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disagreeable, I do not seek to connect it, or recognise it as
necessarily connected with, any essentials of their creed. When I
treat of the ceremonies of the Holy Week, I merely treat of their
effect, and do not challenge the good and learned Dr. Wiseman's
interpretation of their meaning. When I hint a dislike of
nunneries for young girls who abjure the world before they have
ever proved or known it; or doubt the ex officio sanctity of all
Priests and Friars; I do no more than many conscientious Catholics
both abroad and at home.

I have likened these Pictures to shadows in the water, and would
fain hope that I have, nowhere, stirred the water so roughly, as to
mar the shadows. I could never desire to be on better terms with
all my friends than now, when distant mountains rise, once more, in
my path. For I need not hesitate to avow, that, bent on correcting
a brief mistake I made, not long ago, in disturbing the old
relations between myself and my readers, and departing for a moment
from my old pursuits, I am about to resume them, joyfully, in
Switzerland; where during another year of absence, I can at once
work out the themes I have now in my mind, without interruption:
and while I keep my English audience within speaking distance,
extend my knowledge of a noble country, inexpressibly attractive to
me. {1}

This book is made as accessible as possible, because it would be a
great pleasure to me if I could hope, through its means, to compare
impressions with some among the multitudes who will hereafter visit
the scenes described with interest and delight.

And I have only now, in passport wise, to sketch my reader's
portrait, which I hope may be thus supposititiously traced for
either sex:

Complexion Fair.
Eyes Very cheerful.
Nose Not supercilious.
Mouth Smiling.
Visage Beaming.
General Expression Extremely agreeable.



CHAPTER I--GOING THROUGH FRANCE



On a fine Sunday morning in the Midsummer time and weather of
eighteen hundred and forty-four, it was, my good friend, when--
don't be alarmed; not when two travellers might have been observed
slowly making their way over that picturesque and broken ground by
which the first chapter of a Middle Aged novel is usually attained-
-but when an English travelling-carriage of considerable
proportions, fresh from the shady halls of the Pantechnicon near
Belgrave Square, London, was observed (by a very small French
soldier; for I saw him look at it) to issue from the gate of the
Hotel Meurice in the Rue Rivoli at Paris.

I am no more bound to explain why the English family travelling by
this carriage, inside and out, should be starting for Italy on a
Sunday morning, of all good days in the week, than I am to assign a
reason for all the little men in France being soldiers, and all the
big men postilions; which is the invariable rule. But, they had

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