he hand is worth two in the bush." Whereupon he carried
the book down stairs and deposited it in the carriage, deaf to our
entreaties, and obstinately refusing assistance. "Now I am sure that you
will have the album," he continued, after we were all seated in the
carriage. "A will is an uncanny thing, and I'd rather remember my
friends out of one than in one. I shall never see you again, and I want
you to think of the foolish old creature occasionally."

The carriage stopped at our door, and "the good by" came. "May God bless
you!" murmured the lonely old man, and in a moment Walter Savage Landor
was out of sight.

He was right. We were never to meet again. Distance did not entirely
sever the friendly link, however, for soon there came to me, across the
sea, the following letters:--

August 28, 1861.

"By this time, my dear friend, you will be far on your way over
the Atlantic, and before you receive the scribble now before
you, half your friends will have offered you their
congratulations on your return home.

"People, I hear, are flocking fast into Florence for the
exhibition. This evening I received another kind note from the
Countess, who tells me that she shall return to Florence on
Saturday, and invites me to accompany her there. But I abhor
all crowds, and am not fascinated by the eye of kings. I never
saw him of Italy when he was here before, and shall not now.

"I am about to remove my terrace, and to place it under the
window of the small bedroom, substituting a glass door for the
present window. On this terrace I shall spend all my October
days, and--and--all my money! The landlord will not allow one
shilling toward the expense, which will make his lower rooms
lighter and healthier. To him the advantage will be
permanent,--to me (God knows) it must be very temporary. In
another summer I shall not sit so high, nor, indeed, _sit_
anywhere, but take instead the easiest and laziest of all
positions.

"I am continuing to read the noble romances of my friend James.
I find in them thoughts as profound as any in Charron, or
Montaigne, or Bacon,--I had almost added, or Shakespeare
himself,--the wisest of men, as the greatest of poets. On the
morning after your departure I finished the 'Philip Augustus.'
In the thirty-eighth chapter is this se