To study the flowing lines of the great angels traced upon the walls of the Chapel of S. Sigismund in the Cathedral of Rimini, to follow the undulations of their drapery that seems to float, to feel the dignified urbanity of all their gestures, is like listening to one of those clear early Italian compositions for the voice, which surpasses in suavity of tone and grace of movement all that Music in her full-grown vigour has produced.  There is indeed something infinitely charming in the crepuscular moments of the human mind.  Whether it be the rathe loveliness of an art still immature, or the beauty of art upon the wane—­whether, in fact, the twilight be of morning or of evening, we find in the masterpieces of such periods a placid calm and chastened pathos, as of a spirit self-withdrawn from vulgar cares, which in the full light of meridian splendour is lacking.  In the Church of S. Francesco at Rimini the tempered clearness of the dawn is just about to broaden into day.

* * * * *

MAY IN UMBRIA

FROM ROME TO TERNI

We left Rome in clear sunset light.  The Alban Hills defined themselves like a cameo of amethyst upon a pale blue distance; and over the Sabine Mountains soared immeasurable moulded domes of alabaster thunderclouds, casting deep shadows, purple and violet, across the slopes of Tivoli.  To westward the whole sky was lucid, like some half-transparent topaz, flooded with slowly yellowing sunbeams.  The Campagna has often been called a garden of wild-flowers.  Just now poppy and aster, gladiolus and thistle, embroider it with patterns infinite and intricate beyond the power of art.  They have already mown the hay in part; and the billowy tracts of greyish green, where no flowers are now in bloom, supply a restful groundwork to those brilliant patches of diapered fioriture.  These are like praying-carpets spread for devotees upon the pavement of a mosque whose roof is heaven.  In the level light the scythes of the mowers flash as we move past.  From their bronzed foreheads the men toss masses of dark curls.  Their muscular flanks and shoulders sway sideways from firm yet pliant reins.  On one hill, fronting the sunset, there stands a herd of some thirty huge grey oxen, feeding and raising their heads to look at us, with just a flush of crimson on their horns and dewlaps.  This is the scale of Mason’s and of Costa’s colouring.  This is the breadth and magnitude of Rome.

Thus, through dells of ilex and oak, yielding now a glimpse of Tiber and S. Peter’s, now opening on a purple section of the distant Sabine Hills, we came to Monte Rotondo.  The sun sank; and from the flames where he had perished, Hesper and the thin moon, very white and keen, grew slowly into sight.  Now we follow the Tiber, a swollen, hurrying, turbid river, in which the mellowing Western sky reflects itself.  This changeful mirror of swift waters