crashing noise of branches, as the olive-trees
beside the road brushed against the lumbering teams; and, further off,
the cheering voices of the boatmen, whose fast barks were hurrying
along the rapid Arno;--all pleasant sounds, for they spoke of life and
movement, of active minds and labouring hands, the only bulwarks against
the corroding thoughts that eat into the sluggish soul of indolence.

For this fair scene--these fresh and balmy odours--this brilliant
blending of blue sky and rosy earth, I could unsay all that I have said
of Florence, and own, that it is beautiful! I could wish to sit here
many mornings to come, and enjoy this prospect as now I do. Vain
thought! as if I could follow my mind to the contemplation of the fair
scene, and so rove away in fancy to all that I have dreamed of, have
loved and cared for, have trusted and been deceived in!

I must be up and stirring--my time grows briefer. This hand, whose blue
veins stand out like knotted cordage, is fearfully attenuated; another
day or two, perhaps, the pen will be too much fatigue; and I have still
"Good-by," to say to many--friends?--ay, the word will serve as well as
another. I have letters to write--some to read over once again; some to
burn without reading. This kind of occupation--this "setting one's house
in order," for the last time--is like a rapid survey taken of a whole
life, a species of overture, in which fragments of every air of the
piece enter, the gay and cheerful succeeded by the sad and plaintive,
so fast as almost to blend the tones together; and is not this mingled
strain the very chord that sounds through human life?

Here, then, for my letter-box. What have we here?--a letter from the
Marquis of D------, when he believed himself high in ministerial favour,
and in a position to confer praise or censure:--

"_Carlton Club_.

"Dear Tempy,

"Your speech was admirable--first-rate; the quotation
from Horace, the neatest thing I ever heard; and
astonishing, because so palpably unpremeditated. Every one
I've met is delighted, and all say that, with courage and
the resolve to succeed, the prize is your own. I go to
Ireland, they say, or Paris. The latter if I can; the
former if I must. In either case, will you promise to come
with me? The assurance of this would be a very great relief
to

"Yours, truly,

"D------."

What have we pinned to the back of this? Oh, a f