CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
"GOOD-NIGHT!" Era gia l'ora che volge 'l disio, A' naviganti e 'ntenerisce il cuore, Lo di ch' ban detto a' dolci amici addio, E che lo nuova peregrin d'amore Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano, Che paja 'l giorno pianger che si muore! "Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I could say good-night till it be morrow!" We were sitting side by side, Min and I, leaning over the gunwale of the "gondola" which was rapidly gliding down the river; the stream being in our favour, and our teamster on the towing path keeping his horse up to a brisk trot, that caused us to proceed at a faster rate than we could have pulled even a lighter boat.
It was a lovely summer night, calm and still, with hardly a breath of wind in the air; although, it was not at all unpleasantly close or oppressive.
A bright crescent moon was shining, touching up the trees that skirted the bank with a flood of silvery-azure light, that brought out each twig and particle of foliage in strong relief, and cast their trunks in shade; while, the surface of the water, unstirred by the slightest ripple, gleamed like a mirror of burnished steel, winding in and out, in its serpentine course, between masses of dense shadow--until it was lost to sight in the distance, behind a sudden bend, and a dark projecting clump of willows and undergrowth.
Our boat seemed to be the only floating thing for miles! Had it not been for an occasional twinkle from the far-off window of some riparian villa, and the "whish" of a startled swan as it swerved aside to allow the boat to sweep by, we might easily have imagined ourselves traversing the bosom of one of those vast, solitary rivers of the wilderness across the sea.
The children were nearly all asleep, tired out with happiness in excess; and, most of us were silent, being awed by the beauty of the evening into voiceless admiration.
A little girl near us, wakeful still, was breaking one of the daisy- chains that Min had woven her at Richmond, and casting the pieces one by one into the current as it hurried along:--the daisy cups sometimes keeping pace with us, as our tow-rope slackened, and then falling astern, on our horse trotting ahead once more.
"Don't you remember," said I to Min, "those lines of Schiller's _Der Jungling am Bache_?
They seem appropriate to that little incident,"-- I continued, pointing to the small toddlekin, who was destroying the daisy-chain:-- "`An der Quelle sass der Knabe Blumen wand er sich zum Kranz, Und er sah sie fortgerissen Treiben in den wellen Tanz.
Und so fleihen meine Tage, Wie die quelle rastlos hin! Und so bleichet meine Jugend, Wie die Kranze schnell verbluhn!'" "They are very pretty," said Min.

"Still, do you know, as a rule I do not think German poetry nice.

It always sounds so harsh and guttural to me, however tender and sentimental the words may be." "That may be true in some respects," I answered; "but if you hear it well read, or sung, there is much more pathos and softness about it than one is able to discern when simply skimming it over to oneself.

Some of Goethe's little ballads, for instance, such as `The Erl King,' and others that Walter Scott has translated, are wonderfully beautiful; not to speak of Uhland's poetry, and La Motte Fouque's charming _Undine_, which is as pretty a poem as I have ever read." "I confess," said Min, "that I have not had any general experience of German literature.

Indeed, I have quite neglected it since I left school; and then I only studied heavy books--such as _The History of Frederick the Great_, that wearisome _Jungfrau von Orleans_, and others of Schiller's plays." "Ah!" I replied, "that accounts for it, then.