made the country seem busy. The road was lined with great loads of hay moving to Rome, drawn by beautiful cattle, with long polished horns and distended nostril-worthy to be sacrificed to Jupiter himself. We passed several old ruins, and among the rest the Egyptian tumuli, at Monterone, which were opened by the Duchess of Sermoneta, in 1838. They are now closed again. Vases were found ornamented with the lotus, and painted ostrich eggs were not wanting. We also passed the Coritis Amnis, rendered classical by Virgil, as well as other pla ces of historic interest. The rich twilight of antiquity began to gloom about the old towers and castles, which ever and anon we perceived upon the sea-coast. Especially should be remembered, the polygonal walls of a Pelasgic temple, near the pictu resque fortress of Santa Sevaia, which was once the head-quar ters of the Tyrrhenian pirates.

As we approach Rome, these interesting relics increase. The very dust which flies in our faces is without doubt as sacred as it is unpleasant. For the distance of twenty miles before we reached Rome, St. Peter's lofty dome hung its conspicuous architecture in mid air; and what was so strange, although we saw it, as it were a half mile off, we did not approach seemingly any nearer. Indeed we never suspected it to be the marvel of Michael Angelo, until within a few miles of Rome, when the certainty flashed upon us, that it must be St. Peter's. We had thought it a church of some village near; but the dome of the "Pantheon hung in air" became more apparent, and by this great demonstration, we were assured that it was Rome itself we saw! I doubt if there can be any feeling more tumultuous and grand, than that which ushers Rome into the chambers of the vision! It was sunset as we approached the Cavalleggieri gate; and before we entered it the moon had assumed her mild sway, casting over the palaces and vineyards which lined the Aurelian way, her

-" wide and tender light
Which softened down the hoar austerity

Of ragged desolation, and filled

As 't were anew, the gap of centuries;

Leaving that beautiful which still was so,

And making that so, which was not, till the place
Became religion, and the heart ran over

With worship of the great of old.”

Can this be the fountain of Power, almost supernal? Power, secular in the past, which still rules our spirits "from its urns ;" Power spiritual, in the Present, which gives the canon to more than the half of Christendom!

We passed St. Peter's, with its colonnades, and its deep shadows, swelling vast and beautiful in the silver sheen of the moon. Driving down the piazza of St. Peter's, we recognized the lofty and lonely Castle of St. Angelo, and in a twinkling we were on its bridge, the old Pons Aelius, and the Tiber rolled beneath! We could not discern the color of the classic stream. The statues upon the bridge looked grim and majestic! This is ROME! Not the foster child of the she-wolf; for ancient Rome lies at the extreme south. This is Rome of modern days, whose apostolical rescripts have engaged the British parliament for months. This is the powerless-powerful Pontificate, whose thunders may be hushed by the French cannon the next hour, but whose silent authority is ministered unto by thousands of handmaid churches and millions of devotees, throughout the world!

After passing through some dirty, miserable streets, we emerged into the region of palaces, darted down a dark avenue, and drove under the old forum of Antoninus, upon whose high, massive roof there is a building and a profusion of verdure,and which is now used as a custom-house. While undergoing the customary search, we observed the eleven Corinthian columns o Greek marble. Some of the old architraves are preserved; but the bases and capitals are gone.


The eternal city has so often been described, and its every column numbered, that it would be gratuitous in me to attempt any thing of the kind.

Thus far we had found our own way, without the aid of swindling guides, but here they are necessary. Not only guides in the human shape become essential, but Murray himself began to compensate us for lugging him about. In the latter is found every spot of classical association; and to undertake, even upon a small scale, to enumerate these, would be as foolish as it is impossible. A few general views will suffice. These shall be taken without pedantry and without color.

There is one object connected with Rome that intrudes itself at every step. It is the French soldier. The sound of brazen martial music now reminds me of him. Pope Pius sleeps sweetly, no doubt, under the everlasting marching, fifing and tooting of the soldier. I understood that some time ago he sent word to the French commandant, that the city was in good order and quietude; but France was as obtuse as an adder to the hint. Why? Austria was pouring her soldiers into Tuscany, and it was feared that Rome was their final destination. The Pope and Cardinals, it is said, even second the efforts of the Republicans in order that they may be free from the French rule. There are now in this city over eight thousand French soldiers, and ten thousand more are expected. They infest galleries, churches, gates, villas and palaces. Rome seems destined by the Almighty to answer for her past sins in the triple exactions of a military, ecclesiastical and civil domination. It was here that the nations of old, including ancient Gaul, lost their liberty, and it is here the nations, including present Gaul, now appear to enslave Rome herself.


Passing through long lines of soldiery, we direct our course to Capitol Hill. From its tower, the general survey of the city should first be made. It stands between the new or Ecclesiastical Rome, and the old or Pagan Rome; between the living and the dead. This point is peculiarly appropriate and thrilling for a first view. It was here that GIBBON sat, when he contemplated the august relics of former glory; and saw starting from behind each fragmentary pillar or arch, the mysterious influence of Deity, writing the history of the nations. It was here that he first conceived the idea of writing the "decline and fall" of that city, the closing scene of whose magnificent career he describes as the "most awful in the annals of mankind."

At the base of the hill, on either side of the long flight of steps which have often been ascended by kneeling friars, is a fountain. The colossal Gemini are at the top of the flight, and a colossal bronze of Aurelius, on horseback, in the centre. On your left is the temple of Jupiter, which, like most of the ancient ruins, is converted from Paganism to Christianity. You find yourself, after many windings, in the tower. From the eastern view, immediately below, is the Forum, the spot which was once the heart of ancient Rome. The artist, upon the subsequent page, gives some idea of its position and appearance. It was here that Hortensius and Tully spoke, and winged words flew to the hearts of thousands through the same blue atmosphere which now surrounds these broken columns. Even yet,

"The immortal accents glow,

And still the eloquent air breathes,-burns with Cicero !"

The temple of Vespasian, now only three columns; the arch of Septimus Severus, with its strange configurations; the temple of Jupiter-the Thunderer-are seen; and further on, down the Sacra Via, on every side are irregular piles of ruins; tow

ering up sublimely among which, like a crown upon the hoary head of antiquity, is the Coliseum. On the right, the eye is absorbed by the immense ruins of the palace of the Cæsars, utterly misshapen and haggard, clothed with rank grass, and opening by damp vaults underneath. It is not unworthy of the description of Byron, who saw it covered with cypress and ivy matted together; with hillocks heaped upon what were chambers, with its arches and columns crushed into fragments, and nothing left but the name "Imperial Mount"-to tell how human greatness can fall.

As we stood looking upon the scene below, the eye ever and anon glancing toward the Tiber upon the right, and passing in one sweep its valley of relics, we could repeat almost in mockery the gratulations of Macaulay's lay, at the head of our chapter.

Mockery indeed, if we recur to the present. What a miserable set of people-what "a rakehelly rout of ragged rascals"are those below; some laying in the shadow of the Arch of Titus; some pitching coppers near Constantine's Basilica; some digging fishing-worms near the Appian Way; others driving miserable donkeys and ox-carts; others working in the ruins for relics; and others making ropes upon that pathway where the spoils of the extremest east and west were paraded, where legions of victorious braves marched under the potential eagle, where Sallust and Livy, Virgil and Horace (jolly old Satirist!), Marcellus and Cato, all walked and talked, and where the fluent sonorousness of the Latin rung upon the enchanted air and made Oratory immortal!

The men of might rise from these gloomy vaults and pass again beneath these crumbling arches and pillars—an exceeding great army. History gives up its dead, even in the midst of temples desecrated by the smell of fish and the meanest of offices. Theatres loom grandly, even though converted into stables; and mausoleums and palaces rise far into the glistening air, although Stefano has therein a blacksmith shop, or Michael sells in them cabbages to poor Franciscans. What are all these

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