The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 07, May, 1858

V.—CLAUDE TO EUSTACE,—from Belaggio

I have but one chance left,—and that is, going to Florence.
But it is cruel to turn. The mountains seem to demand me,—
Peak and valley from far to beckon and motion me onward.
Somewhere amid their folds she passes whom fain I would follow;
Somewhere among those heights she haply calls me to seek her.
Ah, could I hear her call! could I catch the glimpse of her raiment!
Turn, however, I must, though it seem I turn to desert her;
For the sense of the thing is simply to hurry to Florence,
Where the certainty yet may be learnt, I suppose, from the Ropers.

VI.—MARY TREVELLYN, from Lucerne, TO MISS ROPER, at Florence

Dear Miss Roper,—By this you are safely away, we are hoping,
Many a league from Rome; ere long we trust we shall see you.
How have you travelled? I wonder;—was Mr. Claude your companion?
As for ourselves, we went from Como straight to Lugano;
So by the Mount St. Gothard;—we meant to go by Porlezza,
Taking the steamer, and stopping, as you had advised, at Bellaggio;
Two or three days or more; but this was suddenly altered,
After we left the hotel, on the very way to the steamer.
So we have seen, I fear, not one of the lakes in perfection.
Well, he is not come; and now, I suppose, he will not come.
What will you think, meantime?—and yet I must really confess it;—
What will you say? I wrote him a note. We left in a hurry,
Went from Milan to Como three days before we expected.
But I thought, if he came all the way to Milan, he really
Ought not to be disappointed; and so I wrote three lines to
Say I had heard he was coming, desirous of joining our party;—
If so, then I said, we had started for Como, and meant to
Cross the St. Gothard, and stay, we believed, at Lucerne, for the
summer.
Was it wrong? and why, if it was, has it failed to bring him?
Did he not think it worth while to come to Milan? He knew (you
Told him) the house we should go to. Or may it, perhaps, have
miscarried?
Any way, now, I repent, and am heartily vexed that I wrote it.
There is a home on the shore of the Alpine sea, that upswelling
High up the mountain-sides spreads in the hollow between;
Wilderness, mountain, and snow from the land of the olive conceal it;
Under Pilatus's hill low by its river it lies:
Italy, utter one word, and the olive and vine will allure not,—
Wilderness, forest, and snow will not the passage impede;
Italy, unto thy cities receding, the clue to recover,
Hither, recovered the clue, shall not the traveller haste?

V

There is a city, upbuilt on the quays of the turbulent Arno,
Under Fiesole's heights,—thither are we to return?
There is a city that fringes the curve of the inflowing waters,
Under the perilous hill fringes the beautiful bay,—
Parthenope do they call thee?—the Siren, Neapolis, seated
Under Vesevus's hill,—thither are we to proceed?—
Sicily, Greece, will invite, and the Orient;—or are we to turn to
England, which may after all be for its children the best?

I.—MARY TREVELLYN, at Lucerne, TO MISS ROPER, at Florence

So you are really free, and living in quiet at Florence;
That is delightful news;—you travelled slowly and safely;
Mr. Claude got you out; took rooms at Florence before you;
Wrote from Milan to say so; had left directly for Milan,
Hoping to find us soon;—if he could, he would, you are
certain.—
Dear Miss Roper, your letter has made me exceedingly happy.
You are quite sure, you say, he asked you about our intentions;
You had not heard of Lucerne as yet, but told him of Como.—
Well, perhaps he will come;—however, I will not expect it.
Though you say you are sure,—if he can, he will, you are
certain.
O my dear, many thanks from your ever affectionate Mary.

II.—CLAUDE TO EUSTACE

Florence.

Action will furnish belief,—but will that belief be the true
one?
This is the point, you know. However, it doesn't much matter
What one wants, I suppose, is to predetermine the action,
So as to make it entail, not a chance-belief, but the true one.
Out of the question, you say, if a thing isn't wrong, we
may do it.
Ah! but this wrong, you see;—but I do not know that it matters.
Eustace, the Ropers are gone, and no one can tell me about them.

Pisa.

Pisa, they say they think; and so I follow to Pisa,
Hither and thither inquiring. I weary of making inquiries;
I am ashamed, I declare, of asking people about it.—
Who are your friends? You said you had friends who would certainly
know them.

Florence.

But it is idle, moping, and thinking, and trying to fix her