in 1850; had recalled himself to her in 1855 by the present of three posthumous volumes by his father, whose last pleasure in books had come from listening to the reading aloud of "Cranford;" and in 1857 they met again at the Storys', in Rome. Miss Gaskell in a letter to one of Norton's daughters1 has described the meeting and its happy consequences:

"We reached Rome late at night on February 23, 1857, and drove through the dark strange streets to the Casa Cabrale, where the Storys were living, who had so kindly invited us [to visit them]. Next morning it was all brilliant sunshine and colour and wild gaiety. We were taken down by the Storys to a balcony in the Corso, from which we were to see the great day of the Carnival - Shrove Tuesday. The narrow street was filled with a boisterous crowd of Romans, half mad with excitement at the confetti-throwing and horse-racing. Suddenly against this turbulent background there stood out the figure of a young man just below the balcony, smiling up at my mother, whom he knew he was to see there, and whom he easily distinguished from the others. It is fifty-three years since that day, and yet even now I can vividly recall the sweet, welcoming expression on the radiant face. He was brought on to the balcony, but how little he and my mother thought, as they greeted one another, that until her death they were to be most true and intimate friends. During the seven weeks that we were in Rome, we saw him constantly. He came to the famous breakfasts at the Casa Cabrale,

1 Norton's second daughter was named for Mrs. Gaskell.

where Manning and Aubrey de Vere were nearly always to be found. Every time he came he brought a beautiful bouquet of flowers, with the true American generosity and courtesy. He constantly joined us in our sight-seeing, and we learned from him, more vividly than any book on art could teach, all the deep principles of painting and sculpture."

When in April the Gaskells left Rome, Norton accompanied them to Florence and Venice, where he shared Mrs. Gaskell's pleasure in the first printed copy of her "Life of Charlotte Brontë" that came into her hands.

Of other experiences of the winter there are glimpses in the following letters.

To A. H. Clough

ROME, 3, PIAZZA DI SPAGNA 18 December, 1856.

The arrival of your welcome letter to-day reminded me that I had been a fortnight in Rome and had not written to you. It was a rare piece of virtue in you to write first, and if you knew what a real, quick, warm pleasure it gave me to see your hand and to hear your words, for I always seem to hear rather than to read your letters, you must consider your virtue as fairly rewarded. Yes, I have been here a fortnight, first having stayed a week in Paris chiefly for the sake of seeing my good old friend and tutor Torrey, who is now professor of history at Harvard, and who was laid up in Paris with a lame knee which threatened to keep him on the bed or the sofa all winter, —

and then having been detained for more than a week at Marseilles by such a storm on the Mediterranean as does not often rage on the Atlantic. And what a hideous place Marseilles is; it is not a city, but an exaggerated dock with a dirty suburb attached to it. Over a fountain where the women wash their clothes, in one of the back steep streets, the Marseillaises have put up a column with a bust of Homer upon it, and have inscribed on the base, Les Descendants des Phocéens à Homère. What a calumny on the Phocæans!

But at last I reached Italy, and the drive from Civita Vecchia to Rome was the opening of the long chapter of Italian delights. I doubt if a traveller coming for the first time to Italy would care much for this drive; but the day was perfect, the atmosphere was full of the warm south, the smooth sea lazily broke its blue into white, along the black rocks, or reflected the old watch-towers that stood lonely on the jutting points. The Alban Hills, raised from the earth by a low mist over the Campagna, looking like the great shadow of a wave rolling inland, and in the still farther distance were the Sabine Mountains white and glittering with snow. You remember the old desolate ruin of a castle that forms the village of Palo, and how there, leaving the sea, you turn inland over the wide stretches of the Campagna to Rome. Can you not see the shepherds leaning on their long staffs, the wooden plough, the white cattle, the grey mud-covered buffaloes, the jingling wine-cart,-and the dome of St. Peter's just as you reach the eleventh milestone from Rome?

This is the same dirty old place - damp, mouldy, sunny and delightful — that it ever was. I have rooms where the sun (when it shines, which for the last week it has done for only a few minutes) lies all day. Thorwaldsen once lived in them. I do not like the Piazza, but I could not find any other where the sun was so

secure.

We have had a great day here to-day, for we have got up the column in honour of the Immaculate Conception, on its pedestal in front of the Propaganda. Since Fontana put up the obelisk in the Square of St. Peter's there has been no such undertaking here; the column is of cipollino, a beautiful piece of marble, once a part of some ancient ruin, but for hundreds of years it has been lying on the Quirinal. It is said that the Pope, tired of seeing it lie there, established the dogma of the Immaculate Conception in order to make use of the column. There was little ceremony to-day, but the raising was a great and ingenious work, and perfectly successful. The Pope was not present, and I hear that his presence was feared on account of his evil eye. He is a known gettatore. Queen Christina looked on from the Spanish Palace, and did no harm. There is no likelihood of trouble here this winter; the people, to be sure, are very poor, but also very broken up. They hate this column on which money is wasted while they starve; how much more the Cardinals and the priests....I have forgotten to say that I am much stronger than when I left England, having made a real gain I think....

To J. R. Lowell

ROME, 3, PIAZZA DI SPAGNA New Year's day, or rather night, 1857. ... The Fields are living on the corner of the Piazza Mignanelli and the Piazza di Spagna; and are just undergoing a tremendous bombardment from a strong force of Catholic converts who are trying to compel them to yield to the claims of the true Church. Aubrey de Vere, with whom Field fell in on his way to Rome, leads on the attack.... He is followed by a Right Honourable Maunsell, Clerk of the Ordnance, a good, stout, awkward Englishman, who brings up heavy batteries which he does not understand how to manage. And behind him comes a vigorous, simple, Jesuitical German Baron, Schroeder, who skirmishes in the most independent and original manner, watches every opportunity, seizes the least symptom of giving out, and spreads before the eyes of the besieged the great map of the Church militant in the background. To complete the conquest the Reverend General Dr. Manning has been brought on to the field, and a novena is going on for the conversion of our friends. But as yet they are not reduced to extremities, and they will hold out some time longer. But the attempt, which was amusing at first, is becoming tiresome. One cannot go to their rooms of an evening without finding them already invested by the converts. De Vere comes in to take a cup of tea and to sweeten it with poetic theology. There is a splendid presumptuousness on the part of these new Catholics; they fancy