The Argosy — page 125: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

110 En Voyage. o’clock lunch. It seems also that she had never understood that she would be expected to go without beer, which she requires three times a day to keep her from sinking. ‘The substitute of sour wine she regards with patriotic scorn, and drinks under protest. Alto- gether, she is so exhausted with fatigue and inanition, that she can hardly support herself, far less anything else, so we have to carry her shawls as well as our own. The short day is closing. En voiture, messieurs et dames. Our road, now, seems to go heavenward, in more than one sense, for the way is ever ascending, and the beauty around us increasing. ‘Then we are plunged into thick darkness, Does our way lie through the valley of the shadow of death? Ifso, it is soon past, like other shadows. ‘There is nothing between us and the pallid heaven, and the great mountains rising tier upon tier, wave upon wave around us. A little pause gives us time to look and wonder. Very little is said. In our poor little store of words, we have none with which to speak of such beauty as this. Our worship shall be of the silent sort. Lips, thrice touched by the fire of genius, may strive to tell the secret in words, or colour, or music, but even they have hitherto left the best unsaid. We move onward, with one last, long, awe-struck look. Night is near now. The sky, pure, deep and spotless, is of that indescribable hue which suffuses the upper air between light and darkness. Close to one white peak, a single star sparkles brilliantly. Farewell! Let us sleep, now, and dream of the beatific vision. Our rest is interrupted by change and dinner at Turin. Here, a difficulty arises about the fauteuils-lits. My aunt’s surname of Powell has been mysteriously transformed into Popkoff, during telegraphic transmission. Naturally a Russian lady is expected instead of this unmistakable Englishwoman. At last the stationmaster is per- suaded that Powell is the English for Popkoff, and we are allowed to take possession. We are so tired, that we sleep through all noise, and do not waken till next morning, when we are near Florence. I rejoice at the flood- ing of the other route which compels us to make this detour, and so enjoy a fleeting look at this beautiful city. But why is it that Florence always sulks when I come near her? It was so the first time I passed her ; it is so again to-day. She wears a veil of thick white fog, which my own Southshire meadows might have woven. When we depart, refreshed by café-au-lait, half-an-hour later, the misty screen is still there. We hear the ringing of many bells, and wistfully picture to ourselves the invisible towers from which the chiming comes. It is not till we reach Ostia that the thick cloud melts and reveals a true Italian sky, ‘‘deeply, darkly, beautifully blue,” above us. CORNIELIOOLKS (E©) m