cending earth or rocks, into which the spring runs, and which is surmounted by solid masonry, upon the front of which the saintly symbol of human help is placed.
Speedily, for we are on a descending path, we come to an opening, and turn around to the left to seek the recollected hermitage, a little round, cross-surmounted mosshouse, where used to sit in state with girdle and sandals, the bearded hermit, holding the long-stringed numeral of his many prayers. There was no hermit, but the recollection to ourselves, and the description to others, seemed to suffice very well for his absence.
Leaving this, and going back and onward, we come to a long straight open avenue, a sort of long shelving table land between the upper and lower declivities. Here again are the beautiful green sward and the sunshine, the latter heightened by the dark dominant dome of foliage, it winningly but vainly woos to dissipation. At the far end of this, in our front, is the beautiful Summer House, or “Temple D' Ete',” so well known, which is a beautiful sylvan structure, ascended by a long flight of steps, and having a balcony on the right side, under which bloom intertwined with the deeper green of the fir, fair flowery shrubs—eyes through which nature seems to look dispassionately and saintly as a musing seraph. Inside there are pictures, and all the necessary requisites for repose or meditation, the different panels of the room being pictured with foreign scenes and scenery, and the ceiling with an eagle and a fish, while smaller birds are enviously or fearfully winging around. The day being rather dubious, a fire had been very thoughtfully
