Surmounting the whole was a flaming double heart pierced by an arrow, an arrow that then pierced three hearts at once.  The rock was covered besides with more than fifty names, all English, and as many inscriptions, all English too, of a kindred character to the one he had read.  Milord’s first impulse was to throw himself head foremost down the mountain side; but, fortunately, raising his eyes in his despair, he discovered a final plateau, so steep that neither cat nor lizard could climb it.  Lord K. became a bird and flew up, and what did he see?  Oh, the vanity of human ambition!  Upon the last round of the most gigantic ladder, extending from earth to heaven, Milord perceived Sir Francis, who, having just effected the same ascent from the other side of the colossus, was quietly reading the “Times” and breakfasting upon a chop and a bottle of porter!

The two friends coolly saluted each other, as they had before done on the side of Chimborazo; then, with death in his heart, but impassive and grave, Lord K. silently drew forth a box of conserves, a flask of ale and a copy of the “Standard.”  The repast and the two journals being finished, the tourists separated and descended, each on his own side, without having exchanged a word.

Lord K. has never forgiven Sir Francis; they accuse each other of plagiarism, a mortal hatred has sprung up between them, and thus Tschamalouri finished what politics began.

I had this story from Lord K. himself, who drags out a disenchanted and gloomy existence, which would put an end to itself had he not in present contemplation a journey to the moon; still he is half convinced that he would find Sir Francis there.

Entertain your mother with this story, it would be improved by your narration.

You must agree with me that if the English grow four thousand fathoms above the sea, the plant must necessarily thrive on the plains and the low countries.  It is acclimated everywhere, like the strawberry, without possessing its sweet savor.

Italy is, I believe, the land where it best flourishes.  There I have traversed fields of English, sown everywhere, mixed with a few Italians.

But I would have been happy if I had encountered only Englishmen along my route.  Some poet has said that England is a swan’s nest in the midst of the waves.  Alas! how few are the swans that come to us at long intervals, compared with the old ostriches in bristling plumage, and the young storks with their long, thin necks that flock to us.

When in Rome only a few hours, and wandering through the Campo Vaccino, I found among the ruins one I did not seek.  It was Lady Penock.  I had met her so often that I could not fail to know her name.  Edgar, you know Lady Penock; it is impossible that you should not.  But if not, it is easy for you to picture her to yourself.  Take a keepsake, pick out one of those faces more beautiful than the fairies of our dreams, so lovely that it might be doubted