der, extending from earth to heaven, Milord perceived Sir Francis,
who, having just effected the same ascent from the other side of the
colossus, was quietly reading the "Times" and breakfasting upon a chop
and a bottle of porter!

The two friends coolly saluted each other, as they had before done on
the side of Chimborazo; then, with death in his heart, but impassive and
grave, Lord K. silently drew forth a box of conserves, a flask of ale
and a copy of the "Standard." The repast and the two journals being
finished, the tourists separated and descended, each on his own side,
without having exchanged a word.

Lord K. has never forgiven Sir Francis; they accuse each other of
plagiarism, a mortal hatred has sprung up between them, and thus
Tschamalouri finished what politics began.

I had this story from Lord K. himself, who drags out a disenchanted and
gloomy existence, which would put an end to itself had he not in present
contemplation a journey to the moon; still he is half convinced that he
would find Sir Francis there.

Entertain your mother with this story, it would be improved by your
narration.

You must agree with me that if the English grow four thousand fathoms
above the sea, the plant must necessarily thrive on the plains and the
low countries. It is acclimated everywhere, like the strawberry, without
possessing its sweet savor.

Italy is, I believe, the land where it best flourishes. There I have
traversed fields of English, sown everywhere, mixed with a few Italians.

But I would have been happy if I had encountered only Englishmen along
my route. Some poet has said that England is a swan's nest in the midst
of the waves. Alas! how few are the swans that come to us at long
intervals, compared with the old ostriches in bristling plumage, and the
young storks with their long, thin necks that flock to us.

When in Rome only a few hours, and wandering through the Campo Vaccino,
I found among the ruins one I did not seek. It was Lady Penock. I had
met her so often that I could not fail to know her name. Edgar, you know
Lady Penock; it is impossible that you should not. But if not, it is
easy for you to picture her to yourself. Take a keepsake, pick out one
of those faces more beautiful than the fairies of our dreams, so lovely
that it might be doubted whether the painter found his model among the
daughters of earth. Passionate lover of form, feast your eye upon the
graceful curve of that neck, those sho