RECOLLECTIONS

OF

ITALY.

ROME AND ITS ENVIRONS.

TO MONSIEUR DE FONTANES.

My dear friend,

I AM just arrived at Rome from Naples, and send you all my journey has produced, for you have a right to this all-a few laurel leaves snatched from the tomb of Virgil, whom "tenet nunc Parthenope." I should long since have given you a description of this classic region, but various circumstances have hindered me. I will not leave Rome, however, without saying a few words about so celebrated a city. We agreed that I was to address you without ceremony; and to tell you at a venture whatever impressions were made upon me in Italy, as I formerly related to you what ideas I had formed, while wandering through the solitudes of the New World. Without further preamble, then, I will attempt to give you an account of the environs of Rome, that is to say, the adjacent country and the ruins. C

17

You have read all that has been written on this subject, but I do not know whether travellers have given you a very just idea of the picture, which the Roman territory presents. Figure to yourself something of the desolation at Tyre and Babylon, as described in scripture-silence and solitude as vast as the noise and tumult of men, who formerly crowded together on this spot. One may almost fancy that the prophet's curse is still heard, when he announced that two things should happen on a single day, sterility and widowhood.* You see here and there some remains of Roman roads, in places where nobody ever passes, and some dried-up tracks of winter torrents, which at a distance have themselves the appearance of large frequented roads, but which are in reality the beds of waters, formerly rushing onwards with impetuosity, though they have now passed away like the Roman nation. It is with some difficulty that you discover any trees, but on every side you behold the ruins of aqueducts and tombs, which appear to be the forests and indigenous plants of this land -composed as it is of mortal dust, and the wrecks of empires. I have often thought that I beheld rich crops in a plain, but on approaching them, found that my eye had been deceived by withered grass. Under this barren herbage traces of ancient culture may sometimes be discovered. Here are no birds, no labourers, no lowing of cattle, no villages. A few miserably managed farms appear amidst the general nakedness of the country, but the windows and doors of the habitations are closed. No smoke, no noise, no inhabitant proceeds from them. A sort of savage, in tattered garments, pale and emaciated by fever, guards these melancholy dwellings, like the spectres who defend the entrance of abandoned castles in our gothic legends. It may be said, therefore, that no

* Isaiah.

nation has dared to take possession of the country, once inhabited by the masters of the world, and that you see these plains as they were left by the ploughshare of Cincinnatus, or the last Roman team.

It is in the midst of this uncultivated region that the eternal city raises her head. Decayed as to her terrestial power, she appears to have resolved on proudly isolating herself. She has separated herself from the cities of the world, and like a dethroned queen, has nobly concealed her misfortunes in solitude.

I should in vain attempt to describe the sensation experienced, when Rome suddenly appears to your view amidst her inania regna, as if raising herself from the sepulchre in which she had been lying. Picture to yourself the distress and astonishment, which the prophets experienced, when God, in a vision, shewed them some city, to which he had attached the destiny of his chosen people.* The multitude of recollections and the crowd of sensations oppress you, so that your very soul is disordered at beholding the place-for it is Rome, which has twice inherited the empire of the world, first as the heir to Saturn, and secondly to Jacob.†

You will, perhaps, think, from my description, that nothing can be more frightful than the Roman environs; but in this conjecture you would be egregiously mistaken. They possess an inconceivable grandeur, and in contem

* Ezekiel.

† Montaigne thus describes the neighbourhood of Rome about two centuries ago.

"We had at a distance, on our left, the Appennines, and the prospect of a country by no means pleasant, uneven and full of gaps, which would render it difficult to range troops in regular order. The country is without trees, and a considerable part of it sterile, open on every side, and more than ten miles in circumference. Like all other countries too of this description, it is very thinly inhabited."

plating them, you would be always ready to exclaim with Virgil:

Salve, magna parens frugum, Saturnia tellus,

Magna virum !*

If you view them as an economist, they will displease you, but if you survey them as an artist, or a poet, or a philosopher, you will perhaps not wish them to be alter

ed.

The sight of a corn-field or a vineyard would not cause such strong emotions in your mind as that of a country, where modern culture has not renovated the soil, and which may be said to have become as purely antique as the ruins which cover it.

Nothing is so beautiful as the lines of the Roman horizon, the gentle inclination of the plains, and the soft flying contour of the terminating mountains. The valleys often assume the form of an arena, a circus, or a ridinghouse. The hills are cut in terraces, as if the mighty hand of the Romans had moved the whole land at pleasure. A peculiar vapour is spread over distant objects,

which takes off their harshness and rounds them. The shadows are never black and heavy; for there are no masses so obscure, even among the rocks and foliage, but that a little light may always insinuate itself. A singular tint and most peculiar harmony unite the earth, the sky, and the waters. All the surfaces unite at their extremi. ties by means of an insensible gradation of colours, and without the possibility of ascertaining the point, at which one ends, or another begins. You have doubtless admired this sort of light in Claude Lorrain's landscapes. It appears ideal and still more beautiful than nature; but it is the light of Rome.

* Hail, happy land, producing richest fruits,

And heroes of renown!

I did not omit to see the Villa Borghese, and to admire the sun as he cast his setting beams upon the cypresses of Mount Marius or on the pines of Villa Pamphili. I have also often directed my way up the Tiber to enjoy the grand scene of departing day at Ponte Mole. The summits of the Sabine mountains then appear to consist of lapis lazuli and pale gold, while their base and sides are enveloped in a vapour, which has a violet or purple tint. Sometimes beautiful clouds, like light chariots, borne on the winds with inimitable grace, make you easily comprehend the appearance of the Olympian Deities under this mythologic sky. Sometimes ancient Rome seems to have stretched into the West all the purple of her Consuls and Cæsars, and spread them under the last steps of the god of day. This rich decoration does not disappear so soon as in our climate. When you suppose that the tints are vanishing, they suddenly re-appear at some other point of the horizon. Twilight succeeds to twilight, and the charm of closing day is prolonged. It is true that at this hour of rural repose, the air no longer resounds with bucolic song; you no longer hear the "dulcia linquimus arva," but the victims of sacred immolation are still to be seen. White bulls and troops of half-wild horses daily descend. to the banks of the Tiber, and quench their thirst with its waters. You would fancy yourself transported to the times of the ancient Sabines, or to the age of the Arcadian Evander, when the Tiber was called Albula,* and Eneas navigated its unknown stream.

I will acknowledge without hesitation that the vicinity of Naples is more dazzling than that of Rome. When the blazing sun, or the large red moon rises above Vesuvius, like a body of fire shot from its volcanic crater, the bay of Naples, and its banks fringed with orange

* Livy.