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Chapter 8

WE had now reached Switzerland, so long the final mark and aim of our
exertions. We had looked, I know not wherefore, with hope and pleasing
expectation on her congregation of hills and snowy crags, and opened our
bosoms with renewed spirits to the icy Biz, which even at Midsummer used to
come from the northern glacier laden with cold. Yet how could we nourish
expectation of relief? Like our native England, and the vast extent of
fertile France, this mountain-embowered land was desolate of its
inhabitants. Nor bleak mountain-top, nor snow-nourished rivulet; not the
ice-laden Biz, nor thunder, the tamer of contagion, had preserved them--
why therefore should we claim exemption?

Who was there indeed to save? What troop had we brought fit to stand at
bay, and combat with the conqueror? We were a failing remnant, tamed to
mere submission to the coming blow. A train half dead, through fear of
death--a hopeless, unresisting, almost reckless crew, which, in the
tossed bark of life, had given up all pilotage, and resigned themselves to
the destructive force of ungoverned winds. Like a few furrows of unreaped
corn, which, left standing on a wide field after the rest is gathered to
the garner, are swiftly borne down by the winter storm. Like a few
straggling swallows, which, remaining after their fellows had, on the first
unkind breath of passing autumn, migrated to genial climes, were struck to
earth by the first frost of November. Like a stray sheep that wanders over
the sleet-beaten hill-side, while the flock is in the pen, and dies before
morning-dawn. Like a cloud, like one of many that were spread in
impenetrable woof over the sky, which, when the shepherd north has driven
its companions "to drink Antipodean noon," fades and dissolves in the clear
ether--Such were we!

We left the fair margin of the beauteous lake of Geneva, and entered the
Alpine ravines; tracing to its source the brawling Arve, through the
rock-bound valley of Servox, beside the mighty waterfalls, and under the
shadow of the inaccessible mountains, we travelled on; while the luxuriant
walnut-tree gave place to the dark pine, whose musical branches swung in
the wind, and whose upright forms had braved a thousand storms--till the
verdant sod, the flowery dell, and shrubbery hill were exchanged for the
sky-piercing, untrodden, seedless rock, "the bones of the world, waiting to
be clothed with every thing necessary to give life and beauty."[1] Strange
that we should seek shelter here! Surely, if, in those countries where
earth was wont, like a tender mother, to nourish her children, we had found
her a destroyer, we need not seek it here, where stricken by keen penury
she seems to shudder through her stony veins. Nor were we mistaken in our
conjecture. We vainly sought the vast and ever moving glaciers of
Chamounix, rifts of pendant ice, seas of congelated waters, the leafless
groves of tempest-battered pines, dells, mere paths for the loud avalanche,
and hill-tops, the resort of thunder-storms. Pestilence reigned paramount
even here. By the time that day and night, like twin sisters of equal
growth, shared equally their dominion over the hours, one by one, beneath
the ice-caves, beside the waters springing from the thawed snows of a
thousand winters, another and yet another of the remnant of the race of
Man, closed their eyes for ever to the light.

Yet we were not quite wrong in seeking a scene like this, whereon to close
the drama. Nature, true to the last, consoled us in the very heart of
misery. Sublime grandeur of outward objects soothed our hapless hearts, and
were in harmony with our desolation. Many sorrows have befallen man during
his chequered course; and many a woe-stricken mourner has found himself
sole survivor among many. Our misery took its majestic shape and colouring
from the vast ruin, that accompanied and made one with it. Thus on lovely
earth, many a dark ravine contains a brawling stream, shadowed by romantic
rocks, threaded by mossy paths--but all, except this, wanted the mighty
back-ground, the towering Alps, whose snowy capes, or bared ridges, lifted
us from our dull mortal abode, to the palaces of Nature's own.

This solemn harmony of event and situation regulated our feelings, and gave
as it were fitting costume to our last act. Majestic gloom and tragic pomp
attended the decease of wretched humanity. The funeral procession of
monarchs of old, was transcended by our splendid shews. Near the sources of
the Arveiron we performed the rites for, four only excepted, the last of
the species. Adrian and I, leaving Clara and Evelyn wrapt in peaceful
unobserving slumber, carried the body to this desolate spot, and placed it
in those caves of ice beneath the glacier, which rive and split with the
slightest sound, and bring destruction on those within the clefts--no
bird or beast of prey could here profane the frozen form. So, with hushed
steps and in silence, we placed the dead on a bier of ice, and then,
departing, stood on the rocky platform beside the river springs. All hushed
as we had been, the very striking of the air with our persons had sufficed
to disturb the repose of this thawless region; and we had hardly left the
cavern, before vast blocks of ice, detaching themselves from the roof,
fell, and covered the human image we had deposited within. We had chosen a
fair moonlight night, but our journey thither had been long, and the
crescent sank behind the western heights by the time we had accomplished
our purpose. The snowy mountains and blue glaciers shone in their own
light. The rugged and abrupt ravine, which formed one side of Mont Anvert,
was opposite to us, the glacier at our side; at our feet Arveiron, white
and foaming, dashed over the pointed rocks that jutted into it, and, with
whirring spray and ceaseless roar, disturbed the stilly night. Yellow
lightnings played around the vast dome of Mont Blanc, silent as the
snow-clad rock they illuminated; all was bare, wild, and sublime, while the
singing of the pines in melodious murmurings added a gentle interest to the
rough magnificence. Now the riving and fall of icy rocks clave the air; now
the thunder of the avalanche burst on our ears. In countries whose features
are of less magnitude, nature betrays her living powers in the foliage of
the trees, in the growth of herbage, in the soft purling of meandering
streams; here, endowed with giant attributes, the torrent, the
thunder-storm, and the flow of massive waters, display her activity. Such
the church-yard, such the requiem, such the eternal congregation, that
waited on our companion's funeral!

Nor was it the human form alone which we had placed in this eternal
sepulchre, whose obsequies we now celebrated. With this last victim Plague
vanished from the earth. Death had never wanted weapons wherewith to
destroy life, and we, few and weak as we had become, were still exposed to
every other shaft with which his full quiver teemed. But pestilence was
absent from among them. For seven years it had had full sway upon earth;
she had trod every nook of our spacious globe; she had mingled with the
atmosphere, which as a cloak enwraps all our fellow-creatures--the
inhabitants of native Europe--the luxurious Asiatic--the swarthy
African and free American had been vanquished and destroyed by her. Her
barbarous tyranny came to its close here in the rocky vale of Chamounix.

Still recurring scenes of misery and pain, the fruits of this distemper,
made no more a part of our lives--the word plague no longer rung in our
ears--the aspect of plague incarnate in the human countenance no longer
appeared before our eyes. From this moment I saw plague no more. She
abdicated her throne, and despoiled herself of her imperial sceptre among
the ice rocks that surrounded us. She left solitude and silence co-heirs of
her kingdom.

My present feelings are so mingled with the past, that I cannot say whether
the knowledge of this change visited us, as we stood on this sterile spot.
It seems to me that it did; that a cloud seemed to pass from over us, that
a weight was taken from the air; that henceforth we breathed more freely,
and raised our heads with some portion of former liberty. Yet we did not
hope. We were impressed by the sentiment, that our race was run, but that
plague would not be our destroyer. The coming time was as a mighty river,
down which a charmed boat is driven, whose mortal steersman knows, that the
obvious peril is not the one he needs fear, yet that danger is nigh; and
who floats awe-struck under beetling precipices, through the dark
and turbid waters--seeing in the distance yet stranger and ruder
shapes, towards which he is irresistibly impelled. What would
become of us? O for some Delphic oracle, or Pythian maid, to utter
the secrets of futurity! O for some Oedipus to solve the riddle of
the cruel Sphynx! Such Oedipus was I to be--not divining a word's juggle,
but whose agonizing pangs, and sorrow-tainted life were to be the engines,
wherewith to lay bare the secrets of destiny, and reveal the meaning of the
enigma, whose explanation closed the history of the human race.

Dim fancies, akin to these, haunted our minds, and instilled feelings not
unallied to pleasure, as we stood beside this silent tomb of nature, reared
by these lifeless mountains, above her living veins, choking her vital
principle. "Thus are we left," said Adrian, "two melancholy blasted trees,
where once a forest waved. We are left to mourn, and pine, and die. Yet
even now we have our duties, which we must string ourselves to fulfil: the
duty of bestowing pleasure where we can, and by force of love, irradiating
with rainbow hues the tempest of grief. Nor will I repine if in this
extremity we preserve what we now possess. Something tells me, Verney, that
we need no longer dread our cruel enemy, and I cling with delight to the
oracular voice. Though strange, it will be sweet to mark the growth of your
little boy, and the development of Clara's young heart. In the midst of a
desert world, we are everything to them; and, if we live, it must be our
task to make this new mode of life happy to them. At present this is easy,
for their childish ideas do not wander into futurity, and the stinging
craving for sympathy, and all of love of which our nature is susceptible,
is not yet awake within them: we cannot guess what will happen then, when
nature asserts her indefeasible and sacred powers; but, long before that
time, we may all be cold, as he who lies in yonder tomb of ice. We need
only provide for the present, and endeavour to fill with pleasant images
the inexperienced fancy of your lovely niece. The scenes which now surround
us, vast and sublime as they are, are not such as can best contribute to
this work. Nature is here like our fortunes, grand, but too destructive,
bare, and rude, to be able to afford delight to her young imagination. Let
us descend to the sunny plains of Italy. Winter will soon be here, to
clothe this wilderness in double desolation; but we will cross the bleak
hill-tops, and lead her to scenes of fertility and beauty, where her path
will be adorned with flowers, and the cheery atmosphere inspire pleasure
and hope."

In pursuance of this plan we quitted Chamounix on the following day. We had
no cause to hasten our steps; no event was transacted beyond our actual
sphere to enchain our resolves, so we yielded to every idle whim, and
deemed our time well spent, when we could behold the passage of the hours
without dismay. We loitered along the lovely Vale of Servox; passed long
hours on the bridge, which, crossing the ravine of Arve, commands a
prospect of its pine-clothed depths, and the snowy mountains that wall it
in. We rambled through romantic Switzerland; till, fear of coming winter
leading us forward, the first days of October found us in the valley of La
Maurienne, which leads to Cenis. I cannot explain the reluctance we felt at
leaving this land of mountains; perhaps it was, that we regarded the Alps
as boundaries between our former and our future state of existence, and so
clung fondly to what of old we had loved. Perhaps, because we had now so
few impulses urging to a choice between two modes of action, we were
pleased to preserve the existence of one, and preferred the prospect of
what we were to do, to the recollection of what had been done. We felt that
for this year danger was past; and we believed that, for some months, we
were secured to each other. There was a thrilling, agonizing delight in the
thought--it filled the eyes with misty tears, it tore the heart with
tumultuous heavings; frailer than the "snow fall in the river," were we
each and all--but we strove to give life and individuality to the
meteoric course of our several existences, and to feel that no moment
escaped us unenjoyed. Thus tottering on the dizzy brink, we were happy.
Yes! as we sat beneath the toppling rocks, beside the waterfalls, near

--Forests, ancient as the hills,

And folding sunny spots of greenery, where the chamois grazed, and the
timid squirrel laid up its hoard--descanting on the charms of nature,
drinking in the while her unalienable beauties--we were, in an empty
world, happy.

Yet, O days of joy--days, when eye spoke to eye, and voices, sweeter than
the music of the swinging branches of the pines, or rivulet's gentle
murmur, answered mine--yet, O days replete with beatitude, days of loved
society--days unutterably dear to me forlorn--pass, O pass before me,
making me in your memory forget what I am. Behold, how my streaming eyes
blot this senseless paper--behold, how my features are convulsed by
agonizing throes, at your mere recollection, now that, alone, my tears
flow, my lips quiver, my cries fill the air, unseen, unmarked, unheard!
Yet, O yet, days of delight! let me dwell on your long-drawn hours!

As the cold increased upon us, we passed the Alps, and descended into
Italy. At the uprising of morn, we sat at our repast, and cheated our
regrets by gay sallies or learned disquisitions. The live-long day we
sauntered on, still keeping in view the end of our journey, but careless of
the hour of its completion. As the evening star shone out, and the orange
sunset, far in the west, marked the position of the dear land we had for
ever left, talk, thought enchaining, made the hours fly--O that we had
lived thus for ever and for ever! Of what consequence was it to our four
hearts, that they alone were the fountains of life in the wide world? As
far as mere individual sentiment was concerned, we had rather be left thus
united together, than if, each alone in a populous desert of unknown men,
we had wandered truly companionless till life's last term. In this manner,
we endeavoured to console each other; in this manner, true philosophy
taught us to reason.

It was the delight of Adrian and myself to wait on Clara, naming her the
little queen of the world, ourselves her humblest servitors. When we
arrived at a town, our first care was to select for her its most choice
abode; to make sure that no harrowing relic remained of its former
inhabitants; to seek food for her, and minister to her wants with assiduous
tenderness. Clara entered into our scheme with childish gaiety. Her chief
business was to attend on Evelyn; but it was her sport to array herself in
splendid robes, adorn herself with sunny gems, and ape a princely state.
Her religion, deep and pure, did not teach her to refuse to blunt thus the
keen sting of regret; her youthful vivacity made her enter, heart and soul,
into these strange masquerades.

We had resolved to pass the ensuing winter at Milan, which, as being a
large and luxurious city, would afford us choice of homes. We had descended
the Alps, and left far behind their vast forests and mighty crags. We
entered smiling Italy. Mingled grass and corn grew in her plains, the
unpruned vines threw their luxuriant branches around the elms. The grapes,
overripe, had fallen on the ground, or hung purple, or burnished green,
among the red and yellow leaves. The ears of standing corn winnowed to
emptiness by the spendthrift winds; the fallen foliage of the trees, the
weed-grown brooks, the dusky olive, now spotted with its blackened fruit;
the chestnuts, to which the squirrel only was harvest-man; all plenty, and
yet, alas! all poverty, painted in wondrous hues and fantastic groupings
this land of beauty. In the towns, in the voiceless towns, we visited the
churches, adorned by pictures, master-pieces of art, or galleries of
statues--while in this genial clime the animals, in new found liberty,
rambled through the gorgeous palaces, and hardly feared our forgotten
aspect. The dove-coloured oxen turned their full eyes on us, and paced
slowly by; a startling throng of silly sheep, with pattering feet, would
start up in some chamber, formerly dedicated to the repose of beauty, and
rush, huddling past us, down the marble staircase into the street, and
again in at the first open door, taking unrebuked possession of hallowed
sanctuary, or kingly council-chamber. We no longer started at these
occurrences, nor at worse exhibition of change--when the palace had
become a mere tomb, pregnant with fetid stench, strewn with the dead; and
we could perceive how pestilence and fear had played strange antics,
chasing the luxurious dame to the dank fields and bare cottage; gathering,
among carpets of Indian woof, and beds of silk, the rough peasant, or the
deformed half-human shape of the wretched beggar.

We arrived at Milan, and stationed ourselves in the Vice-Roy's palace. Here
we made laws for ourselves, dividing our day, and fixing distinct
occupations for each hour. In the morning we rode in the adjoining country,
or wandered through the palaces, in search of pictures or antiquities. In
the evening we assembled to read or to converse. There were few books that
we dared read; few, that did not cruelly deface the painting we bestowed on
our solitude, by recalling combinations and emotions never more to be
experienced by us. Metaphysical disquisition; fiction, which wandering from
all reality, lost itself in self-created errors; poets of times so far gone
by, that to read of them was as to read of Atlantis and Utopia; or such as
referred to nature only, and the workings of one particular mind; but most
of all, talk, varied and ever new, beguiled our hours.

While we paused thus in our onward career towards death, time held on its
accustomed course. Still and for ever did the earth roll on, enthroned in
her atmospheric car, speeded by the force of the invisible coursers of
never-erring necessity. And now, this dew-drop in the sky, this ball,
ponderous with mountains, lucent with waves, passing from the short tyranny
of watery Pisces and the frigid Ram, entered the radiant demesne of Taurus
and the Twins. There, fanned by vernal airs, the Spirit of Beauty sprung
from her cold repose; and, with winnowing wings and soft pacing feet, set a
girdle of verdure around the earth, sporting among the violets, hiding
within the springing foliage of the trees, tripping lightly down the
radiant streams into the sunny deep. "For lo! winter is past, the rain is
over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of
birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the fig
tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines, with the tender grape,
give a good smell."[2] Thus was it in the time of the ancient regal poet;
thus was it now.

Yet how could we miserable hail the approach of this delightful season? We
hoped indeed that death did not now as heretofore walk in its shadow; yet,
left as we were alone to each other, we looked in each other's faces with
enquiring eyes, not daring altogether to trust to our presentiments, and
endeavouring to divine which would be the hapless survivor to the other
three. We were to pass the summer at the lake of Como, and thither we
removed as soon as spring grew to her maturity, and the snow disappeared
from the hill tops. Ten miles from Como, under the steep heights of the
eastern mountains, by the margin of the lake, was a villa called the
Pliniana, from its being built on the site of a fountain, whose periodical
ebb and flow is described by the younger Pliny in his letters. The house
had nearly fallen into ruin, till in the year 2090, an English nobleman had
bought it, and fitted it up with every luxury. Two large halls, hung with
splendid tapestry, and paved with marble, opened on each side of a court,
of whose two other sides one overlooked the deep dark lake, and the other
was bounded by a mountain, from whose stony side gushed, with roar and
splash, the celebrated fountain. Above, underwood of myrtle and tufts of
odorous plants crowned the rock, while the star-pointing giant cypresses
reared themselves in the blue air, and the recesses of the hills were
adorned with the luxuriant growth of chestnut-trees. Here we fixed our
summer residence. We had a lovely skiff, in which we sailed, now stemming
the midmost waves, now coasting the over-hanging and craggy banks, thick
sown with evergreens, which dipped their shining leaves in the waters, and
were mirrored in many a little bay and creek of waters of translucent
darkness. Here orange plants bloomed, here birds poured forth melodious
hymns; and here, during spring, the cold snake emerged from the clefts, and
basked on the sunny terraces of rock.

Were we not happy in this paradisiacal retreat? If some kind spirit had
whispered forgetfulness to us, methinks we should have been happy here,
where the precipitous mountains, nearly pathless, shut from our view the
far fields of desolate earth, and with small exertion of the imagination,
we might fancy that the cities were still resonant with popular hum, and
the peasant still guided his plough through the furrow, and that we, the
world's free denizens, enjoyed a voluntary exile, and not a remediless
cutting off from our extinct species.

Not one among us enjoyed the beauty of this scenery so much as Clara.
Before we quitted Milan, a change had taken place in her habits and
manners. She lost her gaiety, she laid aside her sports, and assumed an
almost vestal plainness of attire. She shunned us, retiring with Evelyn to
some distant chamber or silent nook; nor did she enter into his pastimes
with the same zest as she was wont, but would sit and watch him with sadly
tender smiles, and eyes bright with tears, yet without a word of complaint.
She approached us timidly, avoided our caresses, nor shook off her
embarrassment till some serious discussion or lofty theme called her for
awhile out of herself. Her beauty grew as a rose, which, opening to the
summer wind, discloses leaf after leaf till the sense aches with its excess
of loveliness. A slight and variable colour tinged her cheeks, and her
motions seemed attuned by some hidden harmony of surpassing sweetness. We
redoubled our tenderness and earnest attentions. She received them with
grateful smiles, that fled swift as sunny beam from a glittering wave on an
April day.

Our only acknowledged point of sympathy with her, appeared to be Evelyn.
This dear little fellow was a comforter and delight to us beyond all words.
His buoyant spirit, and his innocent ignorance of our vast calamity, were
balm to us, whose thoughts and feelings were over-wrought and spun out in
the immensity of speculative sorrow. To cherish, to caress, to amuse him
was the common task of all. Clara, who felt towards him in some degree like
a young mother, gratefully acknowledged our kindness towards him. To me, O!
to me, who saw the clear brows and soft eyes of the beloved of my heart, my
lost and ever dear Idris, re-born in his gentle face, to me he was dear
even to pain; if I pressed him to my heart, methought I clasped a real and
living part of her, who had lain there through long years of youthful
happiness.

It was the custom of Adrian and myself to go out each day in our skiff to
forage in the adjacent country. In these expeditions we were seldom
accompanied by Clara or her little charge, but our return was an hour of
hilarity. Evelyn ransacked our stores with childish eagerness, and we
always brought some new found gift for our fair companion. Then too we made
discoveries of lovely scenes or gay palaces, whither in the evening we all
proceeded. Our sailing expeditions were most divine, and with a fair wind
or transverse course we cut the liquid waves; and, if talk failed under the
pressure of thought, I had my clarionet with me, which awoke the echoes,
and gave the change to our careful minds. Clara at such times often
returned to her former habits of free converse and gay sally; and though
our four hearts alone beat in the world, those four hearts were happy.

One day, on our return from the town of Como, with a laden boat, we
expected as usual to be met at the port by Clara and Evelyn, and we were
somewhat surprised to see the beach vacant. I, as my nature prompted, would
not prognosticate evil, but explained it away as a mere casual incident.
Not so Adrian. He was seized with sudden trembling and apprehension, and he
called to me with vehemence to steer quickly for land, and, when near,
leapt from the boat, half falling into the water; and, scrambling up the
steep bank, hastened along the narrow strip of garden, the only level space
between the lake and the mountain. I followed without delay; the garden and
inner court were empty, so was the house, whose every room we visited.
Adrian called loudly upon Clara's name, and was about to rush up the near
mountain-path, when the door of a summer-house at the end of the garden
slowly opened, and Clara appeared, not advancing towards us, but leaning
against a column of the building with blanched cheeks, in a posture of
utter despondency. Adrian sprang towards her with a cry of joy, and folded
her delightedly in his arms. She withdrew from his embrace, and, without a
word, again entered the summer-house. Her quivering lips, her despairing
heart refused to afford her voice to express our misfortune. Poor little
Evelyn had, while playing with her, been seized with sudden fever, and now
lay torpid and speechless on a little couch in the summer-house.

For a whole fortnight we unceasingly watched beside the poor child, as his
life declined under the ravages of a virulent typhus. His little form and
tiny lineaments encaged the embryo of the world-spanning mind of man. Man's
nature, brimful of passions and affections, would have had an home in that
little heart, whose swift pulsations hurried towards their close. His small
hand's fine mechanism, now flaccid and unbent, would in the growth of sinew
and muscle, have achieved works of beauty or of strength. His tender rosy
feet would have trod in firm manhood the bowers and glades of earth--
these reflections were now of little use: he lay, thought and strength
suspended, waiting unresisting the final blow.

We watched at his bedside, and when the access of fever was on him, we
neither spoke nor looked at each other, marking only his obstructed breath
and the mortal glow that tinged his sunken cheek, the heavy death that
weighed on his eyelids. It is a trite evasion to say, that words could not
express our long drawn agony; yet how can words image sensations, whose
tormenting keenness throw us back, as it were, on the deep roots and hidden
foundations of our nature, which shake our being with earth-quake-throe, so
that we leave to confide in accustomed feelings which like mother-earth
support us, and cling to some vain imagination or deceitful hope, which
will soon be buried in the ruins occasioned by the final shock. I have
called that period a fortnight, which we passed watching the changes of the
sweet child's malady--and such it might have been--at night, we
wondered to find another day gone, while each particular hour seemed
endless. Day and night were exchanged for one another uncounted; we slept
hardly at all, nor did we even quit his room, except when a pang of grief
seized us, and we retired from each other for a short period to conceal our
sobs and tears. We endeavoured in vain to abstract Clara from this
deplorable scene. She sat, hour after hour, looking at him, now softly
arranging his pillow, and, while he had power to swallow, administered his
drink. At length the moment of his death came: the blood paused in its flow
--his eyes opened, and then closed again: without convulsion or sigh, the
frail tenement was left vacant of its spiritual inhabitant.

I have heard that the sight of the dead has confirmed materialists in their
belief. I ever felt otherwise. Was that my child--that moveless decaying
inanimation? My child was enraptured by my caresses; his dear voice
cloathed with meaning articulations his thoughts, otherwise inaccessible;
his smile was a ray of the soul, and the same soul sat upon its throne in
his eyes. I turn from this mockery of what he was. Take, O earth, thy debt!
freely and for ever I consign to thee the garb thou didst afford. But thou,
sweet child, amiable and beloved boy, either thy spirit has sought a fitter
dwelling, or, shrined in my heart, thou livest while it lives.

We placed his remains under a cypress, the upright mountain being scooped
out to receive them. And then Clara said, "If you wish me to live, take me
from hence. There is something in this scene of transcendent beauty, in
these trees, and hills and waves, that for ever whisper to me, leave thy
cumbrous flesh, and make a part of us. I earnestly entreat you to take me
away."

So on the fifteenth of August we bade adieu to our villa, and the
embowering shades of this abode of beauty; to calm bay and noisy waterfall;
to Evelyn's little grave we bade farewell! and then, with heavy hearts, we
departed on our pilgrimage towards Rome.

[1] Mary Wollstonecraft's Letters from Norway.
[2] Solomon's Song.

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