bottom of some.

We had nearly concluded a bargain, a day or two ago, with a vetturino to
take or send us to Florence, via Perugia, in eight days, for a hundred
scudi; but he now drew back, under pretence of having misunderstood the
terms, though, in reality, no doubt, he was in hopes of getting a better
bargain from somebody else. We made an agreement with another man, whom
Mr. Thompson knows and highly recommends, and immediately made it sure
and legally binding by exchanging a formal written contract, in which
everything is set down, even to milk, butter, bread, eggs, and coffee,
which we are to have for breakfast; the vetturino being to pay every
expense for himself, his horses, and his passengers, and include it
within ninety-five scudi, and five crowns in addition for
buon-mano. . . . . .


May 22d.--Yesterday, while we were at dinner, Mr. ------ called. I never
saw him but once before, and that was at the door of our little red
cottage in Lenox; he sitting in a wagon with one or two of the
Sedgewicks, merely exchanging a greeting with me from under the brim of
his straw hat, and driving on. He presented himself now with a long
white beard, such as a palmer might have worn as the growth of his long
pilgrimages, a brow almost entirely bald, and what hair he has quite
hoary; a forehead impending, yet not massive; dark, bushy eyebrows and
keen eyes, without much softness in them; a dark and sallow complexion; a
slender figure, bent a little with age; but at once alert and infirm. It
surprised me to see him so venerable; for, as poets are Apollo's kinsmen,
we are inclined to attribute to them his enviable quality of never
growing old. There was a weary look in his face, as if he were tired of
seeing things and doing things, though with certainly enough still to see