The “Transfiguration” is truly called the first picture in the world.  The same glow of inspiration which created the Belvidere, must have been required to paint the Saviour’s aerial form.  The three figures hover above the earth in a blaze of glory, seemingly independent of all material laws.  The terrified Apostles on the mount, and the wondering group below, correspond in the grandeur of their expression to the awe and majesty of the scene.  The only blemish in the sublime perfection of the picture is the introduction of the two small figures on the left hand; who, by-the-bye, were Cardinals, inserted there by command.  Some travelers say the color is all lost, but I was agreeably surprised to find it well preserved.  It is, undoubtedly, somewhat imperfect in this respect, as Raphael died before it was entirely finished; but “take it all in all,” you may search the world in vain to find its equal.

January 1, 1846.—­New Year’s Day in the Eternal City!  It will be something to say in after years, that I have seen one year open in Rome—­that, while my distant friends were making up for the winter without, with good cheer around the merry board, I have walked in sunshine by the ruins of the Coliseum, watched the orange groves gleaming with golden fruitage in the Farnese gardens, trodden the daisied meadow around the sepulchre of Caius Cestius, and mused by the graves of Shelley, Keats and Salvator Rosa!  The Palace of the Cassars looked even more mournful in the pale, slant sunshine, and the yellow Tiber, as he flowed through the “marble wilderness,” seemed sullenly counting up the long centuries during which degenerate slaves have trodden his banks.  A leaden-colored haze clothed the seven hills, and heavy silence reigned among the ruins, for all work was prohibited, and the people were gathered in their churches.  Rome never appeared so desolate and melancholy as to-day.

In the morning I climbed the Quirinal Hill, now called Monte Cavallo, from the colossal statues of Castor and Pollux, with their steeds, supposed to be the work of Phidias and Praxiteles.  They stand on each side of an obelisk of Egyptian granite, beside which a strong stream of water gushes up into a magnificent bronze basin, found in the old Forum.  The statues, entirely browned by age, are considered masterpieces of Grecian art, and whether or not from the great masters, show in all their proportions, the conceptions of lofty genius.

We kept on our way between gardens filled with orange groves, whose glowing fruit reminded me of Mignon’s beautiful reminiscence—­“Im dunkeln Laub die Gold Orangen gluhn!” Rome, although subject to cold winds from the Appenines, enjoys so mild a climate that oranges and palm trees grow in the open air, without protection.  Daisies and violets bloom the whole winter, in the meadows of never-fading green.  The basilic of the Lateran equals St. Peter’s in splendor, though its size is much smaller.  The walls are covered with gorgeous hangings of velvet embroidered with gold, and before the high altar, which glitters with precious stones, are four pillars of gilt bronze, said to be those which Augustus made of the spars of Egyptian vessels captured at the battle of Actium.