358 MORE POT-POURRI 



for the first time a picture of ' Paolo and Francesca ' ; it 

 was by Ary Scheffer. I was so young that it set me 

 wondering how Dante could call it Hell and yet leave 

 them together. The same thought has been rendered 

 finely, I think, by a young friend who signs himself 

 'M. B.' His sonnet was written on seeing the much 

 stronger and more beautiful representation of the same 

 subject by Mr. Watts : 



Though borne like withered leaves upon a stream, 

 Perished and dead, they would not live again. 

 Nor in the hard world face the wiles of men ; 



Their past is but the haunting of a dream. 



And yet they would not sleep in Asphodel, 

 Nor — for without remorse is their regret — 

 Drink deep of bliss and utterly forget; 



Not for all Heaven would they exchange their Hell. 



And they give thanks because their punishment 



Is sealed and sure, because their doom shall be 



To go in anguish through eternity 

 Together on the never-resting air. 



Beyond all happiness is their content 



Who know there is no end to their despair. 



At the end of June the whole colour of the country 

 had changed and become much richer from the corn 

 ripening. This restored to the Olive trees once more 

 their gray colour in the sunlight, and in evening light 

 they again looked cool and almost blue against the warm 

 madder and ochre of the com. How endless in nature 

 is the making of colour by contrast ! 



Custom often has in it more reason than at first 

 appears. I never could understand why so few people 

 go to Italy in summer. But the fact is, they hunger for 

 bright, strong colour — blue skies and yellow sunsets, 

 purple mountains and brilliant flowers. These they find 

 in spring and autumn, to their hearts' content ; but 

 summer in Florence is mellow and veiled, and very ten- 



