erers seek!
Grant me the joy of wind and brine,
The zest of food, the taste of wine,
The fighter's strength, the echoing strife
The high tumultuous lists of life--
May I ne'er lag, nor hapless fall,
Nor weary at the battle-call!...
But when the even brings surcease,
Grant me the happy moorland peace;
That in my heart's depth ever lie
That ancient land of heath and sky,
Where the old rhymes and stories fall
In kindly, soothing pastoral.
There in the hills grave silence lies,
And Death himself wears friendly guise
There be my lot, my twilight stage,
Dear city of my pilgrimage.

I

THE COMPANY OF THE MARJOLAINE

"Qu'est-c'qui passe ici si tard,
Compagnons de la Marjolaine,"
--CHANSONS DE FRANCE

...I came down from the mountain and into the pleasing valley of the
Adige in as pelting a heat as ever mortal suffered under. The way
underfoot was parched and white; I had newly come out of a wilderness
of white limestone crags, and a sun of Italy blazed blindingly in an
azure Italian sky. You are to suppose, my dear aunt, that I had had
enough and something more of my craze for foot-marching. A fortnight
ago I had gone to Belluno in a post-chaise, dismissed my fellow to
carry my baggage by way of Verona, and with no more than a valise on
my back plunged into the fastnesses of those mountains. I had a fancy
to see the little sculptured hills which made backgrounds for
Gianbellini, and there were rumours of great mountains built wholly of
marble which shone like the battlements.

...1 This extract from the unpublished papers of the Manorwater family
has seemed to the Editor worth printing for its historical interest.
The famous Lady Molly Carteron became Countess of Manorwater by her
second marriage. She was a wit and a friend of wits, and her nephew,
the Honourable Charles Hervey-Townshend (afterwards our Ambassador at
The Hague), addressed to her a series of amusing letters while making,
after the fashion of his contemporaries, the Grand Tour of Europe.
Three letters, written at various places in the Eastern Alps and
despatched from Venice, contain the following short narrative....

of the Celestial City. So at any rate reported young Mr. Wyndham, who
had travelled with me from Milan to Venice. I lay the first night at
Pieve, where Titian had the fortune to be born, and the landlord at the
inn displayed a set of villainous daubs which he swore were the ear