Wanderings through unknown Austria

een that lo

stle by

and red

s float g

gfe

a, that did not begin with these lines of Longfellow's. It is not the force of example, however, that mak

liffs two hundred feet above the sea, grim and gray, like some old sentinel keep

FROM T

ethyst-hued; far on the left the white houses of Trieste, and rather nearer, the Imperial Castle of Miramar; on the

ortress it was in old days. Not a window is to be seen, only the bare fortifications a

ments, its cloisters and courtyard, stands just as it has stood for centuries. You are out of the world here,

are dead and gone, of your elderly relation from whom you have expectations, and who will not die, and other mel

-KNO

even in daylight you almost expect something of the sort to happen-you listen for the clank of arms and the ring of the horses' hoofs. Modern dress seems out of place,

le in the old days, and probably extended to

eting over them in a roof of green leaves, leading down to the sea. Old-fashioned flowers abound, and grow almost wild-purple irises, great blue periwinkles, honey-scented "dragons' mouths," and roses of every kind. Butterflies that are rare in England are common enough here-huge yellow swallow-tails, the graceful "Wh

e!" on one of them. It is pleasant to know one is "welcome,

RE

r the archway is a portrait of Mr. Boreas, the personification of the North Wind. He is represented as conti

lconies, and with the ivy entwining and creeping over everything. The tower is said to be Roman. There are rooms here that have been walled up for centuries

and these first "Lords of Duino" certainly had enough of it. It mattered little to them which side they were on. If there were a war, or a petty feud, or anything going on in which hard blows might be struck, t

·

OMAN

. It was full of nice poetic sentences, with a dash of enthusiasm, and here and there a fine contempt for our "degenerate time." So I went to my colla

sure they were exactly as men are now-if anything I think they were worse; but I don't know anything about it, and you don't e

y think she wa

·

belonged to the city of Venice. In 1669 it came into the possession of the Della Torre (the old Lords of M

athing place in the "Riviera." The neighbourhood of Duino was very different in his time from what it is now; tradition says the hills were covered with forests of red pine,

ho do not feel a pang of something like regret when now and then the thought of some one gone out of our lives comes over us. Fate plays tricks with us all. Death, the forc