ng's genius. He also held
him in strong personal regard.

In the summer of 1869 the poet, with his sister and son, changed the
manner of his holiday, by joining Mr. Story and his family in a tour in
Scotland, and a visit to Louisa, Lady Ashburton, at Loch Luichart Lodge;
but in the August of 1870 he was again in the primitive atmosphere of a
French fishing village, though one which had little to recommend it but
the society of a friend; it was M. Milsand's St.-Aubin. He had written,
February 24, to Miss Blagden, under the one inspiration which naturally
recurred in his correspondence with her.

'. . . So you, too, think of Naples for an eventual resting-place! Yes,
that is the proper basking-ground for "bright and aged snakes." Florence
would be irritating, and, on the whole, insufferable--Yet I never hear
of any one going thither but my heart is twitched. There is a good,
charming, little singing German lady, Miss Regan, who told me the other
day that she was just about revisiting her aunt, Madame Sabatier, whom
you may know, or know of--and I felt as if I should immensely like to
glide, for a long summer-day through the streets and between the old
stone-walls,--unseen come and unheard go--perhaps by some miracle, I
shall do so--and look up at Villa Brichieri as Arnold's Gypsy-Scholar
gave one wistful look at "the line of festal light in Christ Church
Hall," before he went to sleep in some forgotten grange. . . . I am so
glad I can be comfortable in your comfort. I fancy exactly how you feel
and see how you live: it _is_ the Villa Geddes of old days, I find. I well
remember the fine view from the upper room--that looking down the steep
hill, by the side of which runs the road you describe--that path was
always my preferred walk, for its shortness (abruptness) and the fine
old wall to your left (from the Villa) which is overgrown with weeds and
wild flowers--violets and ground-ivy, I remember. Oh, me! to find
myself some late sunshiny Sunday afternoon, with my face turned to
Florence--"ten minutes to the gate, ten minutes _home_!" I think I should
fairly end it all on the spot. . . .'

He writes again from St.-Aubin, August 19, 1870:

'Dearest Isa,--Your letter came prosperously to this little wild place,
where we have been, Sarianna and myself, just a week. Milsand lives in a
cottage with a nice bit of garden, two steps off, and we occupy another
of the most primitive kind on the sea-shore--which shore is a go