ances, contemplating new places and adopting new habits. Besides, I hate railway travelling. However, I contrived to get as far as Italy, and stopped to rest at Florence. Here I found pictures by the old masters that I could really enjoy, a public park that I could honestly admire, and an excellent friend and colleague of former days, once chaplain to the prison, now clergyman in charge of the English Church. We met in the gallery of the Pitti Palace, and he recognized me immediately. I was pleased to find that the lapse of years had made so little difference in my personal appearance.
The traveller who advances as far as Florence and does not go on to Rome must be regardless indeed of the opinions of his friends. Let me not attempt to conceal it--I am that insensible traveller. Over and over again I said to myself: " Rome must be done," and over and over again I put off doing it. To own the truth, the fascinations of Florence, aided by the society of my friend, laid so strong a hold on me that I believe I should have ended my days in the delightful Italian city but for the dangerous illness of one of my sons. This misfortune hurried me back to England, in dread, every step of the way, of finding that I had arrived too late. The journey (thank God) proved to have been taken without need. My son was no longer in danger when I reached London in the year 1875.
At that date I was near enough to the customary limit of human life to feel the necessity of rest and quiet. In other words, my days of travel had come to an end.
Having established myself in my own country, I did not forget to let old friends know where they might find me. Among those to whom I wrote was another colleague of past years, who still held his medical appointment in the prison. When I received the doctor's reply it enclosed a letter directed to me at my old quarters in the Governor's rooms. Who could possibly have sent a letter to an address which I had left five years since? My correspondent proved to be no less a person than the Wesleyan minister--the friend whom I had estranged from me by the tone in which I had written to him on the long-past occasion of his wife's death.
It was a distressing letter to read. I beg permission to give only the substance of it in this place.
Entreating me, with touching expressions of humility and sorrow, to forgive his long silence, the writer appealed to my friendly remembrance of him. He was in sore need