90 MONTHLY REVILW OF LITERATURE. 



scruples of etiquette in asking him all the business-like questions essential to 

 the correct understanding between the host and future lodger. I took my 

 way, therefore, without further ado to the lordly mansion, and knocked at the 

 door with the air of a man conscious of his want of a fit knowledge of the 

 exact situation he was in. His lordship, who looked very much like a law 

 writer from Serle's place, opened the door to me himself. * Can I see the 

 apartments you have to let is his lordship at home ?' * His lordship has 

 the honour of being spoken to by your excellency at this present minute/ 

 returned the nobleman, bowing quickly and furiously, ' Pray walk in, your 

 excellency?' * Thank you,' I replied, and ' M. Conte Morand' and 

 myself proceeded up stairs till we came into an apartment about the size of 

 the great room at Free Mason's Hall. ' This is the principal bed-room,' 



said the Count, ' It is rather small, but ' ' I assure your lordship that 



you could put an English cottage comfortably into it, kitchen, attic, wash- 

 house and all.' The Count laughed ' like one mad,' as Mr. Pepys used to 

 say. < What do you think of this then ?' said he, opening a door into a kind 

 of Salisbury-plain of an apartment ' This is the dining-room ; a great deal 

 of roste befe might be got through in this room, eh ?' and his lordship roared 

 at his own joke like a rhinoceros in an ecstasy. ' But to business,' added the 

 Count, with great good-natured familiarity * your excellency would like to. 

 see the other rooms, there are eighteen more!' The Count turned from me 

 to open another door, or he would have seen the exquisite astonishment 

 depicted in my countenance. ' I hope your family is not very large ?' 

 enquired he. * No, your lordship sees the whole of my family in myself." 

 ' Oh, then there will be quite room enough !' ' Quite, I thank you.' After 

 perambulating the suite for some half an hour, I took leave, with the 

 intention of entering the apartments the day following. 



" I turned from his lordship as he closed the door, and, taking no particular 

 direction, walked carelessly on, much in that half- reflective half-stupid state 

 of mind that a man is in when he leans against a wall in the sunshine shut 

 up in my own thoughts, or rather in my own want of thought. I was 

 suddenly awakened from my reverie by a picture ! Such a picture ! a living 

 one ! It was the face of a girl, gazing anxiously from out a window, her 

 dark hair flowing in a profusion of ringlets over her white shoulders, and her 

 cheek, voluptuous in bloodful health, reclining upon her hand. She reminded 

 me (but she was dark) of Caracci's beautiful creation of Susanna, that picture 

 on which I had gazed, years previous, for hours, till the dim evening shadowed 

 the light of its beauty and the breath of love seemed to have past away. Our 

 eyes met ! Hers were instantly withdrawn, the window lowered and the 

 green blind closed. I walked homeward, the face gazed at me the while ! I 

 entered my room, its eyes still looked into mine ! Betimes, I retired to rest, 

 still those eyes looked at me no young child ever dreamt a dream so beau- 

 tiful, of more sweet fancy than the dreams those eyes brought me that night. 

 I resolved to visit the same street the next day. 



" Before I entered my apartments on the following morning I hastened to 

 pay my respects to the personages to whom my father had obtained me letters 

 of introduction; among them were, Mrs. Shelley, Leigh Hunt, Esq., Lord 

 Byron, Captain Trelawney, John Cam Hobhouse, Esq. After breakfasting 

 on grapes, coccommero (a kind of gourd), light wines, and biscuit, I set out 

 for the residence of the noble Author of Childe Harold, to whom, as I had 

 previously been informed, Mr. Leigh Hunt and family were at that time on a 

 visit. He lived, at the time I speak of, at the Cara Lotifranchi, situate on 

 the Lung' Arno, and one of the largest and most magnificent palaces in Pisa. 

 It was built of marble, though no one would have thought it so, for antiquity 

 had yellowed it, and given it the colour of a dingy composition. I lifted the 

 massive knocker at the portal, and the sound reverberated up the galleries 

 and corridors within, reminding me of what I had read of in Amadis and the 

 old English Romances. My romantic associations, however, were very speedily 



