ROME, _December_ 9_th_.
My last letter was despatched in such a hurry that I had not time to
conclude it. This will be nearly as imperfect; but yet I cannot forbear
writing, having the vanity to believe that you are pleased with hearing
only that I am well.
Your friend H. walked with me this morning in the Loggios of Raffaelle,
and we went afterwards to the Capitol. Nothing delighted me more in the
whole treasury of sculptures, than a figure in alto relievo of Endymion,
reclined on the mountain’s brow: his head falls upon his breast with an
ease and gracefulness, of which the Greeks alone had ever a true
conception. Most of the chambers, if you recollect, are filled with the
elegant remains of Adrian’s collection. The villa of that classic
emperor at Tivoli, must have been the most charming of structures.
Having travelled into various and remote parts of his empire, he
assembled their most valuable ornaments on one spot. Some of his
apartments were filled with the mysterious images and symbols of Egypt:
others with Eastern tripods and strange Adriatic vases. Though
enraptured with St. Peter’s and the Vatican, with the gardens and groves
of pine, that surround this interesting city, still I cannot help sighing
after my native hills and copses, which look (I know not how it happens)
more like the haunts of Pan than any I have seen in Italy. I eagerly
anticipate the placid hours we shall pass, perhaps next summer, on the
wild range which belongs to our sylvan deities. In their deep fastnesses
I will hide myself from the world, and never allow its glare to bicker
through my foliage. You will follow me, I trust, into retirement, and
equally forget the turmoils of mankind. What have we children of the
good Sylvanus to do with the miseries or triumphs of the savages that
prowl about London? Let us forget there exists such a city, and when
reposing amongst ivy and blossoms of bloom, imagine ourselves in the
ancient dominions of Saturn, and dream that we see him pass along with
his rustic attendants.