"Not oppressed by mountain shadows, not by grandeur overborne,

Stood our dwelling, but where opened southward an Arcadian vale; Distant mountains bathed in beauty, ever changing night and morn, Pastoral foreground, azure distance, and the far sea gleaming pale.

"It was then the early spring-time, when the scented violets blow, When all flowers in wood and meadow have a pathos of their own; When the wild March winds are over and the April breeze is low, And the wooing birds are building, and the turtle makes her moan.

"Ever tender is the spring-time, tender-scented, tender-hued,

Full of beauty, fleeting, fragile, tender yearnings undefined, But no spring-time ever equalled that first spring at Tan-y-Rhyd, When I sate like him of old time, clothed and in my rightful mind.

"But all after spring-times borrowed from that first its healing balm, As my after-life its aspect from the angel of the place,

Who by patient love o'ercame me, whose sweet calmness made me calm, Effluence of that heavenly beauty called pre-eminently grace.

"Long was she a marvel to me, lowly-hearted, pure and mild,
Strong in sympathy and pity as the angels are above;
Equal to a sage in wisdom, guileless as a little child;

One to learn from and to reverence, one to lean on and to love.

Thus my life grew lovelier daily in the peace that breathed around;
And an influence soft and silent as the sunshine or the dew,

Of diviner knowledge entered, holy seed in willing ground,—
And my narrow sphere of duties, lovelier, larger, richer grew.

"Following in her footsteps 'ever, as she followed Christ her Lord,
By degrees I learned how only life in fulness is enjoyed,
When each faculty and feeling, thought and deed with Him accord,
Unto Him are consecrated, in His service are employed.

66

We had many friends who loved us, rich and poor, and day by day Brought its round of varied pleasures, but the chiefest was received With the letters duly coming, faithful letters from Cathay, Written by her loving William, by her son, as I believed.

"He was gone on merchant-business, business of great trust and worth ;
Years might pass ere his returning, but he never failed to write,
And his lively letters linked us to the far ends of the earth,
And presented wondrous pictures of the people to our sight.

"But far more than graphic pictures, than the skill which shows no less All the knowledge of the scholar, of the accomplished gentleman, Was the quiet depth of feeling, almost womanly tenderness,

Which like gold in quartz formations through his sterner nature ran.

"Oh, my Alice, as the roses open to the morning dew,
Opens even the purest bosom to the influence of love,
And those letters spoke a language which my better nature knew,
Wakened tender hopes and feelings against which I vainly strove.

Sighed I, 'Had my father only given me to a man like this!'— Then I turned me to my duties, cheered the old or taught the Visited the sick and needy, aught these fancies to dismiss,

Or absorbed myself in study of the difficult Welsh tongue.

young,

"But these truant fancies lingered, and I said to her one day,
'Tell me of the past, my mother,'-for I ever called her so;
'Tell me of your son, my brother-of my brother, William May—
Of his youth and of his manhood, oh, my mother, let me know!'

"Said she, with a smile, half sadness, 'What you ask for you shall hear,He is not my son-my nephew; more than nephew, more than son! William's mother was my sister, we were sisters tried and dear,

Both upon the same day married to two brothers,-happier none !

"On the same day both were mothers, mothers both of lovely sons;— Death came next;-my son was taken, then the other infant's mother; Sweet exchange! she took my William with her to heaven's starry zones, I took hers, and in my bosom laid him where had lain the other!

"Thus he was my son, ay, doubly, by the sorrow of new lossFor 'twas war-time, and his father was in naval battle slain;

—And still deeper to inure us to submission to the Cross,

God called hence my worthy husband whilst yet new the former pain.

"But the hand that smiteth ever is more ready still to heal,

And our lives, though stripped and darkened, gathered peace and even joy In the sense of sweet dependence we were daily made to feel On the Father of all mercies, slow to wound or to destroy.

"Happy was my William's boyhood-nature's law is happy youth-
Handsomest lad of all the scholars at the school in Shrewsbury town,
He stood high amongst his fellows for his probity and truth,
By his steady perseverance bearing every rival down.

"We had friends, they said the army was for him the fitting sphere, But I reasoned, war is evil, Christ hath said that war shall ceaseLove the law for man and nations; knowing this we do not fear

To be called enthusiast-dreamers, soldiers of the Prince of Peace!

"Idle words! My friends were angry, argued with me, then withdrew,— He who principle upholdeth must be willing to offend—

Yet, perhaps, my faith had failed me in that trial sharp and new,
Had not then appeared your father as our advocate and friend.

"He, a powerful wealthy merchant, bore down every adverse plea, War belongs to barbarous ages, ignorance and savage harm; Commerce knits up all the nations, spans with golden cords the sea--Commerce needs a higher talent than the brutal strength of arm!

"Thus your father closed the contest, and my William took the pen, Serving him with scrupulous honour; seeking then to introduce Nobler principles of commerce; making trade 'twixt men and men As a bond of love fraternal, as a means of Christian use.'

"Thus she told me. Oh, my Alice, God is wondrous in His love! William Woodvill from that morning was the angel of my life; And returning from his mission, guided by a Power above,

Ere the time at first appointed, I became his happy wife."

Thus the aged, widowed lady. And then resting in her chair,
Cleared again her inner senses, and she seemed to hear and see,
As upon her wedding morning, bridegroom William standing there,
Speaking words which then he uttered, "Love, I only wait for thee!"

SOME DINNERS IN ROME.

THAT I may disappoint no expectations, I will frankly state at once, that notwithstanding the title at the head of this page, we shall, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, very often not dine at all-never, certainly, at the customary places of Anglo-Saxon resort. The "Hotel Angleterre" is an excellent establishment, with an unexceptionable table d'hôte; so likewise are the "Isles Brittanique," "The Minerva," and one or two others. Their society too, may, like Cæsar's wife, be above suspicion; still, I seldom dine at these places, notwithstanding that one of them (that near the Piazza del Popolo) is distinguished as being the especial resort of the English nobility, who (I should inform those who may on this account intend going there) never appear at the table d'hôte, but take their meals in their own private apartments. Perhaps it is this that induces many to prefer the rival establishment near the Piazza di Spagna, where a titled member of our aristocracy may be daily seen sitting and dining with the guests. It is currently reported in Rome, that he is under an engagement to the master of the hotel to attend daily to give a tone to the society, and in consideration of his so doing, he is allowed free rations; but Rome is such a slanderous place that I had rather not vouch for the truth of the statement. Notwithstanding the advantages offered by these establishments, I would again state that I do not purpose often dining at them. I see little advantage in going a thousand miles to make the acquaintance of my own country people; and space in the "ST. JAMES's" is too precious to waste on what is scarcely worth telling. In preference, I shall get my dinners in all the odd and out-ofthe-way places where my avocations as a painter may chance for the moment to lead me- sometimes in the prisons, sometimes in the streets, occasionally in the far-off Campagnia, and in pestilential swamps of the Maremma, where it is necessary to eat frequently, as the danger from the miasma is much greater while fasting than at other times; therefore what I have with perhaps some exuberance of phrase termed "dinners," will often prove nothing more than an occasional reference to the contents of my canteen, made under very inconvenient circumstances, and in not the most select or reputable companionship. Sometimes, though but seldom, I am fortunate enough to get an invitation to a Palazzo, or even to the Vatican, but not to the gorgeous apartments on the principal floor, where the noble guard may be seen assembled in the ante-room-not to eat of the meal of that trembling miserable old man, who looks hesitatingly at every dish, and often will not partake of the simplest food till he has seen half of it eaten before him. He may lift his three fingers to a kneeling city, with the ever repeated "Urbi et orbi" (to the city, to the world): is there no benediction that will exorcise that phantom, causeless fear? is there no blessing that will extend to his own meal? He is struck senseless in the basilica, and carried by lacqueys

to his apartments-the oft-repeated rote has so impressed itself on his brain, that, in his fatuity, thinking he is addressing the populace, he lifts the three fingers and drones forth " Urbi et orbi." Cannot he participate in his own benediction? Cannot he partake of the gifts of that beneficent Providence he assumes to represent, without peeping to see if Death is in that pottage? No, I will not dine with him, though the three fingers and the droning voice be raised for my especial behoof.

"Urbi et orbi." Is there no spot between the city and the wide world beyond, on which that benediction may alight? Cannot it rest on that pestilential marsh in the angle between the Tiber and the sea, where the atmosphere is so deadly that delinquent priests, and others, whom it may be convenient to remove without the scandal of a public execution, are sent to the death that a few months will certainly bring? Not that angle on the Southern side of the river where lies Ostia,—that is bad enough, Heaven knows; still, life may under some favourable conditions be sustained there-but that empty angle on the Northern bank lying to the left of the road to Civita Vecchia, and where you may see the chained and dying convicts crawling to their daily work--one or two of them perhaps to drop on the road, and never to return-and the pale spectre of a man in the priestly garb, ostensibly there in discharge of spiritual functions to the chained convicts, but in fact their companion and fellow-prisoner. He, poor wretch, had no vocation for his office; he took upon himself VOWS that he was unable to fulfil, and circumstances being against him, probably, also, an influential family, he has been thus doomed. Cannot the benediction rest on this deadly marsh? Yes. The strange unearthly visage the trembling limb, the shrunken form-mark its presence, for the first six months; then the burning fever, the swollen protruding tongue, the joints racked by neuralgia, and afterwards the paralyzed limb, the seared brain, and "Urbi et orbi," not from those three fingers, but that thrice-blessed benediction that Heaven sends on all alike.

This part of the Maremma is marked by characteristics peculiar to itself. On the Eastern side rises a long range of upland country, the sides of which are covered with verdure of a luxuriance amounting to wildness. On the other side, to an extent almost as far as the eye can reach, stretch out long flats of land as level as the surface of a lake—with scarcely a sign of human habitation or a tree to break the sullen uniformity of the landscape. In the extreme distance, the intensely blue sea, studded with glittering fairy-like islands, seems to sleep as still and quiet as the blue sky above. Perhaps the most striking characteristic of the place, especially to a pedestrian traveller, is its silent, death-like stillness. You may pass for days through the country, and hear not a sound or see a human being, unless you chance to light upon a gang of chained convicts, employed in mending the single road that traverses the district. The effect of this strange stillness is yet further enhanced by the almost utter absence of towns, villages, or human habitations;