pocket-book, without making me the slightest acknowledgment for the same : "En les croquant, Seigneur, vous leur fites trop d'honneur !"* What could be more interesting to a classical scholar, to a votary of the Eneid, than that walk with poor Constable round the northern ridge of the Lake of Albano, to the spot which the most trustworthy antiquaries assign as the real position of Alba Longa! How we studied every bit of Roman foundation, and puzzled over every locality, until I had firmly persuaded myself that this had been the city of Ascanius, and had given a "local habitation and a name" to every crumbling wall or toppling ridge! How delightful was that more shady stroll with my pretty Agnes down through the nut copse to the edge of the water, and then circling round it, on and on to the north! Shall I ever see anything more lovely than the little Lake of Nemi and its moonlit shore, towers and woods as I was benighted amongst them with my dear Lucy and Bruno that afternoon when we approached its northern end, and circled it all * Pianta des Contorni di Roma, ridotta e corretta da quella dello stato maggiore Francese, da J. R. Digby Beste, Esq. 1858. round, returning by Genzano and reaching home very late in the evening? But what a beautiful night it was! And that grandest of all grand views to one who can bring the past before him and animate historic and poetic scenes-that noble prospect which spread out before my bright and hapless Whittingham and me after we had toiled for three hours up to Rocca di Papa, and had at length gained the grand summit of Monte Cavo, the highest of all the mountains about Rome-that mountain from which Juno had looked down upon the last fatal field of Turnus! How exciting was that walk! How merry and proud we two were, as we rushed downwards through the pathless copse, and descended, in three quarters of an hour, that which it had taken us three hours to ascend! It is pleasant but most saddening to think of these walks-each made with such of my children as I have named with each. To those who have read the Wabash, they are already known; to those who may peruse this volume, my sadness as well as my love will be explained and justified. "They are gone. "They are gone. They all are gone. They, too, are gone." This seems to me to be the place in which I may relieve the memory of some of my children from a silly imputation and make a confidential communication to the reader. In my novel entitled, Modern Society in Rome, the historical events connected with the siege of that city in 1848, are strung together by an imaginary romance that was intended to interest readers who would not care for a dry narrative of mere facts. I was accused, by friendly and unfriendly critics, of having introduced the personal experiences of my own family and of other members of society. To disprove the first charge and to show how perfectly I disguised any hints that I have drawn from social anecdotes, I need only mention that the crowning event of that romance, the elopement and marriage at Gretna Green, referred to no daughter of mine, but to Caroline Ferrars, now Princess Cesarini, whose fine old feudal chateau towered darkly above this Lake of Nemi, as we saw it on that lovely night I have mentioned. All that elopement had been planned and facilitated by my good old friend Mr. Collier. I had no acquaintance with any of the Cesarini; I am not aware that I ever saw any of them; for they lived perfectly retired and as I never knew heroine of a run-away match, who did not, in after-life, glory in the deed of her youth, and the then evident power of her charms, I felt no scruple in founding my novel on this incident in the life of the fair English girl and of her Roman lover. "How absurd! how unnatural!" exclaimed the critics, "to have made a Roman runaway and be married at Gretna Green !" And the fumes puffed out by Roman political turncoats, as their own little vanities smarted under my true historical recitals, prevented them seeing or remembering this strange event that had happened in the early life of one of themselves. But the bridge of Ariccia which we passed over in the course of so many walks, what a magnificent viaduct it is! On tiers above tiers of arches, rises the road to the level of the hills on the Albano and the Ariccian side. It is a far grander work than the Pont du Gard, the great monument of the ancient Romans, or than any modern railroad viaduct that I am acquainted with. The town of Ariccia itself is, I should think, in much the same state as it was nearly two thousand years ago, when Horace complained of its hostelry. There was a fountain at the end of the bridge, and I used to be amused by seeing two or three pigs stand beside it and being scrubbed by an old woman to whom they belonged. Who shall say that pigs are, by nature, dirty animals; although I did hear a French little girl once say :-"Oui, mamam; les cochons sont bien sales; et c'est pour celà, n'est-ce pas, qu'on les appelle cochons?" And who shall say that the poor people of this country would be dirty if any one would please to teach them to be otherwise? There was a pretty little girl who always came up laughing and begging as we passed over the bridge of Ariccia. One day I refused to give her anything and said flatly: 'No; tu sei troppo sporca. Va lavarti il viso!" She dashed away; popped her head under the fountain dear to the pigs; and danced back again to us with her face and hair dripping water, while she declared that now they were quite clean. We had driven over to this intersting neighbourhood and had taken possession of our magnificent apartment on June 30th. The bedroom of my son, Constable, the eldest of those then with us, was next to the one occupied by my wife and me, and overlooking the Campagna. Our daughters and children occupied the other end of the same floor. The sitting rooms were between these two sets of bedrooms. They were very spacious. The drawing-room was about sixty feet long, wide and |