air seems to rest one
here," she writes; and inspired by the romantic loveliness of the place,
she even composed the first few chapters of a novel, begun with a good
deal of dash and vigor, but soon abandoned, for she was still struggling
with depression and gloom.

"I have neither ability, energy, nor purpose," she writes. "It is
impossible to do anything, so I am forced to set it aside for the
present; whether to take it up again or not in the future remains to be
seen."

In the autumn she goes on the Continent, visiting the Hague, which
"completely fascinates" her, and where she feels "stronger and more
cheerful" than she has "for many a day." Then Paris, which this time
amazes her "with its splendor and magnificence. All the ghosts of the
Revolution are somehow laid," she writes, and she spends six weeks
here enjoying to the full the gorgeous autumn weather, the sights, the
picture galleries, the bookshops, the whole brilliant panorama of the
life; and early in December she starts for Italy.

And now once more we come upon that keen zest of enjoyment, that
pure desire and delight of the eyes, which are the prerogative of the
poet,--Emma Lazarus was a poet. The beauty of the world,--what a rapture
and intoxication it is, and how it bursts upon her in the very land of
beauty, "where Dante and Petrarch trod!" A magic glow colours it all; no
mere blues and greens anymore, but a splendor of purple and scarlet
and emerald; "each tower, castle, and village shining like a jewel; the
olive, the fig, and at your feet the roses, growing in mid-December."
A day in Pisa seems like a week, so crowded is it with sensations and
unforgettable pictures. Then a month in Florence, which is still more
entrancing with its inexhaustible treasures of beauty and art; and
finally Rome, the climax of it all,--

"wiping out all other places and impressions, and opening
a whole new world of sensations. I am wild with the
excitement of this tremendous place. I have been here a
week, and have seen the Vatican and the Capitoline Museums,
and the Sistine Chapel, and St. Peter's, besides the ruins
on the streets and on the hills, and the graves of Shelley
and Keats.

"It is all heart-breaking. I don't only mean those beautiful
graves, overgrown with acanthus and violets, but the mutilated
arches and columns and dumb appealing fragments looming up in
the glowing sunshine under the Roman blue sky