and, as the stems were mostly hidden, the mass of bloom seemed almost floating like clouds above the earth. At a distance, the mountains appeared, towards their bases, to be covered with snow; but, as we came nearer, it proved to be a wavering, windstirred region of almond-blossom. I never saw such colors in nature before. In real beauty, the blending of an English woodland scene is far beyond it. It was the strangeness which made the impression. There was something of a fairy-land bewilderment about it.

The rocky mountain cove is fine, and the doublearched cavern with the fountain of the Sorgue. This translucent river breaks from the earth, at once a copious brook. There is neither jet nor bubble, not a foam-bell on the surface of the basin to tell of subterranean conflicts, not even a faint pleased gurgle to greet the realms of upper air, and soothe the mountain solitude. When we were there, the basin was so full that the river broke over the rocks in a copious and sparkling waterfall, and yet the basin itself kept its unrippled stillness. Petrarch says, "Seneca observes that the sources of great rivers inspire us with a kind of veneration, and that where a river bursts out at once, altars should be erected; and it is my firm resolution to dedicate one to the fountain of Vaucluse. This altar shall be raised in the garden which hangs over the fountain. It shall not, however, be dedicated, like those of Seneca, to the gods of the rivers, or the nymphs

of the fountains, but to the Virgin Mother of that God Who has destroyed the altars and demolished the temples of all other gods." The poet's house was on the stream, a few hundred yards below the cove. It is a small and not very picturesque building. He thus describes his manner of life in this retirement. "Here I make war upon my senses, and treat them as my enemies. My eyes, which have drawn me into a thousand difficulties, see no longer either gold or precious stones, or ivory, or purple ; they behold nothing, save the firmament, the water, and the rocks. The only female, who comes within their sight, is a swarthy old woman, dry and parched as the Libyan deserts. My ears are no longer courted by those harmonies of instruments or voices which have often transported my soul. They hear nothing but the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the warbling of birds, and the murmurs of the stream. I keep silence from morn to night. There is no one to converse with; for people constantly employed, either in spreading their nets, or taking care of their vines and orchards, have no knowledge of the intercourses of the world, or the conversations of society. I often content myself with the brown bread of my old fisherman, and even eat it with pleasure.

"This old fisherman, who is as hard as iron, earnestly remonstrates against my manner of life, says it is too hardy, and assures me I cannot long hold out. I am, on the contrary, convinced that it

is more easy to accustom one's self to a plain diet, than to the luxuries of a feast. Figs, raisins, nuts, and almonds, these are my delicacies. I am fond of the fish with which this river abounds. It is an entertainment to see them caught, and I sometimes employ myself in spreading the nets. As to my dress, here is an entire change. You would take me for a laborer or a shepherd. My mansion resembles that of Cato or Fabricius. My whole houshold consists of a dog, and my old fisherman. His cottage is contiguous to mine. When I want him I call. When I no longer stand in need of him he returns to his cottage. I have made myself two gardens which please me marvellously. I do not think they are to be equalled in all the world. And must I confess to you a more than female weakness, with which I am haunted? I am positively angry that there is anything so beautiful out of Italy. They are my Transalpine Parnassus.

"One of these gardens is shady, formed for contemplation, and sacred to Apollo. It hangs over the source of the river, and is terminated by rocks, or places accessible only to birds. The other is nearer my cottage, of an aspect less severe, and devoted to Bacchus; and, what is extremely singular, it is in the middle of a rapid river. The approach to it is over a ridge of rocks which communicates with the garden; and there is a natural grotto under the rock, which gives it the appearance of a rustic bridge. Into this grotto the rays of the sun

never penetrate.

I am confident it much resembles the place where Cicero sometimes went to declaim. It invites to study. Hither I retreat during the noontide hours. My mornings are engaged upon the hills, and my evenings either in the meadows, or in the garden sacred to Apollo. It is small, but most happily suited to rouse the most sluggish spirit and elevate it to the skies. Here would I most willingly pass my days, was I not too near Avignon, and too far from Italy. For why should I conceal this weakness of my soul? I love Italy, and I hate Avignon. The pestilential influence of this horrid place empoisons the pure air of Vaucluse, and will compel me to quit my retirement.

"Oft in the midst of summer, when I had ended my midnight prayers, and the moon shone brightly, have I been irresistibly impelled to wander over the fields, or to ascend the hills. Oft, at this silent hour, have I walked alone into the cavern, where no one, even in the day, and in company, can enter without emotion. I feel a kind of pleasure in doing this; but it is a pleasure mixed with dread."

Interesting as this relation is, one cannot help reflecting with what a singular irregularity history is directed or permitted to touch here and there with her illuminating finger the secret corners of the earth. How many a monk there must have been, some perhaps of genius as vast and extraordinary as that of Petrarch, who have sought cloistral retirement amid some frowning solitude. They may have

been out in the starlight, or among the storms and fogs of the hills, or the evening stillness of the umbrageous forest. From their capacious and meditative intellect may have emanated some of the marvellous adornments of old Gothic edifices, some Latin hymn now catholic, some old austere chaunt of surpassing beauty, or some arrangement in the liturgy of Western Christendom, the births of a great mind, which, when their father, out of selfdenial and through fear of fame, claimed them not, the Church took up and dignified by her adoption. Yet how rarely are even the moon-light beams of history shining softly on those unknown homes. And Petrarch has immortalized Vaucluse, though he retired there but to divert himself, or perhaps to feed, in ostentatious self-renouncement, a sterile passion, unhallowed in its first epoch, unreal in its second. There is a justice in this, a contemptuous justice. What belongs to the world is by history rendered back to the world, to be made much of there. For it has no abiding-place elsewhere, no reward behind a veil. It overpasses not the dark limits of things visible. Is this cynicism? If it be, impute it to our invisible attendant from the Middle Ages.

The loves of Petrarch and Laura are among love's common-places all the world over. Reader! Have you ever felt uneasy and perplexed at having to say cold words on tender or passionate subjects? Do you know the trouble of self-distrust which