And it wuz with quite saddened emotions that we wended our way back to the tarvern Byron.
I see Al Faizi wuz dretful mournful-lookin’. It always affected that good creeter to see how Truth and Liberty and Jestice have always been trompled on by Error and Ignorance all through the ages and in all countries, and always would, so fur as I could tell.
Geneva! Chamouni, how they glide past the roused eye of my mind, that don’t need spectacles—no, indeed! For never on earth, it seems to me, was there sech grandeur of seenery as wuz here in Chamouni. And the hull world seemed to have found it out, for folks from all the countries of the earth seemed to be represented here.
Here we wuz set down like little grains of sand in a high pine forest, and that don’t carry out my idee at all, for what is a pine-tree compared to Mont Blanc—grand old giant standin’ up there lookin’ down on the hull world, and seemin’ to be kinder guardin’ it. I believe that even Martin’s pride wuz kinder crumpled down a-beholdin’ that wonder and glory.
On, on we went by wild and magnificent seenery, by sweet sheltered spots, castles, farm-housen, bridges, waterfalls, valleys, towerin’ hills, lofty mountains, etc., etc.
Martigny—the wonderful Rhone valley, the magnificence of the Simplon Road, straight up the mountain-side, under waterfalls, over wild waters, along abysses, through tunnels seemin’ly milds long, openin’ out into new seens of beauty—oh, what a time, what a time!
How many bridges did we cross? Josiah said, groanin’, “Over ten thousand.” But I believe there wuz only six hundred odd; but what would Miss Gowdey and Sister Bobbett think of that, who have always looked with some or at the thought of goin’ to North Loontown, because they had to pass over three bridges to git there, and go up a considerable steep hill? What would these sistern do under the circumstances that I wuz placed in? So my almost crazed but riz-up brain would wildly question me anon or oftener.
CHAPTER XXX.
MILAN, GENOA, VENICE.
Wall, at last, under the fosterin’ care of Martin, we wuz conveyed along into Italy and put up to a place called Milan. But one memory of our way thither stands out as plain in my mind as our centre-table duz in my parlor; it is of beautiful Lake Maggiore. A more beautiful piece of water I don’t believe moistens this old earth. Them sweet blue waters, with lovely Isola Bella terraced into hite after hite of verdure and beauty, and other islands a-standin’ out like clear blue stars in a clear blue sky, and the Italians in their picteresque dress, priests, peasants, etc., etc., wuz a seen of enchantment, and even Martin looked kindly on it, and admitted that it looked well. “But,” sez he—