like that of a carrier
pigeon; for in Rome he found his appointed place, and there he spent in
congenial work the remaining years of his life. Yet he could say, in
the bitterness of his spirit, on reaching Rome, "I have come into the
world and into Italy too late." Nor may we contradict that bitter cry,
even in view of Winckelmann's great critical achievement; we have to
ask, Might it not have been greater still, had he not been thus _serus
studiorum_, as Horace phrases it--thus unluckily belated in his
culture?

All the traits of these migrations of men of genius are interesting,
and we may dwell for a moment, though at the risk of some digression,
upon Winckelmann's disappointment on his arrival in the city of his
desire. It was a pathetic disappointment, but one of a kind not
infrequent with sensitive minds. Long detained by poverty in the north,
it was not until the age of thirty-eight that he reached Italy; and
when at last he arrived in Rome, the longed-for city wore a strange
look for him--had an aspect for which he was not prepared. It was there
that his emotion broke out as we have seen. We can understand his
disappointment if we bear in mind the cruel treatment to which our
fancies are commonly subjected at the hands of the fact. How swiftly,
how silently, like the irrevocable sequence of images in a dissolving
view, our premonitions vanish under the light of the reality! The
actual Rome, the living man, the painting, the landscape which we
travel far to see--these dispel at once the preconception; a glance,
and the dream is gone, however long domesticated in the mind, however
brightly glowing but now in the imagination. Fact is a careless
bedfellow, and overlays the tender child Fancy; and even when nature
contrives the change less rudely, we can hardly resign our poor,
familiar fancies without regret. But sometimes, happily, we can do what
Winckelmann did not do; we can retain the old fancies and compare them
with the experience. Let me give a personal instance: I remember
framing the distinctest image of the lakes of Killarney from my
childhood readings in Peter Parley's veritable histories. There was the
cool spring, shaded with bushes, and pouring out abundant waters; and
there was the blessed Saint Patrick, standing by the rocky edge of the
spring, clasping down the stout lid of an iron-bound chest upon the
last of the unhappy serpents of Erin, and saying, "Be aisy, darlints!"
just before casting the b