.

* * * * *

XII. MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY, 1837.

295. *_Introductory Remarks_.

During my whole life I had felt a strong desire to visit Rome and the
other celebrated cities and regions of Italy, but did not think myself
justified in incurring the necessary expense till I received from Mr.
Moxon, the publisher of a large edition of my poems, a sum sufficient to
enable me to gratify my wish without encroaching upon what I considered
due to my family. My excellent friend H.C. Robinson readily consented to
accompany me, and in March 1837 we set off from London, to which we
returned in August--earlier than my companion wished, or I should myself
have desired, had I been, like him, a bachelor. These Memorials of that
Tour touch upon but a very few of the places and objects that interested
me; and in what they do advert to are for the most part much slighter
than I could wish. More particularly do I regret that there is no notice
in them of the south of France, nor of the Roman antiquities abounding
in that district; especially of the Pont de Degard, which, together with
its situation, impressed me full as much as any remains of Roman
architecture to be found in Italy. Then there was Vaucluse, with its
fountain, its Petrarch, its rocks [query--roses?] of all seasons, its
small plots of lawn in their first vernal freshness, and the blossoms of
the peach and other trees embellishing the scene on every side. The
beauty of the stream also called forcibly for the expression of sympathy
from one who from his childhood had studied the brooks and torrents of
his native mountains. Between two and three hours did I run about,
climbing the steep and rugged craggs, from whose base the water of
Vaucluse breaks forth. 'Has Laura's lover,' often said I to myself,
'ever sat down upon this stone? Or has his foot ever pressed that turf?'
Some, especially of the female sex, could have felt sure of it; my
answer was (impute it to my years), 'I fear, not.' Is it not in fact
obvious that many of his love-verses must have flowed, I do not say from
a wish to display his own talent, but from a habit of exercising his
intellect in that way, rather than from an impulse of his heart? It is
otherwise with his Lyrical Poems, and particularly with the one upon the
degradation of his country. There he pours out his reproaches,
lamentations, and aspirations like an ardent and sincere patriot. But
enough; it i