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I have never seen Mendelssohn, but there is a fresco of him on the terrace, or open-air dining-room, of an inn at Chiavenna. He is not called Mendelssohn, but I knew him by his legs. He is in the costume of a dandy of some five-and-forty years ago, is smoking a cigar, and appears to be making an offer of marriage to his cook. Beethoven both my friend Mr. H. Festing Jones and I have had the good fortune to meet; he is an engineer now, and does not know one note from another; he has quite lost his deafness, is married, and is, of course, a little squat man with the same refractory hair that he always had. It was very interesting to watch him, and Jones remarked that before the end of dinner he had become positively posthumous. One morning I was told the Beethovens were going away, and before long I met their two heavy boxes being carried down the stairs. The boxes were so squab and like their owners, that I half thought for a moment that they were inside, and should hardly have been surprised to see them spring up like a couple of Jacks-in-thebox. "Sono indentro?" said I, with a frown of wonder, pointing to the boxes. The porters knew what I meant, and laughed. But there is no end to the list of people whom I have been able to recognise, and before I had got through it myself, I found I had walked some distance, and had involuntarily paused in front of a second-hand bookstall.

Among the dozen or more butterflies and moths which winter in the perfect state, the most common and the most handsome is the "Camberwell beauty" or "mourning cloak," _Vanessa antiopa_ L., a large butterfly whose wings are a rich purplish brown above, duller beneath, and broadly margined with a yellowish band. It is often found in winter beneath chunks which are raised a short distance above the ground, or in the crevices of old snags and fence rails. It is then apparently lifeless, with the antennae resting close along the back, above which the wings are folded. But one or two warm days are necessary to restore it to activity, and I have seen it on the wing as early as the 2d of March, hovering over the open flowers of the little snow trillium.

Philip was at this time engaged in the siege of Athens, which had joined Attalus and the Rhodians. The Consul Galba crossed over to Epirus, and Athens was relieved by a Roman fleet; but before he withdrew, Philip, prompted by anger and revenge, displayed his barbarism by destroying the gardens and buildings in the suburbs, including the Lyecum and the tombs of the Attic heroes; and in a second incursion which he made with large re-enforcements he committed still greater excesses. For some time, however, the war lingered on without any decided success on either side. The Consul Villius, who succeeded Galba in B.C. 199, effected nothing of importance, and it was not till the appointment of the Consul T. Quinctius Flamininus to the command that the war was earned on with energy and vigor (B.C. 198).

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