There is a mountain pass, not far from the shores of the Lago Maggiore, which has been famous of late years for anything but _fêtes_ and festivals. There, many an unfortunate traveller has been relieved of the burden of worldly wealth, and sometimes of all earthly cares; and there, many a postillion has quietly received, behind an oak-tree or a chesnut, a due share of the day's earnings from a body of those Italian gentlemen whose life is generally spent in working upon the highways, either with a long gun in their hands or a chain round their middles. But, dear reader, the times I speak of were centuries ago--those named "the good old times," though Heaven only knows why they were called "…
Your support pays for translating these classics into more languages.
Support for $12/month DonateSubscribers read with instant translation, without waiting for the free daily limit.