# A Picture-Book without Pictures and Other Stories/Pegasus and the Post-Horses

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New York: C. S. Francis & C.o, 252 Broadway, pages 143–152
PEGASUS AND THE POST-HORSES.
A Dialogue.
People have written descriptions of journeys in many ways; yet, I think, never in dialogue.
On the 24th of February, 1841, a traveling carriage with a deal of luggage drove out of Rome, through the Porta San Giovanni, drawn by two common post-horses; to these was, however, harnessed a third, which ran before the others, a creature full of fire and mettle—it was Pegasus himself; and there was nothing extraordinary in his having allowed himself to be thus harnessed, because inside the carriage there sate two poets and also a singer of great intellect, full of satisfaction and youthful enjoyment, for he was just come out of a monastery, and was on his way ​to Naples to study thorough-bass. In Albano he had exchanged the dress of the monk for a regular handsomely cut suit of black, and he might have been taken for a poet. Besides these three, there was a lady, who was an enthusiast for poets and poetry, but could not sit with her back to the horses. It was, as anybody may see, a very respectable party for Pegasus to draw. They took the road to Naples: we will now listen to the dialogue.
First Day’s Journey.
Pegasus.—The road to Albano runs along classic ground; by the side of aqueducts, miles long, which are decorated like the vestibule of a castle, and by graves overgrown by brushwood. A capuchin monk, with his begging-sack on his back, is the only person whom we have yet met. Now we are approaching the tomb of Ascanius. It towers upward with a gigantic colossus of masonry, overgrown with grass and bushes. Sing of all this, you poets inside there! sing of the Roman Campagna!
The Post-horses.—Take care, and pull ​your share, you fellow! What is the meaning of all those leaps? Now we are going up hill. In Albano we shall stop two whole hours: they have good oats there, and a roomy stable. Ah! we have a long way to go before we can rest to-night.
Pegasus.—Now we are in Albano. There is a house which we shall pass close by, in the street; it is low, only two stories high, and very small. The door opens at this moment, a man in a hunter’s dress comes forth; he has pale cheeks and intensely black eyes; it is Don Miguel, the ex-king of Portugal. Anybody could make a poem about that. Listen, you two poets there in the carriage! But no, they don’t hear! One of them is making himself agreeable to the lady, and the other is busying his thoughts about a tragedy
The Post-horses.—Now we have been fed; let us get ready to set out. It is a long stage up-hill and down. Don’t stop looking at that stone, it is the grave of the Horatii—but it is an old story. Now, go along!
Pegasus.—What splendid trees! What luxuriant evergreens! The road lies deep ​between the rocks; the water comes splashing down, and high up above on the mountains, between the tops of the trees, stands the magnificent dome of the church, as if in heaven. The bells sound. There stands a cross by the road-side; handsome girls are walking along, they bend before the cross and repeat their prayers on their rosary. We are approaching Genzano. The two poets alight from the carriage; they are going to see the Nemi lake, which was once the crater of a volcano. Yes, that is a much older story even than the Horatii. Let us canter whilst the poets get into an enthusiasm! They can catch us in Velletri. Let us have a gallop.
The Post-horses.—What is come to the first horse? he is like a mad thing! He can neither stand nor go! And yet one would think he was old enough to have learned both.
Pegasus.—Deep below us lie the green marshes overgrown with grass, and the rocky island of Circe in the sea. We are now in Cisterna, the little city where the Apostle Paul was met by his friends at Rome, when he was on his way to that city. Sing about ​it, you poets! The evening is beautiful; the stars twinkle. There is a girl lovely enough for sculpture, in the public-house at Cisterna; look at her, you poets! And sing about the fire-lily of the marshes!
Second Day’s Journey.
The Post-horses.—Now do go a little cautiously! not galloping in that way! There is a carriage driving before us, which we are not to pass on the road. Did not you yourself hear that there are German ladies in that carriage, who have no gentlemen with them, and they have, therefore, besought us that they may travel in company with us because they are afraid of banditti! It is not safe here! A year and a day ago we heard the balls hissing past us at this spot.
Pegasus.—The rain falls in torrents! Everything around us stands in water. The huts of reeds seem as if they were about to swim away from the green inundated island. Let us tear away! The road is even. There lies a splendid monastery, but the monks are all gone; the fogs of the marshes have driven ​them; the walls and marble pillars of the monastery are covered with green mould; the grass grows between the stones of the pavement; the bats fly round about the cupola. We dash through the open cloister gates, right into the church, and there pull up! You should see how the lady we are drawing is horrified into a marble statue! You should hear our chapel-master singing here! his voice is beautiful; he sings hymns on account of his preservation, and the two poets will tell the whole world of their life-emperilled adventures in the Pontine Marshes.
The Post-horses.—Take care you don’t get a taste of the lash! Do keep the middle of the road! We shall soon be in Terracina, where we shall rest; and on the frontiers we shall rest; and at the Custom-house we shall rest. That is the best thing in the whole journey.
Pegasus.—The sunlight falls on the yellow-red cliffs; the marshes lie behind us. Three tall palm trees stand close by the road; we are in Terracina. What is become of our company? One of them ascends the rocks between tall cactuses; on each side are ​gardens full of lemon and orange trees, every branch of which bends under the load of yellow, glittering fruit. He climbs the ruins of Theodoricksburg; from there he looks over the marshes to the north, and his heart sings—
But the other poet sits down below by the sea; yes, out there, by the sea, upon a huge mass of rock. He wets his lips with salt water, and says with exultation, “Thou heaving, wind-lulled sea! Thou embracest, like me, the whole world; she is thy bride; she is thy nurse. Thou singest of her in the storm! In thy repose thou dreamest of heaven! Thou bright, transparent sea!”
The Post-horses.—Of a truth those were capital oats we had in Terracina. It was a good road there also; and we stopped such a charming long time in Fondi. See! now again it goes up-hill. Of what good are the hills? First up and then down again! A fine pleasure that is.
​Pegasus.—The weeping willows tremble in the wind. How like a snake the road winds along the hill-side, by ruinous mounds and olive woods, all illumined by the red evening sunlight. A picturesque little town lies below us, and the peasants, full of life, are thronging the road. There is poetry in these hills! Come hither, thou who canst sing of it! Place thyself upon my back! My poets in the carriage there sit and are quite lazy. We career onward in this still starlight night, past cyclopean masses of brickwork, where ivy hangs like a garment over caves where lurks a bandit—onwards, past the confused mass of groves where Cicero fell by the dagger of an assassin. Between hedges of laurel and glittering lemon trees we approach his villa: to-night we shall dream in Mola di Gaeta.
The Post-horses.—That has been a cursed bit of a road! How we will eat, how we will drink, if the oats are but good! We will hope they may have fresh water there, and that we may each find an empty stall!
Third Day’s Journey.
Pegasus.—Beneath the foliage roof of the orange trees sat the beautiful lady, and one of the poets read aloud to her Italian poetry; glorious, melodious poetry! The chapel-master leaned against the tall lemon tree, and listened and looked at the same time between the tall cypresses out upon the sea, where the sunshine caught the white sails of the ships. The other poet ran about in the fields, gathered red anemones, wove garlands, plucked first one and then another glowing orange; and they leaped, like golden apples into the clear air. There was holiday in his heart: there was song upon his lips! He felt, “I am once more in Italy!”
The horses stood in the stable each with his head in the manger; they also were well off. But where I stood, I, Pegasus, there was a door in the wall, and the door was open. I stretched out my head, and saw above the tops of the lemon trees and the dark cypresses, the white town upon the isthmus in the sea; and I neighed so, that I fancy the poets recognized my voice.
​The Post-horses.—Now we are going on again to Sancta Agatha! There provender is excellent. Then again on to Capua, where there is the strong fortress and the bad water; but then the journey is soon at an end.
Pegasus.—How blue the mountains are, though! How blue the sea is, and the sky, also, has its beaming blue; it is three shades of one color! It is love expressed in three languages. See, how bright the stars are! See, how the city before us is spangled with lights! It is Naples, the beautiful city, the gay city, Naples! Naples!
And we were in Naples.
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