108 THE MOUNTAINS 



of history. And there may come tran- 

 scendent moments when the vastness of 

 your historic reach seems to be augmented 

 by the vastness of the sea, especially so 

 when the blue space of water is enlarged 

 as the horizon line is pushed back and 

 back into vagueness by the sun-beaten 

 track of molten silver. In such an ex- 

 perience the centuries drop away like 

 falling waves, you feel a suggestion of the 

 Infinite, and you know exactly what the 

 poet meant by the expression, "The press 

 of immensity's caress." 



Of all these dramatic localizations, 

 there is one picture which appears again 

 and again. Indeed, I have never visited 

 my old grove without seeing this particu- 

 lar picture. Southeast toward Spezia I 

 fix the locality. The definite point is a 

 hill a little behind and over the bay. On 

 this hill there is a monastery — that of 

 Santa Croce. At the outer gate of the 

 monastery stands a dust-begrimed trav- 

 eler. I can make out his thin, angular 



