here as well as I.' These mental leaps towards liberty gave me not yet sufficient power for a decided aim. There are moments when we trust the force of our own wishes; others, in which the habitual order of things assumes a right to overrule all the sentiments of the soul. I was in a state of indecision which might have lasted forever, as nothing obliged me to take an active part; but on the Sunday following my conversation with Lady Edgarmond, I heard, towards evening, beneath my window, some Italians singing: they belonged to the ship from Leghorn. Thérésina had brought them to give me this agreeable surprise. I cannot express what I felt: a torrent of tears deluged my cheeks. All my recollections were revived: nothing recalls the past like music: it does more than depict, it conjures it back, like some beloved shape, veiled in mysterious melancholy. The musicians sung the delicious verses composed by Monti in his exile:---- "'Bella Italia! amate sponde! Pur vi torno, a riveder, Trema in petto, e si confonde, L'alma oppressa dal piacer!' "'Beauteous Italia! beloved ever! Shall I behold thy shore again? Trembling--bewildered--my bonds I sever-- Pleasure oppresses my heart and brain.'" In a kind of delirium, I felt for Italy all love can make one feel--desire, enthusiasm, regret. I was no longer mistress of myself; my whole soul was drawn towards my country: I yearned to see it, hear it, taste its breath; each throb of my heart was a call to my own smiling land. Were life offered to the dead, they would not dash aside the stone that kept them in the tomb with more impatience than I felt to rush from all the gloom around me, and once more take possession of my fancy, my genius, and of nature. Yet, at that moment, my sensations were too confused for me to frame one settled idea. My step-mother entered my room, and begged that I would order them to cease singing, as it was scandalous on the Sabbath. I insisted that they were to embark on the morrow, and that it was six years since I had enjoyed such a pleasure. She would not hear me; but said that it behooved us, above all things, to respect the customs of the place in which we lived; then, from the window, bade her servants send my poor countrymen away. They departed, singing me, as they went, an adieu that pierced me to the heart. The measure of my temptation was full. Thérésina, at all hazards, had, unknown to me, made every preparation for my flight. Lucy had been away a week with a relative of her mother. The ashes of my father did not repose in the country-house we inhabited: he had ordered his tomb to be erected on his Scotch estate.[2] Enough: I set forth without warning my step-mother, but left a letter, apprising her of my plans. I started in one of those moments at which we give ourselves up to destiny, when anything appears preferable to servitude and insipidity; when youth inconsiderately trusts the future, and sees