unbreakfasted stomach, we relinquish them presently,
for the beauties of the park.... By the time we think of retracing our
steps, the clock of Monte Citorio has struck ten; but the morning is
still delightfully cool and exhilarating; we have been overtaken and
passed by three pedestrians, each carrying away from the grounds
something more than mere recollections; one, a _semplicista_ of the
Rotunda, with a collection of Galenicals for his shop; another with a
pocket full of _Arum_ roots, which he has been grubbing up for his
wife, a _lavatrice_, to clear linen; and a third, whose handkerchief
contains several pounds weight of _prugnoli_--_Agaricus
prunulus_--destined for his breakfast. These do not long keep pace
with our lingering footsteps; we are loth to quit hastily, and for
the last time, this scene of by-gone pleasures. Oh! Villa Borghese,
well known to us from curly-pated boyhood, before Waterloo was won,
and often at intervals since, till now, when half our hair has become
gray, and the remainder has left our temples, while grown-up nephews
and nieces declare to us, what our contemporaries will not--the
progress of time--how many happy hours of careless childhood have we
frolicked away among thine avenues and plantations--on which we cast a
last sad look--with urchins now as bald as ourselves! In early youth
we have read our favourite authors under thy trees; a little later,
have botanised with friends who loved thee and nature as dearly as we
did; and thus have we learned to know thee, in every dress, in every
phase of light and shade, and in every month of the year. During our
last sojourn, in particular, this has been our favourite haunt; in
winter, when walking required speed, and stalactites of ice would
glisten occasionally from the aqueduct; or when summer returned, and
we could bask under the tall spread pines, and watch the cawing rooks
as they went and came over head, or screened ourselves in some dark
avenue from the fervency of the sun, from whence we could see him
blazing at both ends of it. A long and endearing familiarity has
indeed been ours, melancholy and unsating; and it has given rise to a
host of trying associations, conjured up by each new visit after a
brief absence from Rome, and now adds poignancy of regret to what we
feel _must_ be the last,--

"While at each step, against our will
Does memory, with pernicious skill,
Our captive thoughts enchain,
Recalls each joy that