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covered with green sward, and on its summit an annual festival is celebrated, resembling the 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. If a stranger could be reconciled to a grave in any foreign soil, the seclusion and quiet of this cemetery, lying on the banks of the Tiber, under the very walls of Rome and overshadowed by its venerable monuments, would present fewer repulsive ideas than any other spot, and have a strong tendency to overcome an attachment to the tombs of his ancestors. In our several visits, we entered the enclosure and examined, I believe, every stone it contains. Here, as at Leghorn and Naples, rest the remains of several of our countrymen. A handsome pillar of black marble, sculptured with urns, and inscribed with an appropriate epitaph, rises in memory of Mrs. M'Evers of New-York, who died at Velletri, in 1803, at the age of 18, while on a journey for the benefit of her health. Her tomb is beautifully shaded with shrubbery of various kinds, and the sod richly sprinkled with flowers. At the distance of a few rods, sleeps the dust of Lady Grenville Temple, the wife of an English Baronet. She was the daughter of George Watson, Esq. of Massachusetts. Her monument is conspicuous, ornamented with bass-relief, and overhung by the branches of a pine, through which the breeze sighed in melancholy whispers. In another part of the cemetery, a white marble slab, elegantly wrought, desig

nates the grave of Daniel Remsen, Esq. of New York, who died in February, 1822, at the age of 37. 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. He died in 1820, at the age of 53. The classical inscription“ Haud minus scriptis quam eximia artis sapientia insignis"-does justice to a man eminent for his attainments in science as well as for his taste in the works of art. Two rose-bushes, hanging their full clusters over a horizontal slab, attracted our attention to the grave of the young daughter of a German ambassador to the Papal court. Near the gate rests an anonymous English poet, whose epitaph complains of persecution, and states that on his death-bed," he requested his name to be writ in water.” The tomb of Percy B. Shelley, another English poet, 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 muse. It consists of an odd quotation from the Tempest of Shakspeare:

“ Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange."

In the same burying-ground is a monument in memory of an accomplished and interesting young lady, the niece of Lord Bathurst, who was thrown into the Tiber and drowned, while riding on horseback near the Milvian Bridge. It is singular that only two days before her death, she was in this very cemetery to pay a tribute of respect to the tombs of her countrymen. Her tragical fate excited universal sympathy at Rome. Another stone records the death of a tourist, who fell into the Anio at Tivoli, and was swept over the cataract.

Such are a few of the mementos, which remind the traveller to how inany dangers he is exposed, and call forth his gratitude for his own preservation.

By the side of the road, between the tomb of Caius Cestius 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 mournful event of the last meeting. The iden

* A citizen of Leghorn informed me, that he saw Shelley, when he embarked in his pleasure boat, with the management of which he was wholly unacquainted. Yet he persisted in launching forth, without a pilot, against the remonstrances of his friends. In an hour afterwards, his bark was capsized, and his body drifted upon the beach, where it was burnt on a funeral pile, in the Roman style, and his ashes inurned.-Sce the Conversations of Lord Byron.

tity 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, sbivered 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. Mad as the project may seem, the Pope is engaged in restoring this costly structure; and scaffoldings have been erected, on which men were at work, in pealing off seared frescos from the shell, preparatory to the contemplated repairs. Such is the folly and fanaticism of the papal government, in erecting temples where there are no worshippers, and in a region so pestilential, that for a considerable part of the

year, the most enthusiastic pilgrim would not venture to approach the shrine. Even the monks are driven from their rookery by the mal’aria, and compelled during the sickly months to seek refuge within the walls of Rome.

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 througlo such a perfect desert, in silent and sullen grandeur, only serve to deepon the picture of desolation. Deep excavations have been made in the undulating surface, for obtaining tufo. We saw here and there a shepherd tending bis 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.





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 Cæsar, 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. The glimmer of a solitary lamp at one of the altars enabled me to read the recorded honours, and enter a memorandum in my pocket-book, after daylight had vanished. I lingered long at the tomb, partly to enjoy the quiet of the scene, and partly with the hope of having an opportunity to thank the monk for his politeness. But his devotions were protracted to such lengths, that I was obliged to leave before he had finished his vespers. Mingled with a great deal of gross superstition, there is much genuine piety in the religion of Italy. It is impossible that this ecclesiastic could have been insincere, as no eye but that

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