attended the tropia, formed such a scene as no power of art can describe."

Having viewed this grand work of nature, we descended from the fiery mount. The same distance which required the laborious climbing of an hour, we accomplished in less than seven minutes. We went up over rough, rolling stones; we came down in a vein of ashes. Convulsed with laughter and shouting to each other, we descended nearly ten feet at a leap, sinking in the soft, flowing ashes as if it were light, drifting snow, raising a cloud of dust, and setting the yielding body in motion all around.

The traveler looks back to the toilsome journey up the sides of that quaking mountain with real delight. It forms an epoch in his life, to which he looks back as he grows old. The view which he obtains, whether the furnace is sending out its tides of lava, or whether it is in a quiescent state, gathering by a momentary slumber fearful powers for a new outbreak, he can never forget. It is so unlike any other object on which he can gaze, and withal so terrible, that he carries to the grave with him the acquaintance which he has formed with the rumbling, churning, smoking, storming pit, down into which no traveler has descended and returned again to tell the story of its fiery mines, which age after age burn on, supplied with fuel from the hand of God, and fanned by revolving systems.

And there they will continue to burn as age after age rolls away, and from time to time will flow forth the tide of fire, which will pour itself down upon the beautiful plains below, causing the inhabitants to fly in terror from the homes which they have decorated, and

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.

“Ah, little thought I, when in school I sat,
A schoolboy on his bench, in early dawn,
Glowing with Roman story, I should live
To tread the Appian...

or climb the Palatine,

Long while the seat of Rome !”

We arrived at length, and after being defrauded by custom-house officials, passed through the Porta Caval leggieri, — where the French suffered so dreadfully in 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 Ælius, 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 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