On the way I learned that I was only five or six miles from Rome,
whereat I could have jumped for joy. As a child at home I had heard
wonderful stories of gorgeous Rome, and as I lay on my back in the
grass on Sunday afternoons near the mill, and everything around was so
quiet, I used to picture Rome out of the clouds sailing above me, with
wondrous mountains and abysses, around the blue sea, with golden gates
and lofty gleaming towers, where angels in shining robes were singing.
The night had come again, and the moon shone brilliantly, when at
last I emerged from the forest upon a hilltop, and saw the city lying
before me in the distance. The sea gleamed afar off, the heavens
glittered with innumerable stars, and beneath them lay the Holy City,
a long strip of mist, like a slumbering lion on the quiet earth,
watched and guarded by mountains around like shadowy giants.
I soon reached an extensive, lonely heath, where all was gray and
silent as the grave. Here and there a ruined wall was still standing,
or some strangely-gnarled trunk of a tree; now and then night-birds
whirred through the air, and my own shadow glided long and black in
the solitude beside me. They say that a primeval city lies buried
here, and that Frau Venus makes it her abode, and that sometimes the
old pagans rise up from their graves and wander about the heath and
mislead travelers. I cared nothing, however, for such tales, but
walked on steadily, for the city arose before me more and more
distinct and magnificent, and the high castles and gates and golden
domes gleamed wondrously in the moonlight, as if angels in golden
garments were actually standing on the roofs and singing in the quiet
night.
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