We threw ourselves into the heart of the Tyrol, and became resigned if not happy.
Romantic country! did not duty whisper otherwise, how would we fly to thy rugged mountains, and find in the kindly virtues of thine inhabitants, wherewithal to banish misanthropy, and it may be purchase oblivion.
Noble land! where the chief in his hall--the peasant in his hut--alike open their arms with sheltering hospitality, to welcome the stranger--where kindness springs from the heart, and dreams not of sordid gain--where courtesy attends superior rank, without question, but without debasement--where the men are valiant, the women virtuous--where it needed but a few home-spun heroes--an innkeeper and a friar--to rouse up to arms an entire population, and in a brief space to drive back the Gallic foeman! Oh! how do we revert with choking sense of gratitude, to the years we have spent in thy bosom!
Oh! would that we were again treading the mountain's summit--the rifle our comrade--and a rude countryman, our guide and our companion.
In vain! in vain! the net of circumstance is over us!
We may struggle! but cannot escape from its close meshes.
We have said that we were at Inspruck at this period.
It was our purpose, on the following morning, to take our departure.
With renewed health, and nerves rebraced, we hoped to combat successfully, a world that had already stung us.
There was a group near the golden-roofed palace, that attracted our attention. It consisted of a father and his five sons.