I remember now, during one of my rambles in the course of a college vacation, I was pleased at being shown at -- -- a seat near a kind of rocky cell at the source of the river -- --, on which it was said that Congreve wrote his _Old Bachelor_.

One can scarcely hit on any performance less in harmony with the scene; but it was a local tribute paid to intellect by those who had not troubled themselves to estimate the moral worth of that author's comedies.

And why should they?
he was a man distinguished in his day, and the sequestered neighbourhood in which he often resided was perhaps as proud of him as Florence of her Dante.
It is the same feeling, though proceeding from persons one cannot bring together in this way without offering some apology to the shade of the great visionary.
311.

*_The Baptist_.

[XX.] It was very hot weather during the week we stayed at Florence; and, having never been there before, I went through much hard service, and am not, therefore, _ashamed_ to confess, I fell asleep before this picture, and sitting with my back towards the Venus de Medicis.