the graves over which they have wept, to find shelter and repose in villages beyond the reach of Vesuvius

and its waves of ruin.

How poor, weak, and mean do the noblest works of art appear, in contrast with the magnificent works of God! The glory of Westminster Abbey and St. Peter's dwindles away when compared with the everchurning volcano, and the snow-covered ridges of mountains. Man is dumb, art is speechless, when from the open lips of nature God utters his voice. The creature is lost-he forgets himself; while high as the heavens, and broad as the universe, is God, towering over humanity, yet reaching down to it; above all art, yet encouraging it; superior to all science, yet the Author of it. Such is nature! such is God!

XXVIII.

THE ROME OF THE CÆSARS.

THERE is yet a magic in the name of Rome, though its ancient glory has departed. Around that word clusters all that is noble and generous in republican government, all that is illustrious in wealth and power, all that is captivating in human greatness, all that is degrading in cruel persecutions, all that is dishonorable in treachery and usurpation, all that is base in duplicity and crime, all that is contemptible in wretchedness and ignorance, and all that is devilish in pagan idolatry and Papal superstition. Pure Christianity, military greatness, imperial despotism, and Popish absurdity have in turn swept across the seven hills, and chased each other along the banks of the yellow Tiber. From the death of Romulus, its founder, to this hour, Rome has been the center of the world-the object of interest and expectation, and in turn alike the friend and foe of man.

We arrived at Rome, on our way from Naples, just at nightfall -fit time to enter a city whose sun is well nigh set. Long before we arrived, the dome of St. Peter's was seen looming up before us, like a vast bank resting against the sky; and as we thundered along the road towards it in a lumbering diligence, conversation was suspended, and each one of our company, busy with his own thoughts, strained his eager eyes to distinguish in the distance the ETERNAL CITY.

We arrived an learth, und die being defrauded by custom-bouse officials, passed through the Porta CATEL leggieri - where the French suffered so dreally their attack on the city a few years ago, and at which they entered with the most terrible loss-leaving St. Peter's to the left. rolling down the hill, across the Pons Elins, under the very shadow of the castle of St. Angelo, over which the Roman flag was flying, but beneath which French soldiers were leaning on their arms, the masters of the city, and the rulers of the pope himself We found lodgings on favorable terms at a hotel in Via della Croce, and in a few hours were comfortably at home, engaged in making our plans for a general survey of the city.

Rome is located in the midst of the great Roman Campagna, on seven hills. The Tiber divides it, and flows in its sluggish course through its very midst. The best view is obtained from the tower of the Capitol, on the Capitoline hill, from which the other six, the Quirinal, the Viminal, the Palatine, the Aventine, the Esquiline, and the Cælian are all in view. The Capitol seems to divide what are called the old and the new cities. We look out from the elevation in one direction, and at our feet is the old Roman Forum, stretching away from the slope of the hill to the Palatine; conspicuously in front are the ruins of the old Temple of Saturn and the House of Concord; the Arch

of Septimius Severus, in a good state of preservation, and covered with bass-reliefs;

"The nameless column, with a buried base;"

the pillars of the Temples of Minerva and Romulus; the winding Via Sacra, the favorite walk of Horace, the world-renowned Way, trod by emperors, warriors, and priests; the old Coliseum, looking like some gigantic citadel, covered with the moss of ages, and gazing down with frowns upon the surrounding city; the Arch of Titus, with bass-reliefs representing the conqueror's return from Jerusalem, bringing with him the consecrated vessels of the Jewish temple; and numberless other relics of the dead and buried past.

On the other side, the new city lies spread out before the eye. The Corso, black with the passing multitudes; the Tiber, winding its way upon its noiseless course; the domes of churches and the roofs of convents; and, back of all, the form of St. Peter's, rising in its vast proportions and beautiful architecture, while all around is stretched the desolate Campagna, like a plain of death, thick with malaria and contagion. Far off in one direction are the mountains, whose sides are adorned with villas, vineyards, and tombs; away in another direction rolls the blue sea, whose melancholy moan seems to come borne upon every breeze, as if sighing the fall of mighty Rome. My object now is to describe briefly some of the ruins in the old city- the Rome of the past.

I begin with the Coliseum, the grandest monument of ancient Rome, which was built in the first century, for gladiatorial purposes. At its dedication by Titus, thousands of beasts were sacrificed, and for ages the arena streamed with human blood. Like other amphi

theaters, it is oval in form, surrounded by walls, four stories high, supported by huge columns, and forming splendid chambers and galleries, which have now fallen into decay. The whole structure covers six acres of ground, and the outer walls rise to the hight of one hundred and fifty-eight feet, and would contain nearly ninety thousand persons as spectators, leaving an immense arena for the cruel combat. A part of the walls have been thrown down, and the building has been robbed of its decorations, to increase the glory of the new city. Though crumbling to pieces, it speaks of its former beauty and grandeur, and tells its horrid tales of assassination, cruelty, and blood from every fallen pillar and every broken arch. As I stood in the center of the arena, beside a rude wooden cross, which has been erected by Papal priests, and which if any one shall kiss, an indulgence of two hundred days is granted to him, I seemed to see the flitting shadows of the early Christians who wrestled here with wild beasts, and fell martyrs to the rage of pagan idolatry. Here suffered, in this way, the illustrious Ignatius, the venerable Bishop of Antioch, who loved, and was familiar with, the apostles. Hated for his sublime faith, he was torn from his faithful church, and escorted to Rome. To his brethren he sent, from the very jaws of death, a comforting message. "Let fire and the cross," he wrote, "let companies of wild beasts, let breaking of bones and tearing of members, let the shattering in pieces of the whole body, and all the wicked torments of the devil come upon me, only let me enjoy Jesus Christ. All the ends of the world, and the kingdoms of it, will profit me nothing. I would rather die for Jesus Christ than rule to the utmost ends of the earth. Him I seek who died for us.

This is the gain that is