stones or rocks.”

“I remember,” said A. Z., “the first time I ascended an alp, I wore thin shoes and open-work silk stockings; I came home nearly barefoot, of course, and with quite a new idea of an alp.”

“Oh, pray do give me some idea of one,” cried Hamilton; “I—I must confess I have none whatever; for when people talk of alps, I cannot help thinking of the Alps.”

“I am not surprised at your question, for I doubt if the word be in the dictionary with the meaning attached to it here. People call the pasture-lands on the hills or lower parts of the mountains, ‘alp.’ Almost every farmer of any importance has one to which he sends the greater part of his cattle during the summer months, and there butter and cheese are made for the winter. Where the alps are extensive, they are held by several persons, and instead of one little wooden residence, there are sometimes twenty or thirty.”

“A sort of inhabited common, perhaps?”

“By no means. They are inherited or bought, or given in leases, and are sometimes very valuable.”

“The view from them is, of course, very extensive,” observed Hamilton.

“Generally, or I should not have been on so many.”

“And I,” said Baron Z—, “always endeavour to pass the night on one when I am on a hunting expedition; for, besides the chance of a few hours’ sleep in a hay-loft, one can warm one’s self at a good fire, and breakfast before daybreak. You shall see an alp, and a chamois-hunt, also, if I can manage it, before you return to Seon.”

“I have no doubt of being able to mount any alp you please,” said Hamilton; “but for a person who is not a good shot to undertake anything so dangerous as a chamois-hunt——”

“Danger! There is none whatever.”

“No danger! Why, I have read frightful accounts of chamois-hunts!”

“Read! Oh, so have I—and I don’t deny that an accident may occur occasionally. In Switzerland, for instance, where the chase is free, the chamois have become so scarce and shy that they have taken refuge in the highest parts of the mountains. There, and perhaps in those parts of Tyrol where they are only nominally protected, they are difficult to be got at—but in the neighbourhood of Berchtesgaden, Ischl, and Steyermark, a chamois is not much more difficult to shoot than a stag or a roebuck.”

“But,” said A. Z., “you must confess that people always think more of a chamois-hunt than of any other. You would rather, I am sure, shoot a chamois than a deer.”

“That is true, but there is no use in making more of it than is necessary. Mr. Hamilton, with his present ideas, will be greatly disappointed, I fear.”

“No, for I was just going to tell him that I have been on mountains where the chamois have been seen springing from rock to rock in places to which I could easily have mounted if I had put on a pair of Steigeisen.”

“What is that? What are they?”

“I scarcely know how to describe them; they look like pattens at a distance, and are buckled over the shoes in the same manner, but they are provided with four strong iron spikes, to enable you to plant your feet steadily in the ground, or in the fissures of the rocks.”

“That’s it!” cried Hamilton. “They were also in the description which I read.”

“Do not have too exalted an idea of the danger on that account,” answered A. Z., laughing; “for I have heard that many people who inhabit the mountainous parts of this country use them when they walk on the snow in winter.”

“So, after all,” said Hamilton, “a chamois-hunt is quite a common sort of thing.”

“You are falling into the contrary extreme now,” said Baron Z—; “for, though it is no uncommon thing, strong sinews, good lungs, a quick eye, and a steady hand are always required in order to be successful.”

They arrived at Ruhpolding, and found their guides waiting for them—tall, strong-looking men, with sunburnt faces and bushy mustaches. Their dress was of coarser materials, but in other respects quite resembling Baron Z—’s, excepting that their grey stockings, with a fanciful pattern in green, were short, and left their knees perfectly bare. On their shoulders were slung canvas bags, into which they immediately packed the cloaks, shawls, and provisions of every description.

A couple of miles beyond Ruhpolding the carriage was abandoned, and the party commenced their expedition on a footway through the Fishbach valley. The vegetation around them was of the richest colouring, the mossy grass under the trees of the deepest green; and wild berberry trees, with their delicate leaves and pendent crimson berries grew luxuriantly in every direction. A variety of beautifully delicate wild-flowers pleased Hamilton’s eye, but he looked on with some impatience, while A. Z. and her husband leisurely gathered and examined some, took others up by the roots, and placed all in a tin box, evidently brought for the purpose. Long and serious too were the discussions about them, which, as Hamilton did not understand, he was glad when, in contrast to this scene of fertility, their way brought them to the immediate base of the mountains, where it ran parallel with the dry bed of a torrent almost deserving the name of river when in spring it rushes from its snowy source, sweeping away heaps of stones and trunks of torn-up trees, which, thrown high on either side, leave the valley between a scene of stony desolation. They continued for a considerable time between the almost perpendicular sides of the mountains, sometimes climbing over colossal masses of stone, at others enjoying the shade of the thick pine-trees or over-hanging rocks, when, on passing an abrupt turn, a foaming waterfall seemed suddenly to prevent all further progress; for, after passing over the very path they were pursuing, it bounded from the rocks, which sometimes arrested, but could not impede its progress, until having half-exhausted itself in spray, it reached a solid bed of stone, and finally disappeared among the dark-green fir-trees of the narrow valley below.

While Hamilton looked in silent admiration down the precipice, A. Z., her husband, and the two guides disappeared in the cavity of the rock behind the waterfall, and seemed greatly to enjoy his surprise when he discovered them sitting under the trees at the other side. While one of the guides unpacked his canvas bag, and laid the contents on the nearest rock, Hamilton joined them, and they remained beside the waterfall more than an hour, enjoying their frugal repast while resting in the shade, and tranquillised almost to laziness by the sound of the rushing waters. Baron Z— was, of course, the first to move.

“Ah, there is a châlet!” exclaimed Hamilton, pointing towards some small wooden buildings on a green hill before them; below which a second waterfall, forming natural cisterns in the rocks, fell in cascades from one to the other. “A châlet at last!”

“We call them Senner huts here,” said A. Z. “When men have the charge of the cattle, they are called Senners; when women, Sennerins. Let us go to where that girl is standing at the door of her hut; she seems an acquaintance of our guide’s. These Sennerins,” she continued, looking attentively at the one who was now about to supply them with cheese and butter—“these Sennerins are the theme of almost all the national poetry and songs here in the mountains.”

“They would not inspire me,” said Hamilton, laughing. “I see nothing very poetical about them, if this one may be taken as a specimen.”

“You do not understand their manners or mode of life,” said Baron Z—. “Their isolated situation and primitive occupations are poetical—these mountains and endless forests are poetical—there is poetry in the sound of the bell, which answers to every movement of the grazing cow—in the tinkling of the little bells, which, like castanets, denote the quicker motions of the goats!”

“True,” said A. Z.; “and you would find that round-faced, thick-legged girl picturesque, if not poetical, could we remain long enough for you to hear her singing to assemble her herd, and see her surrounded by her cows and goats this evening.”

“Shall we not pass the night in one of these sorts of huts?” asked Hamilton.

“Not in a Senner hut,” replied Baron Z—. “It is the woodmen and foresters’ châlet to which we are going; the ground is Austrian, but the woods are Bavarian; and it is through the Klamm that the wood is drifted for the salt-works at Reichenhall.”

“Through the Klamm,” repeated Hamilton, slowly and musingly.

“You look as if you did not know what the word Klamm meant,” observed A. Z.

“I must confess I do not, although I looked for it yesterday evening in my pocket dictionary. The explanation was a spasm in the throat; or, close, solid, narrow——”

“Exactly,” said A. Z. “The Klamm which we are now going to see is a long, narrow passage, made by a stream of water through a mountain of solid rock; but now let us move on, or we shall have to inspect it by torchlight.”

They all hurried forward towards the ascent before them, and would probably have felt considerably fatigued had not the continual change in the scenery created unceasing interest. Far as the eye reached, all was green; and beyond, the deep-blue sky, unbroken by a single cloud. A new and gigantic world of mountains rewarded them for the toil of the ascent. Here and there a peasant’s house, with its over-hanging wooden roof, gave life to a picture that, with all its sunshine, would otherwise have been desolate in its loneliness, for no human being was visible. It seemed extraordinary that the ground was so highly cultivated, for road there was none; nor did there seem to be any communication with the world but by a narrow and in some places rather dangerous footway. Cattle were to be seen further up the mountains, on those green spots of turf described by A. Z., and which are to be found sometimes even among the bare crags. These pastures can only be used for a short time in summer; and, as the weather grows colder in autumn, the cattle are driven down lower, until finally they are brought home for the winter, covered with garlands of wild flowers! While Baron Z— was enthusiastically describing “A re-return from the alp,” they had begun to descend into the valley, and already heard the sound of rushing water. Magnificent masses of rock prepared them for the cavern, into which they entered by a natural arch, over which, carved in the stone, are the words

“So the cave is altogether formed by the action of the water,” observed Hamilton, looking upwards.

“Altogether, as you will soon perceive,” replied Baron Z—. “Some years ago this was a wild place, and frightful accidents often occurred, until our king had a way made through it for the convenience and safety of the persons employed in the drifting of the wood.”

The narrow bridge-like way of which he spoke was composed of strong beams and planks; and in the twilight which always reigns in the vaulted tunnel, it appears to hang suspended in the air, being supported by iron cramps driven into the solid rock underneath. The water rages, and above the daylight enters sparingly by a few small isolated openings.

“One could fancy this the abode of the ‘Wild Huntsman,’” said A. Z.

“I know nothing of the Wild Huntsman,” said Hamilton, “excepting from the scenery in Der Freyschutz. Everything I have seen to-day, but most of all this wild cavern, reminds me of it. I should rather like to be here on a stormy night, to hear the wind whistling through these arches. Although not very imaginative, I could almost bring the Wild Huntsman to my view, just here where the sky begins to be visible.”

“Instead of the Wild Huntsman, substitute the forester when he opens the sluices to let the wood drift through,” said Baron Z—. “Fancy the rushing and roaring of the pent-up torrent, the dashing of the trunks of trees against these rocks, the terrific noise increased by the echo——”

“Oh! how I should like to see it,” exclaimed Hamilton, eagerly.

“I prefer a quiet sunset, like the present,” said A. Z., beginning to ascend the steps which led out of the cavern. “I can imagine what you have described, and acknowledge that wild weather heightens the effect of scenery such as this; but still just in such places I particularly enjoy the repose of nature. There is no tameness in it, for the possible change which may take place is ever unconsciously before the mind’s eye.”

“That may be true,” said Hamilton, thoughtfully. “I have seen but little wild scenery—never anything resembling this, excepting, as I said before, at the theatre, where I looked upon everything as very fine, but very impossible.”

“Few people in England are aware how very true to nature the Freyschutz is. Put the Wild Huntsman and the charmed bullets aside, and every target-shooting match in the mountains will bring the scenery and actors before you. Weber was in the habit of frequenting such places, and listening for hours to the untutored singers and zither-players.”

“Who have we here?” cried Baron Z—, as they came within view of the woodman’s house, and he perceived several persons moving backwards and forwards.

“Another party!” exclaimed A. Z. “I only hope they are not too numerous, and that we may be able to join them. I have no fancy for going on to an alp this evening.”

“But if they are all strangers——” began Hamilton.

“If they are, we shall make their acquaintance. I think I see a couple of ladies—a most fortunate circumstance for me, as they will be sure to offer to make our coffee and arrange everything. I am not at all useful on parties of this kind, but very thankful to anyone who takes care of me.”

They were strangers, and considered themselves such in a double sense—for they were Austrians! While A. Z. was explaining the extraordinary fact of Bavarians considering themselves foreigners in Austria, and vice versa, Baron Z— had entered into conversation with them, and a few minutes sufficed for him to guess the name of one who said he was there on business; and from him he heard all he required about the others. As to A. Z., she lost no time in seeking two ladies who were standing at the door of the châlet, and having confessed her want of experience in all culinary art, they, without hesitation, made the offer she desired, and were given the bags, which the guides were just taking from their shoulders.

The supper, composed of the most heterogeneous materials, was eaten under the trees near the house; and it was not until late that they took refuge from the night air in the kitchen of the châlet, where a bright fire burned on the high, open hearth, which, like a long table, occupied the middle of the room, with wooden benches round it. A zither was found in the house, and a young student, with long, fair hair flowing over his black velvet coat, who had brought a guitar, slung, troubadour-fashion, over his shoulders, sang directly he was requested. A quartette was also soon arranged; and Hamilton, seated in a corner, out of the glare of the fire, contemplated the party for a long time in silence.

At daybreak the next morning, long before the sun’s rays could reach them, they were again in the Klamm; and, passing through it, found another and much easier way than that of the previous day, which brought them to Unken. There they parted from their acquaintance of the evening before, who surrounded their carriage, bowing and shaking hands, with a mixture of formality and friendliness which afforded A. Z. and Hamilton subject of conversation for some time, the former observing that had two English parties met in the same way, they would never have joined so cordially; and, instead of conducing to each other’s amusement, would most probably have sat apart, reciprocally watching to detect whatever was disagreeable or vulgar. “I, for my part,” she continued, “was exceedingly well satisfied with my companions, who were very communicative, and related a great many interesting particulars of their mode of life in Tyrol. I have promised to visit them should I ever be in their neighbourhood. Their father is a forester, and the eldest is engaged to be married to that silent, shy man, in the green shooting-jacket. However, he was not too shy to wait for her at the foot of the ladder, when he supposed we were all asleep.”

“So they really did take a walk by moonlight!”

“The moonlight did not last long; and I do not believe they went farther than the bench outside the door, where they found more company than they expected. Romantic feelings and sentimental contemplations are not confined to German women; there are few men here who would not sacrifice a few hours’ rest on an occasion like yesterday, to sit—and smoke in the moonbeams.”

“How ingeniously you always contrive to alloy your praise of us,” said her husband, laughing.

“And yet I am strict to truth, for the fumes of cigars ascended with the murmuring of voices, last night, to my window, and obliged me to close it.”

“Well, we shall have nothing of the kind to-night, as we are likely to be alone on the alp.”

“I have been thinking it would be as well if we were to go to Berchtesgaden, and sleep comfortably in beds; I do not feel quite equal to another night passed on the hay.”