May 1st.—I am obliged to remove, because my rooms, with their splendid view, were already engaged by a family who are now expected daily. I have now, therefore, a little corner-room in the same house, with one eye—for, is not the window the eye of the room?—turned to Rome and St. Peter's, and the other glancing down upon gardens, one of which is full of roses in flower, and with a view towards Monte Aventino, the Tiber and the Temple of Vesta, and beyond them across the Campagna, but of which objects a tree, growing before the window, and the foliage of which becomes thicker every day, prevents one from seeing much. But it is good and beautiful to be even here. Here are still the same peace and rest, the same pure air, the same obliging and comfortable Theresa to wait upon me. Instead of the doves, I have now four handsome, nice children, playing in the garden, and every evening a great dance of fire-flies which come in ever-increasing numbers, and give their brilliant ballets amongst the shadows of the garden, until towards midnight. In the morning, I am awakened by the cheerful twittering of a number of birds, and rise at the sound of the melodious bells of the little church, Bocca della Verita, the lofty campanile of which rises near the Temple of Vesta, on the banks of the Tiber. The large bell has a singularly pure and musical tone, una bella voce, says Theresa.
The weather is perfectly glorious, and the moonlight magnificent. I enjoyed it last evening in company with my countryman, Mr. S——, as we walked in the acacia-alleys round the Colosseum. The moonlight which massed together the lights and shadows, caused
