the bark of the magnificent tree, and I could almost have kissed it out of love for his memory. One of the most agree

able excursions we have made was with Miss Mackenzie and Mr. Collier to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, and the other antiquities in its neighbourhood. This was on the first of May. The air was clear and bright, and the distant hills were beautifully clothed in air, and the meadows sparkling with rich wildflowers. In our ramble, after alighting from the carriage, we came to the spot which bears the name of the Fountain of Egeria, but this is all a fiction; nevertheless, the grotto and its trickling water, and pendant ivy, and vivid moss, have enough of poetry and painting about them to make the spot very interesting, independent of all adjuncts whether of fact or fiction. . . . The only very celebrated object which has fairly disappointed me, on account of my ignorance, I suppose, is the Pantheon. But after all it is not particular objects, with the exception perhaps of the inside of St. Peter's, that make the glory of this city; but it is the boundless variety of combinations of old and new, caught in ever-varying connection with the surrounding country, when you look down from some one or other of the seven hills, or from neighbouring eminences not included in the famous seven. To-morrow we are going into the Campagna to see a sheepshearing upon the farm of a wealthy peasant, who lives in that sad and solemn district,—as I believe it is, around his abode, -which lies about five miles along the Appian way. And there this hospitable man dwells among his herds and flocks with a vast household, like one of the Patriarchs of old. . . .”

Wordsworth to his Sister.

"Rome, May 9.

The spot from which I write is surrounded by romantic beauty, and every part of it renowned in history or fable. The lake of Nemi is the celebrated Speculum Dianæ, and that of

Albano still more famous, as you may read in Livy the historian. The window of the room from which I am writing has a full view of the Mediterranean in front. The house was formerly a palace of the King of Spain; in the court below is a fountain, water spouting from the mouths of two lions into a basin, and a jet d'eau throwing up more, that falls back into the same basin, thence descends a flight of steps eighty in number, into a large Italian garden; below that the grass falls in a slope thickly set with olive, vine, and fruit trees, then comes a plain, or what looks like one, with plots of green corn, that look like rich meadows, spreading and winding far and wide; then succeeds a dusky marsh; and lastly, the Mediterranean Sea. All this tract is part of the ancient Latium, the supposed kingdom of Æneas, which he wrested along with the fair Lavinia from Turnus. On the right, a little below the hotel, is a stately grove of ilex belonging to the Palace or Villa Doria.

I have, however, to regret that this journey was not made some years ago, to regret it, I mean, as a poet; for though we have had a great disappointment in not seeing Naples, etc., and more of the country among the Apennines not far from Rome, Horace's country for instance, and Cicero's Tusculum, my mind has been enriched by innumerable images, which I could have turned to account in verse, and vivified by feelings which earlier in my life would have answered noble purposes, in a way now they are little likely to do. But I do not repine; on the contrary, I am very happy. Absence, in a foreign country, and at a great distance, is a condition, for many minds, at least for mine, often pregnant with remorse.-Dearest Mary, when I have felt how harshly I often demeaned myself to you, my

inestimable fellow-labourer, while correcting the last edition of my poems, I often pray to God that He would grant us both life, that I may make some amends to you for that and all my unworthiness. But you know into what an irritable state this timed and overstrained labour often put my nerves. My impatience was ungovernable, as I then thought, but I now feel that it ought to have been governed. You have forgiven me, I know, as you did then, and perhaps that somehow troubles me the more. I say nothing of this to you, dear Dora, though you also have had some reason to complain. . . .

How sorry I am, dear Dora, for poor Mr. Hallam; he had just been touring in the beautiful country where now we are, before he lost his son so suddenly. Beautiful indeed this country is; in a picturesque and even poetic point of view more interesting than most of what we have seen. It is something between the finest part of Alpine Switzerland and the finest parts of Great Britain, I mean in North Wales, Scotland, and our own region. In many particulars it excels Italy; also, greatly indeed, the south of France. The mountains are finely formed, and the vales not choked up, nor the hill-sides disfigured by the sort of cultivation which the sunshine of Italy puts thereupon-vines, olives, citrons, lemons, and all kinds of fruit-trees. Yesterday we passed through a country of mountain, meadow, lawn, and the richest wood spread about with all the magnificence of an everlasting park. . .

H. C. R. to Mrs. Wordsworth.

"Salzburg, [July 11.]

A certain degree of repose of mind must have been the cause, though you know it is not the effect, of the exercise of verse-making. You are to have the product from Munich, and will be well pleased with it, I promise you; and it is in the verse you think now best becomes him. We are now about to make our last journey of country sight-seeing. We have

only one more town to see; and then the wheels may run as glib as they please. Only I must take care that you do not receive him as my brother was received by his wife, who scolded him for coming back too soon. We are nearly at the close of the interesting part of our journey. After Munich it will be mere travelling. There I hope, and at Heidelberg also, I trust, letters will arrive. For I perceive that he is never so happy as when a letter comes. His spirits flag when any unusual delay takes place. We were lucky at Milan and Venice. I should say he was; for letters arrived at the one just as we were leaving, and at the other just before our arrival.

P.S.-I know not what he has written about my friend Miss Mackenzie. You have no cause of jealousy, but Dora has. Miss M. seemed to feel towards him as towards a father, and will certainly pay you one day a visit. She has, however, reached an age at which maternal love is much more usual, and to be desired, than filial. We have heard of the death of the dear reforming king. We do not mean to be detained more than a week by the necessity of ordering a suit of travelling mourning. Long live Victoria I. and her Whig Ladies of Honour !!!"

Wordsworth to his Wife.

"Munich, Monday, July 17.

At present I consider our tour finished; and all my thoughts are fixed upon home, where I am most impatient to be, . . . particularly as there are (as must be the case with all companions in travel) so many things in habit and inclination, where Mr. R. and I differ. Upon these I shall not dwell at present, as the only one I care about is this: he has no home to go to but chambers, and wishes to stay abroad, at least to linger abroad, which I, having the blessing of a home,

do not. Again, he takes delight in loitering about towns, gossiping, and attending reading-rooms, and going to coffeehouses, and in table d'hôtes, etc., gabbling German or any other tongue, all which places and practices are my abomination. In the evenings I cannot read, as the candlelight hurts my eyes; and I have therefore no resource but to go to bed, while I should like exceedingly, when upon our travels, if it were agreeable to him, to rise early; but though he will do this, he dislikes it much, so that I don't press it. He sleeps so much at odd times in the day that he does not like going to bed till midnight. In this, and a hundred other things, our tastes and habits are quite at variance, though nobody can be more obliging in giving up his own; but you must be aware it is very unpleasant in me to require this. In fact, I have very strong reasons for wishing this tour, which I have found so beneficial to my mind, at an end for the sake of my body.

A man must travel alone, I mean without one of his family, to feel what his family is to him! How often have I wished for James to assist me about the carriage, greasing the wheels, etc., a most tedious employment, fastening the baggage, etc., for nothing can exceed the stupidity of these foreigners. Tell him how I wish I had been rich enough to bring him along with me! . . . God bless you all!

Thursday Morning, 20th.

I am quite tired of this place, the weather has been very bad, and after the Galleries close, which is at twelve o'clock and one, I have nothing to do; and, as I cannot speak German, time moves very heavily. The Ticknors are here, and I have passed a couple of hours every evening with them. -God bless you again! ..."

Another brief account of this Italian tour was given by