plete. I herewith send thee my two years' travels in Switzerland and Italy.
It is not a romance, but a faithful description of reality—such as I comprehended it. I cannot help reality having at times something of the romantic in it.
I have imparted to thee my cheerful and my sorrowful impressions, as I went along; have made thee acquainted with the persons, the books, or the occurrences which made epochs in my inner life during my search after—that which I enjoin upon thee to seek as well as me. I have more frequently made thee participant of the pleasure than the fatigue of the day, and when I have become sleepy, or have feared that thou wast, so I have bade thee good-night.
I have thrice, during my residence in Italy, passed, with young friends, through romantic episodes of a deeply-exciting character. Of these I shall communicate to thee, as much as it is in my power to communicate without betraying their real heroines and heroes. I shall therefore allow myself to add to a good deal of truth a few grains of fiction, besides weaving up two of the romances into one. They will not essentially lose thereby, neither wilt thou.
It is a long journey to which I invite thee, in more than one respect, a pilgrimage, although its object merely dawned upon myself by slow degrees.
I shall conduct thee to places already frequently visited, and to subjects which have already been often written about; but we shall not be long detained by that which is familiar, but much more by the life of
