--I see Sir Howard yonder, near the lake.
Now for my project!

CHAPTER VII. _La Spezzia_

Another month, or nearly so, has elapsed since last I opened this book;
and now, as I look back, I feel like a convict who has slept soundly
during the night before his doom, and passed in forgetful-ness the hours
he had vowed to thought and reflection. I was reading Victor Hugo's
"Dernier Jour d'un Condamne" last evening, and falling asleep with it in
my hand, traced out in my dreams a strange analogy between my own fate
and that of the convicted felon. The seductions and attractions of life
crowding faster and faster round one as we near the gate of death--the
redoubled anxieties of friends, their kinder sympathies--how delightful
would these be if they did not suggest the wish to live! But, alas!
the sunbeam lights not only the road before us, but that we have been
travelling also, and one is so often tempted to look back and linger! To
understand this love of life, one must stand as I do now; and yet, who
would deem that one so lonely and so desolate, so friendless and alone,
would care to live? It is so, however: sorrow attaches us more strongly
than joy; and the world becomes dearer to us in affliction as violets
give out their sweetest odours when pressed.

Let me recall something of the last few weeks, and remember, if I can,
why and how I am here alone. My last written sentence was dated "Como,
the 29th October," and then comes a blank--now to fill it up.

Sir Gordon Howard was standing near the lake as I came up with him, nor
was he aware of my approach till I had my hand on his arm. Whether that
I had disturbed him in a moment of deep thought, or that something in my
own sad and sickly face impressed him, I know not, but he did not speak,
and merely drawing my arm within his own, we wandered along the waters
edge. We sauntered slowly on till we came to a little moss-house, with
stone benches, where, still in silence, we sat down. It belonged to the
Villa d'Este, and was one of those many little ornamental buildings that
were erected by that most unhappy Princess, whose broken heart would
seem inscribed on every tree and rock around.

To me the aspect of the spot, lovely as it is, has ever been associated
with deep gloom. I never could tread the walks, nor sit to gaze upon the
lake from chosen points of view, without my memory full of her who, in
her exile, pined and suffered there. I know nothing of her history