"O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires! and control
In their shut breasts their petty misery."
If Rome is so dear to those who regard her only as a standing record of a mighty past, what must she be to those to whom she is not merely a
"Lone mother of dead empires,"
but a living mother of a living world—the heart, the centre, the capital of Christendom itself!
Mina and Flora were fond of Rome for both of these reasons. Flora loved it especially as the scene of the happiest hours she had ever known, and so she could not leave it without a feeling of sadness and a longing to return. How often do we yearn to revisit places where we have been happy, even when all around us has changed!
"Cari luoghi, io vi trovai
Ma quei dì non trovo più!"
After a few moments Mr. Blake reappeared with the passports all in order. A scudo has a particularly accelerating effect on the movements of Roman officials. At length they bade adieu to Rome, yet not to its memories and associations, for their route lay along the far-famed Flaminian Way.
There is surely no such pleasant travelling for pleasant people as vetturino! When it is through a beautiful country, in fine weather, and with intimate friends, it is truly delightful. The irregular meals, furnished from the contents of capacious baskets, the ever-changing scene, the never-ending variety of flowers and foliage, the newness of all around, the expectation of coming events, the evenings at country inns, where the very "roughing" gives zest to a life so different from the regularity of ordinary existence; the unflagging chatter, the buoyant spirits,—these, yes, and a thousand other charms, tend to make such happy journeys the sunniest of sunny spots in the pilgrimage of life. As for the cabriolet, if a pair of lovers could only get possession of it, it would be the perfection of human enjoyment—a sort of moving elysium. Ah! this is a picture upon which we must not dwell, or we might be teased by importunate wishes to have it realised, and so become dissatisfied with the dull plodding routine of stay-at-home days.
Our new friend, Mr. Blake, was tall, stout, and nearly sixty, but withal strong and healthy in appearance. His fair, florid complexion, large features, and light blue eyes, and, indeed, the whole expression of his countenance, gave strong indications of good-humour and benevolence; nor was there any visible want in it of intellectual power. He proved a most amusing and instructive companion, having travelled over this route more than once before. He pointed out to Mina and Flora the objects of note and of classic interest, quoted scraps from the Latin poets, which he rendered into extempore English for them. The position of Civitta Castellana called forth his loudest praises, and he talked much of the days when it was the proud capital of the Valisci, who dared to contend with Rome herself, even in the days of her warlike glory; and he made them laugh heartily over the story of Camillus and the schoolmaster. Some years before, Mr. Blake had spent a few days at Civitta Castellana, exploring the beautiful neighbourhood with some friends, and he related many anecdotes of their excursions, declaring that there were few things more enjoyable than such excursions made in agreeable company.
The girls assured him that it was not necessary to impress that upon their minds, as they could easily believe how delightful it would be so to wander about in such beautiful scenery. To make it perfect, they said, there should be a Valerie de Ventadour, and an Ernest Maltravers to re-people each scene for her with the heroes and legends of old, to unroll before her the lore of the ancient historians and poets, and thus to light it up again with a light once its own. And Flora laughingly added—