write. Four little volumes in worn
morocco covers and faded "Italian" writing, more precious than all my
other books combined, their sight recalls that lost time--my youth--when,
as a reward, they were unlocked that I might look at the drawings, and
the sweetest voice in the world would read to me from them! Happy,
vanished days, that are so far away they seem to have been in another
existence!

The first volume opens with the voyage across the Atlantic, made in an
American clipper (a model unsurpassed the world over), which was
accomplished in thirteen days, a feat rarely equalled now, by sail.
Genial Captain Nye was in command. The same who later, when a steam
propelled vessel was offered him, refused, as unworthy of a seaman, "to
boil a kettle across the ocean."

Life friendships were made in those little cabins, under the swinging
lamp the travellers re-read last volumes so as to be prepared to
appreciate everything on landing. Ireland, England and Scotland were
visited with an enthusiasm born of Scott, the tedium of long coaching
journeys being beguiled by the first "numbers" of "Pickwick," over which
the men of the party roared, but which the ladies did not care for,
thinking it vulgar, and not to be compared to "Waverley," "Thaddeus of
Warsaw," or "The Mysteries of Udolpho."

A circular letter to our diplomatic agents abroad was presented in each
city, a rite invariably followed by an invitation to dine, for which
occasions a black satin frock with a low body and a few simple ornaments,
including (supreme elegance) a diamond cross, were carried in the trunks.
In London a travelling carriage was bought and stocked, the indispensable
courier engaged, half guide, half servant, who was expected to explore a
city, or wait at table, as occasion required. Four days were passed
between Havre and Paris, and the slow progress across Europe was
accomplished, Murray in one hand and Byron in the other.

One page used particularly to attract my boyish attention. It was headed
by a naive little drawing of the carriage at an Italian inn door, and
described how, after the dangers and discomforts of an Alpine pass, they
descended by sunny slopes into Lombardy. Oh! the rapture that breathes
from those simple pages! The vintage scenes, the mid-day halt for
luncheon eaten in the open air, the afternoon start, the front seat of
the carriage heaped with purple grapes, used to fire my youthful
imagination and now recalls Ma