64 HARDY FERNS. 
round them, covering the head. Some are talking, 
some laughing gaily, but at the elevation of the 
Host every sound ceases, and every knee is bowed 
in adoration. Yes, there are some things rever- 
enced in Italy—reverenced by rich and poor, by 
men and women, by everybody everywhere. 
From the Cathedral at Spezzia, by the help of 
the magic Ceterach, a slight transition takes me to 
the old parish church of Clevedon, where lies 
buried Arthur Hallam, the talented son of the 
historian Hallam, and the "A. H. H." of Tenny- 
son's In Memoriam " — the noblest monument 
that man's love ever raised to man, on which Mr. 
Tennyson lavished, with the prodigality of bound- 
less affluence, the wealth of his intellect, the riches 
of his soul. We poorer mortals deck the graves 
of our beloved ones with simple flowers that perish 
in the using. It was for Tennyson alone to weave 
undying wreaths, each chaplet bright with the hues 
of Paradise and fragrant with the breath of love. 
As we stood by the simple marble slab placed on 
the grey wall of the old church, we marvelled what 
