ancient Saturnalia. Not far from its base, rises to the height of about 120 feet the proud and substantial pyramid, in honour of Caius Cestius, the purveyor for the feasts of the gods, who seems to have possessed nothing beyond official dignity, to entitle him to such a distinction. A lateral door, kept under lock and key, opens into the spacious vault, arched at top, in which the sarcophagus was deposited, in the style of the Egyptian kings. A cicerone conducted us down a flight of steps into the vacant, murky, and gloomy sepulchre, pointing out the half obliterated frescos upon the roof. But it contains little that deserves the attention of the visitant. The name of the wealthy Roman is pompously displayed on one of the faces of the exterior. The burying-ground for strangers is not less beautiful and interesting than the Protestant Cemetery at Leghorn, described in a former letter. It lies in the form of an exact square, enclosed by a moat ten feet in width and fifteen in depth, laying bare the pavement of the old Ostian Way. The sides of the entrenchment are neatly walled up with substantial masonry, and a draw-bridge, with a gate kept locked, forms the only entrance. Copses of pine, yew, elm, acacia, and other shrubs, together with a coat of rank grass enamelled with the red poppy and a variety of wild flowers, shade the grounds, half concealing the beautiful white marble monuments rising amidst the foliage. Here, as at Leghorn and Naples, rest the remains of several of our countrymen. Among the tombs of strangers, which most interested us, was that of the celebrated Doctor John Bell, of Edinburgh, whose book on Italy has lately been published. The tomb of Percy B. Shelley, the friend of Lord Byron, who was drowned on the coast of Tuscany, is among the most conspicuous in the new cemetery, contiguous to the old one. His epitaph is as eccentric as was the character of his It consists of an odd quotation from the Tempest of Shakspeare: muse. "Nothing of him that doth fade, By the side of the road, between the tomb of Caius Ces tius and the Church of St. Paul, is a little shrine said to be erected on the spot, where the two Apostles parted just before their execution. A Latin inscription records the mourn ful event of the last meeting. The identity of the scene, and even the fact of an interview, rests on a vague tradition. St. Paul's without the walls, once second only to St. Peter's in its dimensions and magnificence, is now a mass of bleak ruins, having been a few years since destroyed by fire. Useless as was this splendid temple, in the deserts of the Campagna, where there are no inhabitants within miles of its doors, it is painful to behold such a wreck of the arts. Massive and beautiful fluted pillars of the Corinthian order, shivered and calcined by the flames, strew a mosaic pavement about 250 feet in length, and half that distance in breadth. The whole area is covered with the stumps, shafts, and fragments of capitals and friezes. No less than one hundred and twenty of these immense columns, many of which were from the tomb of Adrian, rose along the nave and aisles of this proud temple, forming colonnades and vistas of unequalled splendour. A monk from a neighbouring convent, the few inmates of which are pallid with sickness, and starving amidst the waste by which they are surrounded, conducted us through his own cloisters, and over the sad remains of the church, prolonging his services as much as possible, with the hope of augmenting his fee. Behind the place where the high altar once stood, now strewed with the molten scoria of its precious gems, he showed the reputed tomb of St. Paul, in the form of a subterranean vault, with a small altar, before which a taper is still kept burning, and flings its dim rays upon the surrounding ruins. In a second visit to St. Paul's, we extended our ride two miles farther on towards Ostia, to a place where it is said the great Apostle of the Gentiles and many of his proselytes suffered martyrdom. To whatever degree of credibility the legend may be entitled, it has been sufficient in the eyes of the faithful to impart peculiar sanctity to the scene of suffering; and here three other churches have been erected, in the very depths of the Campagna, forming the remotest outposts in the chain of ecclesiastical fortresses encircling Rome. The solitudes in this region are absolutely appalling. There is not to my recollection a single dwelling on the road, in the whole distance of four or five miles from the gates of the city. Glimpses of the Tiber, rolling through such a perfect desert, in silent and sullen grandeur, only serve to deepen the picture of desolation. Deep excavations have been made in the undulating surface, for obtaining tufo. We saw here and there a shepherd tending his flock of sheep and goats on the green but lonely waste. The most interesting of the group of churches, standing within a few rods of one another, is St. Paul's of the Three Fountains. It is intrinsically a pretty temple, rich in its decorations, among which are two columns of green porphyry, extremely beautiful. But this chapel relies chiefly on its associations, for its attractions both to pilgrims and travellers. In one corner stands a white marble pillar, protected by an iron grate, and a Latin inscription states that it is the identical block, on which St. Paul was beheaded. One of the two monks, who seem to be the sole residents in the vicinity of these three churches, confirmed the authenticity of the tradition, and was very loquacious in citing authorities. But the marble block, (an odd material for the purposes of decapitation,) is not the greatest wonder in this marvellous shrine. Along the walls are three fountains, which, according to the same legendary tales, burst forth all at once in a miraculous manner. The friar scooped up a ladle full of the water and gave us to drink. It was found to be pure and refreshing. Two or three squalid peasants, who were journeying from the mouth of the Tiber to Rome, and who here halted to kneel at the holy altar, also drank at the fountains, as if there was some peculiar virtue in the draught. LETTER LXXV. ROME CONTINUED-TOMB OF TASSO-CORSINI PALACE-MOUNT JANICULUM-FOUNTAIN OF PAUL V.--VILLA DORIA PAMFILI -DORIA PALACE--SCENE UPON THE CORSO--PALAZZO ROSPIGLIOSI--GUIDO'S AURORA--GALLERY. June, 1826.-A solitary pilgrimage to the tomb of Tasso afforded me great pleasure. It is in the church of St. Onofrio, situated on the brow of the Janiculum, overhanging the ancient gardens of Caesar, and commanding a charming view of Rome. A small terrace in front is beautifully shaded with elms, and the cloisters of the Convent, in which the great epic poet of modern Italy died in penury, exhibit an air of deep seclusion. My visit was at evening. Finding no one in the vicinity, I entered the church alone to look for the tomb. A young friar, the only person in the chapel, happened to be kneeling at his vespers on the very slab in the pavement, which covers the dust, and is inscribed with the name of the divine poet. The kind-hearted ecclesiastic, guessing my errand, rose and after pointing to the spot without uttering a word, knelt at a little distance to finish his evening devotions. I followed his example in kneeling, for the less pious purpose of enabling me in the obscurity of twilight to read the inscription, which was found to be as follows:-" Torquati Tassi ossa hic jacent"-here rest the remains of Torquato Tasso. He died in 1644, at the age of 51, after a series of persecutions and misfortunes, such as Italian genius seems to have been destined in all cases to experience, amidst the collision of parties, the intolerance of the church, the tyranny of petty sovereignties, and the jealousies of individuals. On the wall opposite the slab covering his ashes, is a handsome monument to his memory, consisting of a marble tablet, bearing a long Latin epitaph; a beautiful medallion of the poet, with other decorations in good taste, the whole surmounted by a cross. On the 14th, all our party went to the Corsini Palace, situated beyond the Tiber, at the foot of the Janiculum. The principal object of our visit was to look at the gallery of statues and paintings. Of the former the number is small and uninteresting, in comparson with the museums at the Capitol and Vatican; but the collection of pictures contains some of the choicest specimens we have found in Italy. The walls of several apartments are covered with the productions of the first artists, and there is scarcely a mean work in the gallery. Before all others, I had almost said here or elsewhere, is an Ecce Homo, the head of the Saviour, by Guercino. It is a sublime effort of the mighty master, and will produce an emotion in every mind, however unschooled in the arts. From the Corsini Palace, we pursued our excursion to the summit of Janiculum, whence a splendid panoramic view of Rome and its environs was obtained. Near the top is the noble Fountain of Paul V. one of the finest among the hundred, which purify, refresh, and adorn the imperial city. Not merely a brook, but a river, brought thirty-five miles in an aqueduct, here gushes through five apertures in a wall, and descends in foam into a magnificent marble basin. Between the silver streams are half a dozen splendid Ionic columns of red'granite, surmounted by a rich frieze, all taken from the Forum of Nerva. Passing out of the Porta di San Pancrazio, which spans the old Aurelian Way, we visited the Villa Doria Pamfili, belonging to a descendant of the Genoese Liberator. It is one of the most extensive in the environs of Rome, being about four miles in circuit. The grounds are filled with groves, walks, lakes, and fountains, much resembling in style, the gardens at Versailles. In some instances, the woods and waters are fine. The most conspicuous tree is the pine, rising to a moderate height, with a flat spreading top. In the embellishment of this park, art has done too much. Every object has been distorted, and few of the negligent graces of nature are left. : The next day we went to the Doria Palace in the Corso. It is a large and magnificent structure, presenting a handsome front to the street. The apartments are generally elegant one of them is peculiarly splendid, the walls being covered with mirrors, somewhat in the style of the Serra, at Genoa. The gallery of pictures comprises a rare collection. Two of the finest are Cain slaying Abel, and Belisarius, both by Salvator Rosa. The latter is an admirable production, characterized by all the wild and gloomy grandeur of its author's imagination. A landscape view is in perfect harmony with the character of the hero, who is represented with an erect form and undaunted brow, treading amidst ruins. There is sublimity in the angry sky, and forests shattered by the storm. The contrast between such a scene and some of Claude Lorraine's soft, sunny, and quiet landscapes, in the same collection, is peculiarly striking. There is not a wider difference between the poetry of Thompson and Byron. Several of Claude's most finished.pieces, are in this gallery. For one of them, not more than four feet square, an English nobleman offered $20,000. He is wholly inimitable and in comparable in his department, as far transcending other artists in rural scenery, as Raphael does in portraits. After dinner we strolled for an hour through the Corso, to look at the living, moving, and busy world of fashion. The display in this street, between 6 and 7 o'clock each evening, is a spectacle worth seeing. Eyes which have slept away the day, then begin to sparkle, and the reign of pleasure commences. A spirit of rivalship in show and luxury, something in the style of the old patricians, still prevails among |