Italian Hours/The Saint's Afternood and Others, introduction
Before and above all was the sense that, with the narrow limits
of past adventure, I had never yet had such an impression of what
the summer could be in the south or the south in the summer; but
I promptly found it, for the occasion, a good fortune that my
terms of comparison were restricted. It was really something, at
a time when the stride of the traveller had become as long as it
was easy, when the seven-league boots positively hung, for
frequent use, in the closet of the most sedentary, to have kept
one's self so innocent of strange horizons that the Bay of Naples
in June might still seem quite final. That picture struck me--a
particular corner of it at least, and for many reasons--as the
last word; and it is this last word that comes back to me, after
a short interval, in a green, grey northern nook, and offers me
again its warm, bright golden meaning before it also inevitably
catches the chill. Too precious, surely, for us not to suffer it
to help us as it may is the faculty of putting together again in
an order the sharp minutes and hours that the wave of time has
been as ready to pass over as the salt sea to wipe out the
letters and words your stick has traced in the sand. Let me, at
any rate, recover a sufficient number of such signs to make a
sort of sense.