I will not tell you where,--I know
not that I shall ever tell where,--these months have been passed. The
great Goethe hid thus in Italy; "Then," said he, "I did indeed feel
alone,--when no former friend could form an _idea_ where I was." Why
should not ---- and I enjoy this fantastic luxury of _incognito_ also,
when we can so much more easily?
I will not name the place, but I will describe it. The rooms are
spacious and airy; the loggia of the sleeping room is rude, but it
overhangs a lovely little river, with its hedge of willows. Opposite
is a large and rich vineyard; on one side a ruined tower, on the other
an old casino, with its avenues of cypress, give human interest to the
scene. A cleft amid the mountains full of light leads on the eye to a
soft blue peak, very distant. At night the young moon trembles in the
river, and its soft murmur soothes me to sleep; it needs, for I have
had lately a bad attack upon the nerves, and been obliged to stop
writing for the present. I think I shall stay here some time, though I
suppose there are such sweet places all over Italy, if one only looks
for one's self. Poor, beautiful Italy! how she has been injured of
late! It is dreadful to see the incapacity and meanness of those to
whom she had confided the care of her redemption.
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