Thus for many, many months we journeyed together—–­I and my sorrow—­and passed through fair and famous places, and saw the seasons change under new skies.  To the quaint old Flemish cities and the Gothic Rhine—­to the plains and passes of Spain—­to the unfrequented valleys of the Tyrol and the glacier-lands of Switzerland I went, but still found not the forgetfulness I sought.  As in Holbein’s fresco the skeleton plays his part in every scene, so my trouble stalked beside me, drank of my cup, and sat grimly at my table.  It was with me in Naples and among the orange groves of Sorrento.  It met me amid the ruins of the Roman Forum.  It travelled with me over the blue Mediterranean, and landed beside me on the shores of the Cyclades.  Go where I would, it possessed and followed me, and brooded over my head, like the cloud that rested on the ark.

Thinking over this period of my life, I seem to be turning the leaves of a rich album, or wandering through a gallery of glowing landscapes, and yet all the time to be dreaming.  Faces grown familiar for a few days and never seen after—­pictures photographed upon the memory in all their vividness—­glimpses of cathedrals, of palaces, of ruins, of sunset and storm, sea and shore, flit before me for a moment, and are gone like phantasmagoria.

And like phantasmagoria they impressed me at the time.  Nothing seemed real to me.  Startled, now and then, into admiration or wonder, my apathy fell from me like a garment, and my heart throbbed again as of old.  But this was seldom—­so seldom that I could almost count the times when it befell me.

Thus it was that travelling did me no permanent good.  It enlarged my experience; it undoubtedly cultivated my taste; but it brought me neither rest, nor sympathy, nor consolation.  On the contrary, it widened the gulf between me and my fellow-men.  I formed no friendships.  I kept up no correspondence.  A sojourner in hotels, I became more and more withdrawn from all tender and social impulses, and almost forgot the very name of home.  So strong a hold did this morbid love of self-isolation take upon me, that I left Florence on one occasion, after a stay of only three days, because I had seen the names of a Saxonholme family among the list of arrivals in the Giornale Toscano.

Three years went by thus—­three springs—­three vintages—­three winters—­till, weary of wandering, I began to ask myself “what next?” My old passion for books had, in the meantime, re-asserted itself, and I longed once more for quiet.  I knew not that my pilgrimage was hopeless.  I know that I loved her ever; that I could never forget her; that although the first pangs were past, I yet must bear

     “All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
     All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!”

I reasoned with myself.  I resolved to be stronger—­at all events, to be calmer.  Exhausted and world-worn, I turned in thought to my native village among the green hills, to my deserted home, and the great solitary study with its busts and bookshelves, and its vista of neglected garden.  The rooms where my mother died; where my father wrote; where, as a boy, I dreamed and studied, would at least have memories for me.