passage of our youth treated me with considerable disrespect, and who afterward married a person of great lingual accomplishments, her father’s late courier, at Naples, has been handsomely forgiven, but not forgotten.  A few intelligent ladies, of marked listening powers and conspicuous accomplishments, are habitually met by me at their residences in the neighborhood of the Arc de Triomphe or at the receptions of the United States minister.  These fair attractions, although occupying, in practice, a preponderating share of my time, are as nothing to me, however, in comparison with that enticing illusion, my Book.

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The scientific use of the imagination in treating the places and distances of Geography is the dream of my days and the insomnia of my nights.

Every morning I take down and dust the loose sheets of my coming book or polish the gilding of my former one.  It is in my fidelity to these baffling hopes—­hopes fed with so many withered (or at least torn and blotted) leaves—­rather than in any resemblance authenticable by a looking-glass, that I show my identity with the old long-haired and nasal Flemming.

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Yet, though so long a Parisian, and so comfortable in my theoretic pursuit of Progressive Geography, my leisure hours are unconsciously given to knitting myself again to past associations, and some of my deepest pleasures come from tearing open the ancient wounds.  Shall memory ever lose that sacred, that provoking day in the Vale of Lauterbrunnen when the young mechanic in green serenaded us with his guitar?  It had for me that quite peculiar and personal application that it immediately preceded my rejection by Miss Mary.  The Staubbach poured before our eyes, as from a hopper in the clouds, its Stream of Dust.  The Ashburtons, clad in the sensible and becoming fashion of English lady-tourists, with long ringlets and Leghorn hats, sat on either side of me upon the grass.  And then that implacable youth, looking full in my eye, sang his verses of insulting sagacity: 

  She gives thee a garland woven fair;
          Take care! 
  It is a fool’s-cap for thee to wear;
          Beware! beware! 
          Trust her not,
      She is fooling thee!

Meeting him two or three times afterward as he pursued his apprentice-tour, I felt as though I had encountered a green-worm.  And I confess that it was partly on his account that I made a vow, fervently uttered and solemnly kept, never again to visit Switzerland or the Rhine.  Miss Ashburton I easily forgave.  The disadvantage, I distinctly felt, was hers, solely and restrictedly hers; and I should have treated with profound respect, if I had come across him, the professional traveler who was good enough to marry her afterward.

But these bitter-sweet recollections are only the relief to my studies.  It is true they are importunate, but they are strictly kept below stairs.