found by me.  Will my readers scorn the vanity, that made me attire myself with some care, for the sake of this visionary being?  Or will they forgive the freaks of a half crazed imagination?  I can easily forgive myself—­for hope, however vague, was so dear to me, and a sentiment of pleasure of so rare occurrence, that I yielded readily to any idea, that cherished the one, or promised any recurrence of the former to my sorrowing heart.  After such occupation, I visited every street, alley, and nook of Forli.  These Italian towns presented an appearance of still greater desolation, than those of England or France.  Plague had appeared here earlier—­it had finished its course, and achieved its work much sooner than with us.  Probably the last summer had found no human being alive, in all the track included between the shores of Calabria and the northern Alps.  My search was utterly vain, yet I did not despond.  Reason methought was on my side; and the chances were by no means contemptible, that there should exist in some part of Italy a survivor like myself—­of a wasted, depopulate land.  As therefore I rambled through the empty town, I formed my plan for future operations.  I would continue to journey on towards Rome.  After I should have satisfied myself, by a narrow search, that I left behind no human being in the towns through which I passed, I would write up in a conspicuous part of each, with white paint, in three languages, that “Verney, the last of the race of Englishmen, had taken up his abode in Rome.”

In pursuance of this scheme, I entered a painter’s shop, and procured myself the paint.  It is strange that so trivial an occupation should have consoled, and even enlivened me.  But grief renders one childish, despair fantastic.  To this simple inscription, I merely added the adjuration, “Friend, come!  I wait for thee!—­Deh, vieni! ti aspetto!” On the following morning, with something like hope for my companion, I quitted Forli on my way to Rome.  Until now, agonizing retrospect, and dreary prospects for the future, had stung me when awake, and cradled me to my repose.  Many times I had delivered myself up to the tyranny of anguish—­ many times I resolved a speedy end to my woes; and death by my own hands was a remedy, whose practicability was even cheering to me.  What could I fear in the other world?  If there were an hell, and I were doomed to it, I should come an adept to the sufferance of its tortures—­the act were easy, the speedy and certain end of my deplorable tragedy.  But now these thoughts faded before the new born expectation.  I went on my way, not as before, feeling each hour, each minute, to be an age instinct with incalculable pain.

As I wandered along the plain, at the foot of the Appennines—­through their vallies, and over their bleak summits, my path led me through a country which had been trodden by heroes, visited and admired by thousands.  They had, as a tide, receded, leaving me blank and bare in the midst.  But why complain?  Did I not hope?—­so I schooled myself, even after the enlivening spirit had really deserted me, and thus I was obliged to call up all the fortitude I could command, and that was not much, to prevent a recurrence of that chaotic and intolerable despair, that had succeeded to the miserable shipwreck, that had consummated every fear, and dashed to annihilation every joy.