Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 104 December 1901 to May 1902 . any. Here and there we met him again inhis own country. Now it was in thevalley of the Clitumnus, the fairstream where the milk-white herds stillcome to bathe, and where, on the banks,is the temple, now classic in little saveits Virgilian memories, modest perhapsin itself, but borrowing majesty as itstands there between the hills, lording itover the great sweep of well - wateredpasture-land that stretches towards Spo-leto. And again we met him—or fanciedwe did—in Civita Vecchia, for did notVirgil sing the harbors as well as t
Harper's New Monthly Magazine Volume 104 December 1901 to May 1902 . any. Here and there we met him again inhis own country. Now it was in thevalley of the Clitumnus, the fairstream where the milk-white herds stillcome to bathe, and where, on the banks,is the temple, now classic in little saveits Virgilian memories, modest perhapsin itself, but borrowing majesty as itstands there between the hills, lording itover the great sweep of well - wateredpasture-land that stretches towards Spo-leto. And again we met him—or fanciedwe did—in Civita Vecchia, for did notVirgil sing the harbors as well as thepastures of Italy, and is not this thestateliest and most splendid of them all?You may object that its splendor islargely the work of papal, not ofimperial, builders. Of course I speakentirely of the harbor, for when you ar-rive at the big modern hotel and wanderthrough the mostly characterless streets,you are sure this is one of the rare townsin Italy in which there is nothing to your ramble brings you, presentlyand unexpectedly, to quays where tall. The Valley of the Clitumnus and the Temple S70 HARPERS MONTHLY MAGAZINE. ships lie at anchor, wide curving- stepslead down to the waters edge, tow-ers rise in the distance, the sun setsat the harbors mouth, and, for the firsttime, you know where Claude found hispictures.* A great part of the journey to Romewe were on the same Flaminian Wayover which Virgil often bumped and jolt-ed, bits of the old Roman paving, thatmust have sorely tried his temper, stillshowing. And from Rome it was againhis road, passing through Capua—withits domes, its stone-pines in lines alongthe river, and the jagged mountains ofits background—to that curving shoreround the Bay of Naples—the old Ro-mans Riviera. Had I been an ancientRoman and a poet, I too would, withHorace, have called Maecenas my for-tunes crowning grace, my constant stay,or anything else he chose; I would, withVirgil, have told Augustus that theworlds vast orb was his,
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