First Sight of the Mediterranean--Embark at Leghorn--Elba--Italian Coast--Civita Vecchia--Passport Offices--Aspect and Population of Civita Vecchia--Papal Dungeons--Start for Rome--First View of the Campagna--Its Desolation--Changed Times--The Postilion--The Road--The Milestones--First Sight of the Eternal City--The Gate--Desolate Look of the City by Night--The Pope's Custom-House and Custom-House Officer. I rose early next morning, and walked down to the harbour, to have my first sight of the Mediterranean,--that renowned sea, on whose shores the classic nations of antiquity dwelt, and art and letters arose,--on whose waters the commerce of the ancient world was carried on, and the battles of ancient times fought,--whose scenery had often inspired the Greek and Latin poets,--and the grandeur of whose storms Inspiration itself had celebrated. A stiff breeze was blowing, and a white curl crested the wave, and freckled the deep blue of the waters. The Mediterranean looked young and joyous in the morning sun, as when it bore the fleets of Tyre, or heard the victorious shouts of Rome, albeit it is now edged with mouldering cities, and listens only to the clank of chains and the sigh of enslaved nations. Early in the forenoon I waited on the Rev. Dr Stewart, the accomplished minister of the Free Church in Leghorn. He opened freely to me his ample stores of information on the subject of Tuscany, and the work in progress in that country. We called afterwards on Mr Thomas Henderson, a native of Scotland, but long settled in Leghorn as a merchant. This kind and Christian man has since, alas! gone to his grave; but the future historian of the Reformation in Italy will rank him with those pious merchants in our own land who in former days consecrated their energy and wealth to the work of furthering the Gospel, and of sheltering its poor persecuted disciples. After sojourning so long among strange faces and strange tongues, it was truly pleasant to meet two such friends,--for friends I felt them to be, though never till that day had I seen their faces. At four of the afternoon I embarked in the steamer for Civita Vecchia, the port of Rome. The vessel I did not like at first: it was dirty, crowded, and, from some fault in the loading, lurched over while a stiff breeze was rising. By and by we got properly under weigh, and swept gallantly over the waves, along the coast, whose precipices and headlands were getting indistinct in the fading twilight. I walked the deck till past midnight, watching the moon as she rode high amid the scud overhead, and the beacon-lights of the island of Elba, as they gleamed full and bright astern. "What of the night?" I asked the helmsman. "Buono notte, Signore," was the reply. I descended to my berth.