Thro’ mist, a heaven: sustaining bulwark, reared
Between the east and west.”
The sun went down beneath the sea, and the full moon rose at the same moment from behind the promontory of Piombino—hazy at first,—but as she rose higher, assuming her place as radiant Queen of Night. We passed between the island of Elba, whose dark and distinct outline rose out of the calm water, and the shadowy form of distant Corsica; as we proceeded, other and other islands appeared studding the tranquil deep, and varying its sublime monotony. It was very difficult to consent to shut one’s eyes on so very fair a scene.
At sunrise we were on deck again, and the steamer, with that sort of pride which a boat always seems to exhibit when it reaches its bourne, entered the harbour of Civita Vecchia. We were detained for pratique till eight o’clock, when the Governor got up, and for three hours we had full leisure to contemplate the growth of the morning on the sea, and to feel tired of conjectures about the towers and buildings on shore. As soon as we landed, and had breakfasted, and were refreshed, we set off in a separate diligence for the Eternal City.
The road for some miles bordered the sea. The shore is varied by little bays, inlets, and promontories—every five miles is a watch-tower,—the Maremma is spread around, deadly in its influence on man, but in appearance, a wild, verdant, varied pasture land, with here and there a grove of trees, and broken into hill and dale: the waves sparkled on our right; the land stretched out pleasant to the eye on the left; mountains showed themselves on the horizon. No one can look on this country as merely so much earth—every clod is a sacred relic—every stone is an object of curiosity—every name we hear satisfies some desire or awakens some cherished association. And thus, in a sort of trance of delight, we were whirled along, till the old walls appeared. We entered by the Janiculum, and skirted the Place of St. Peter’s; then the pleasant spell was snapped, as we had to turn our thoughts to custom-houses, hotels, and all the worry of arrival.
Evening advanced; but what ailed the Romans? they were all looking up at the sky—it was an epidemic—in crowds or singly, not an eye looked straightforward; all were looking at the heavens;—at a turn in the street we looked too, and saw in the south a long trail of glowing light; we were the more surprised, as we had perceived nothing of the sort the previous night at sea. It was a comet, of course;—does it shine in your more northern hemisphere? here, it loses itself among the stars of Orion, while the nucleus is below the visible horizon;—it is bright, yet the stars shine through its web-like texture, which, composed of thin beams, is stretched out, and you may see delicate sea-weeds—or aquatic plants in a stream, through a large space of the heavens.
LETTER XVIII.
Raffaelle at Rome.
April 5.
The multitude of pictures and statues at Rome is such, that it is quite impossible to give the most cursory account of the Galleries. I have been more struck even than I expected, by what I have seen; the limits of man’s power appear enlarged to the uttermost verge of all that the imagination can conceive of beautiful and great.
The admirable proportion of the temple-like chambers in which the finest relics of ancient statuary are placed—the snatches of views that you catch, from open windows, of the papal gardens and the country around the city, renders a visit to the Vatican a step out of everyday life into a world adorned by the works of the highest genius of all countries and all times. It is a great pity that they are not arranged in a manner to instruct the spectator as to the age and schools to which they belong—the collection at the Vatican greatly needs to be regulated by enlightened criticism—but here, everything is done from paltry motives: a man, who in some way can command patronage, writes a catalogue of all the statues, and changes their numbers and places, to make it necessary that you should buy his book; so that those who go with the elaborate and learned works of German critics in their hands, find every reference a mistake, and get hopelessly embroiled.