dallying leaves each impression firmer and stronger. Sometimes working in the morning, I should like not to leave off but to write steadily on, but I say to myself, “Now there is the Vatican to see,” and once there I only leave it in turn with reluctance, so each occupation becomes a pure delight, and one pleasure is a foil to another. If Venice seemed like the gravestone of its own past, its ruinous, modern palaces and the enduring remembrance of a bygone supremacy giving it a disquieting, mournful impression, the past of Rome strikes one as history itself; its monuments ennoble, and make one at the same moment serious and joyful, for there is joy in feeling how human creations may survive a thousand years and yet possess their quickening restoring influence. Each day some new image of that past imprints itself on my mind, and then comes the twilight, and the day is at an end. Then I seek out my acquaintances and friends; we exchange news of what each has done, or, what is the same thing here, enjoyed, and these meetings are very pleasurable. The evenings I spend mostly at Bendemann’s and Hübner’s, who get together a number of German artists; every now and then I go to Schadow’s as well. One valuable acquaintance I have made is that of the Abbé Santini, who has a very complete collection of old Italian music, and gladly lends or gives me anything I want. He is the embodiment of kindness. At night, however, he is obliged to have Ahlborn or myself to accompany him home, for to be alone in the streets at a late hour would bring an abbé into ill repute. For fellows like Ahlborn and myself to be
