VIII. CAIUS CESTIUS. That she might fling them from her, saying, "Thus, WHEN I am inclined to be serious, I love to wan-Were, one by one, removed, e'en to the last, It is a quiet and sheltered nook, covered in the winter with violets; and the pyramid, that overshadows it, gives it a classical and singularly solemn air. You feel an interest there, a sympathy you were not prepared for. You are yourself in a foreign land, and they are for the most part your countrymen. They call upon you in your mother tonguein English—in words unknown to a native, known only to yourselves: and the tomb of Cestius, that old majestic pile, has this also in common with them. It is itself a stranger, among strangers. It has stood there till the language spoken round about it has changed; and the shepherd, born at the foot, can read its inscription no longer. IX. THE NUN. 'Tis over; and her lovely cheek is now 'Tis over; and the rite, the rosary, by to shroud When on her knees she fell, That she might say, flinging them from her, “Thus, But thou canst not yet reflect All in turn Revisit thee, and round thy lowly bed X. THE FIRE-FLY. THERE is an insect, that, when evening comes, Scatters a marvellous splendour. On he wheels, In the mother's lap And the young nymph, preparing for the dance. Oft have I met Yet cannot I forget Him, who rejoiced me in those walks at eve, XI. FOREIGN TRAVEL. said I," as a remedy in some future fit of the spleen." Ours is a nation of travellers; and no wonder, when the elements, air, water, fire, attend at our bidding, to transport us from shore to shore; when the ship rushes into the deep, her track the foam as of some mighty torrent; and, in three hours or less, we stand gazing and gazed at among a foreign people. None want an excuse. If rich, they go to enjoy; if poor, to retrench; if sick, to recover; if studious, to learn; if learned, to relax from their studies. But whatever they may say, whatever they may believe, they go for the most part on the same errand; nor will those who reflect, think that errand an idle one. Almost all men are over anxious. No sooner do they enter the world, than they lose that taste for natural and simple pleasures, so remarkable in early life. Every hour do they ask themselves what progress they have made in the pursuit of wealth or honour; and on they go as their fathers went before them, till, weary and sick at heart, they look back with a sigh of regret to the golden time of their childhood. All Now travel, and foreign travel more particularly, restores to us in a great degree what we have lost. When the anchor is heaved, we double down the leaf; and for a while at least all effort is over. The old cares are left clustering round the old objects; and at every step, as we proceed, the slightest circumstance amuses and interests. is new and strange. We surrender ourselves, and feel once again as children. Like them, we enjoy eagerly; like them, when we fret, we fret only for the moment; and here indeed the resemblance is very remarkable, for if a journey has its pains as well as its pleasures, (and there is nothing unmixed in this world,) the pains are no sooner over than they are forgotten, while the pleasures live long in the memory. Ir was in a splenetic humour that I sate me down to my scanty fare at Terracina; and how long I should have contemplated the lean thrushes in array before me, I cannot say, if a cloud of smoke, that drew the tears into my eyes, had not burst from the green and leafy boughs on the hearth-stone. "Why," I exclaimed, starting up from the table, "why did I leave my own chimney-corner ?-But am I not on the road to Brundusium? And are not these the very calamities that befell Horace and Virgil, and Maæcenas, and Plotius, and Varius? Horace laughed at them then why should not I? Horace resolved to turn them to account; and Virgil-cannot we hear him observing, that to remember them will, by-and-by, be a pleasure?" My soliloquy reconciled me at once to my fate; and when, for the twentieth time, I had looked through the window on a sea sparkling with innumerable brilliants, a sea on which the heroes of the Odyssey and the Eneid had sailed, I sat down as to a splendid ban-mitted! Men rush on danger, and even on death. quet. My thrushes had the flavour of ortolans; and I ate with an appetite I had not known before. "Who," I cried, as I poured out my last glass of Falernian,t (for Falernian it was said to be, and in my eyes it ran bright and clear as a topaz stone) -"who would remain at home, could he do otherwise? Who would submit to tread that dull, but daily round; his hours forgotten as soon as spent?" and, opening my journal-book and dipping my pen into my ink-horn, I determined, as far as I could, to justify myself and my countryman in wandering over the face of the earth. "It may serve me," Nor is it surely without another advantage. If life be short, not so to many of us are its days and its hours. When the blood slumbers in the veins, how often do we wish that the earth would turn faster on its axis, that the sun would rise and set before it does, and, to escape from the weight of time, how many follies, how many crimes are com Intrigue, play, foreign and domestic broil, such are their resources; and, when these things fail, they destroy themselves. Now in travelling we multiply events, and innocently. We set out, as it were, on our adventures; and many are those that occur to us, morning, noon, and night. The day we come to a place which we have long heard and read of, and in Italy we do so continually, it is an era in our lives; and from that * As indeed it always was, contributing those of every degree, from a milors with his suite to him whose only attendant is his shadow. Coryate in 1608 performed his journey on foot; and, returning, hung up his shoes in his village church as an ex-voto. Goldsmith, a century and a half afterwards, followed in nearly the same path; playing a tune on his flute to procure admittance, whenever he approached a cottage at nightfall. moment the very name calls up a picture. How delightfully too does the knowledge flow in upon us, and how fast!* Would he who sat, in a corner of his library, poring over books and maps, learn more or so much in the time, as he who, with his eyes and his heart open, is receiving impressions, all day long, from the things themselves? How accurately do they arrange themselves in our memory, towns, rivers, mountains; and in what living colours do we recall the dresses, manners, and customs of the people! Our sight is the noblest of all our senses. "It fills the mind with most ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance, and continues longest in action without being tired." Our sight is on the alert when we travel; and its exercise is then so delightful, that we forget the profit in the pleasure. Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry; More than enough to please a child a-Maying. Like a river that gathers, that refines as it runs, like a spring that takes its course through some rich vein of mineral, we improve and imperceptibly-That grove so intricate, so full of flowers, nor in the head only, but in the heart. Our prejudices leave us, one by one. Seas and mountains are no longer our boundaries. We learn to love, and esteem, and admire beyond them. Our benevolence extends itself with our knowledge. And must we not return better citizens than we went? For the more we become acquainted with the institutions of other countries, the more highly must we value our own. 66 I threw down my pen in triumph "The question," said I," is set to rest for ever. And yet-" And yet-" I must still say. The wisest of men seldom went out of the walls of Athens; and for that worst of evils, that sickness of the soul, to which we are most liable when most at our ease, is there not after all a surer and yet pleasanter remedy, a remedy for which we have only to cross the threshold? A Piedmontese nobleman, into whose company I fell at Turin, had not long before experienced its efficacy and his story, which he told me without reserve, was as follows. "I was weary of life, and, after a day, such as few have known and none would wish to remember, was hurrying along the street to the river, when I feit a sudden check. I turned and beheld a little boy, who had caught the skirt of my cloak in his anxiety to solicit my notice. His look and manner were irresistible. Not less so was the lesson he had learnt. "There are six of us; and we are dying for want of food.'- Why should I not,' said I to myself, 'relieve this wretched family? I have the means and it will not delay me many minutes. But what, if it does" The scene of misery he conducted me to I cannot describe. I threw them my purse; and their burst of gratitude overcame me. It filled my eyes-it went as a cordial to my heart. I will call To judge at once of a nation, we have only to throw our eyes on the markets and the fields. If the markets are well supplied, the fields well cultivated, all is right. If otherwise, we may say, and say truly, these people are barbarous or oppressed. † Assuredly nt, if the last has laid a proper foundation, Knowledge makes knowledge as money makes money, nor ever perhaps so fast as on a journey. The sun was down, a distant convent-bell At length there came the loveliest of them all, Look'd down upon him with a sister's smile, Then hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova, XIII. BANDITTI. "TIs a wild life, fearful and full of change, The mountain robber's. On the watch he lies, Levelling his carbine at the passenger; And, when his work is done, he dares not sleep. Time was, the trade was nobler, if not honest; When they that robb'd were men of better faith Than kings or pontiffs, when, such reverence The poet drew among the woods and wilds, A voice was heard, that never bade to spare, Crying aloud, "Hence to the distant hills! Tasso approaches; he, whose song beguiles The day of half its hours; whose sorcery Dazzles the sense, turning our forest glades To lists that blaze with gorgeous armory, Our mountain caves to regal palaces. Hence, nor descend till he and his are gone. Let him fear nothing." When along the shore, And by the path that, wandering on its way, Leads through the fatal grove where Tully fell, (Gray and o'ergrown, an ancient tomb is there,) He came and they withdrew: they were a race Careless of life in others and themselves, For they had learnt their lesson in a camp; But not ungenerous. 'Tis no longer so. Now crafty, cruel, torturing ere they slay Th' unhappy captive, and with bitter jests Mocking misfortune; vain, fantastical, Wearing whatever glitters in the spoil; The grave of one that from the precipice Things only known to the devout and pure O'er her spiced bowl-then shrive the sisterhood, Sitting by turns with an inclining ear In the confessional. He moves his lips As with a curse-then paces up and down, And most devout, though when they kneel and Now fast, now slow, brooding and muttering on; pray, With every bead they could recount a murder. As by a spell they vanish-theirs a band, Gloomy alike to him the past, the future. But hark, the nimble tread of numerous feet! Once again he earths; That, ere they rise to this bad eminence, He clank'd his chain, among a hundred more He comes slowly forth Unkennelling, and up that savage dell Anxiously looks; his cruse, an ample gourd, (Duly replenish'd from the vintner's cask,) Slung from his shoulder; in his breadth of belt Two pistols and a dagger yet uncleansed, A parchment scrawl'd with uncouth characters, And a small vial, his last remedy, His cure when all things fail. No noise is heard, Leaps in the gulf beneath :-But now he kneels Two monks, Portly, gray-headed, on their gallant steeds, Descend where yet a mouldering cross o'erhangs Who wants A sequel, may read on. Th' unvarnish❜d tale, XIV, AN ADVENTURE. THREE days they lay in ambush at my gate, Then sprung and led me captive. Many a wild We traversed; but Rusconi, 'twas no less, March'd by my side, and, when I thirsted, climb'd The cliffs for water; though whene'er he spoke, "Twas briefly, sullenly; and on he led, Distinguish'd only by an amulet, That in a golden chain hung from his neck, Heaves o'er the dead-where erst some Alaric Then all advanced, and, ranging in a square, Whose heart knows no relentings. Instantly A light was kindled, and the bandit spoke. I wrote. ""Tis well," he cried. "A peasant boy, To pluck a grape in very wantonness. Went to my heart; and, starting up, I cried, I heard him not. I stood as in a trance. As I stagger'd down, And all were gone, save him who now kept guard, said. "Well mayst thou, lying, as thou dost, so near I loved, was scorn'd; I trusted, was betray'd; Met with the fiend, the tempter-in Rusconi. Come and assert thy birthright while thou canst. And death itself, what is it at the worst, Dost thou ask Two months ago, 'Twas done as soon as said. I kiss'd her brow, Had not Rusconi with a terrible shout Ere his tale was told, As on the heath we lay, my ransom came; -But the night wears, and thou art much in need XV. THIS region, surely, is not of the earth.* Was it not dropt from heaven? Not a grove, Citron, or pine, or cedar, not a grot, * Un pezzo di cielo caduto in terro.-Sannazaro. |