form his undertaking, with Pompeii itself at the distance of a few miles—the sea that once bore her commerce, and received her fugitives, at his feet—and the fatal mountain of Vesuvius, still breathing forth smoke and fire, constantly before his eyes![1]
I was aware, however, from the first, of the great difficulties with which I had to contend. To paint the manners and exhibit the life of the middle ages, required the hand of a master genius; yet, perhaps, the task is slight and easy, in comparison with that which aspires to portray a far earlier and more unfamiliar period. With the men and customs of the feudal time we have a natural sympathy and bond of alliance; those men were our own ancestors—from those customs we received our own—the creed of our chivalric fathers is still ours—their tombs yet consecrate our churches—the ruins of their castles yet frown over our val-
- ↑ Nearly the whole of this work was written at Naples last winter. On ray return to England, I was indeed too much occupied with political matters, to have a great deal of superfluous leisure for works purely literary, except in those, not unwelcome, intervals when the Parliament going to sleep allows the other objects of life to awake—dismissing its wearied legislators, some to hunt, some to shoot, some to fatten oxen, and others—to cultivate literature!
