passage leading down is an indentation in the wall, resembling one side of a human head and face. This, we were informed, was an indentation made by the head of Peter as he went down into the dungeon, being pushed violently by the jailers. In the middle of the lower chamber is a pillar, to which the apostle is said to have been chained; and also a fountain of cold, delicious water, which is said to have been produced by miracle. The story is, that Martinian and Processus were led by the correctness of Peter's life, and the earnestness of his exhortations, to believe on Jesus. They became disciples of the Nazarene, and yielded their hearts to the new faith. One day, being in the dungeon conversing with the prisoner, whom they dared not release, they requested baptism at his hands. "There is no water," he replied; "and how can I do it without water?" "You can pray for it, and God will send it to you," they answered. The apostle fell on his knees, commended the converts to the grace of God, and prayed that he would furnish water for the baptismal service. When he arose, a fountain sweet and pure gushed up from the very spot which had been pressed by his knees, and they received the initiatory rite into the Christian church. This may all have been so, but we took the liberty to doubt it, admitting at the same time that the water was the best we ever tasted.

From these prisons, a passage leads into the dark catacombs of Rome. I wished to enter, and having done so, my friends closed the door; and though I knew I should soon be liberated, there came over my mind the most mournful feeling which I had experienced for years. A damp, cold chill sent a shiver through my frame, and as I groped about a moment

in the dismal darkness, a crowd of thoughts rushed upon me, such as I have seldom known. I seemed to have stepped down into the vestibule of death, and lost my connection with living men, and the mind rushed along the dark passage; and when the door opened, and I stepped out again into the prison and the torchlight, my spirit seemed to have lingered with the bones. of martyrs in the mighty catacombs. Leaving the dungeon, we noticed a bass-relief representing Peter pouring water upon the head of the jailers, as they kneel before him. But, however much we may believe of these traditions, we know that Peter and Paul too were confined in these prisons the former for the space of nine months, after which time he was taken out and crucified with his head downward. The spot on which the Vatican now stands is supposed to have been the scene of his awful martyrdom.

Not far from these prisons is the "Tarpeian Rock,” or "Traitor's Leap," down which those persons condemned for treason were obliged to cast themselves. This rock derives its name from Tarpeia, the daughter of a Roman magistrate, who betrayed Rome, and, for gold, opened the gates of the city to the Sabines. They entered, and, instead of redeeming their pledges, they cast their shields upon her in derision, until she died beneath the weight. She was buried near the place, and the rock took her name. It is nothing more nor less than a high, rough, abrupt precipice, on the southern side of the Capitoline Hill, some seventy oreighty feet in hight. Condemned criminals were brought here, and cast down upon the rocks below; and, though this custom has expired, the "Traitor's Leap" is pointed out as one of the spots known and familiarized by its connection with the death of many a convicted felon.

I would not close this brief and imperfect account of the ruins of ancient Rome without a reference to the tombs of the now perished nobility of other days. And first we went to the tomb of the Scipios, out on the Appian Way-several subterranean chambers, over which waves a solitary cypress tree. We knocked loudly at a rough gate, which was opened by a gypsy girl, with a straw hat and a loose dress, none too long, a perfect Bloomer, who threw back the tresses of her flowing hair, which fell loosely upon her shoulders, and gave us candles, and ran singing along before us into the tomb of perished greatness. We groped our way along the hollow chambers, deciphering, as best we could, the inscriptions which identify the place, to the very spot where once the ashes of Scipio Barbatus, now scattered and lost, reposed in death. The very graves of the illustrious family have been robbed by the popes, to fill up the Vatican, and a gypsy woman and her daughter occupy the tomb itself. Time, the leveler of all things, the destroyer of man and his work, has been here, and with his breath scattered the dust of men who once lived in honor, but whose names are now almost unknown, and over whose sepulchers not a tear is shed by sage or poet.

The tomb of Caius Cestius, remarkable as being a pyramid, was to me an object of some interest. As the only pyramid I had ever seen, it claimed my attention, and was, perhaps, more observed on this account than from the fact that it towers over the remains of a tribune of the Roman people. It is built of tufa and brick, and is covered with marble slabs or blocks. It is one hundred and thirty feet high, and at the base is one hundred feet square. It contains but little room within, the walls being nearly twenty-five feet thick.

And yet I presume the dead care not what tomb encloses, or what monument rises over them. I presume that death is not sweetened by the reflection that a marble pyramid will rise over the stricken body, and ages will come to weep beside it. Here is a point at which ambition, pride, and honor die, and man is in all his weakness and his want.

I might take you to the tomb of Augustus, which has been used as a fortress, a theater, a temple, and a tower; to that of Bibulus, which, for nearly two thousand years, has been adorned and assailed in turn; to the Columbarium, where the dust of freemen and slaves mingles in a common urn, and the ashes of the humble and the proud alike await the shock of the last great day.

While viewing the remains of ancient Rome, the mind is irresistibly carried back to the times of the Cæsars, when the city was in its glory and prime, and when these ruins were fair and elegant buildings, exciting the envy and admiration of all nations. One cannot help contrasting the Rome of the past and the present; and as a view of the ancient magnificence of the empire rises before him, he feels a greater contempt for the weak and inefficient rule which has destroyed the beauty and corrupted the purity of the capital of the world. His soul rises against the prince who wears upon his head a triple crown, but whose heart beats not in sympathy with man.

But you have heard enough of this-enough of circus, forum, column, and temple; and we turn from them to another view of Rome, which we shall find more amusing, if not more interesting.

4.7

XXIX.

ANTIQUITIES RELICS.

THERE is a class of objects which I scarcely know whether to call antiquities or not. They claim an age which carries them back to the time of Christ, but have an appearance suspiciously modern; hence I give them place by themselves, between the Rome of the Cæsars and the Rome of the popes. Rome abounds with relics; and some of them are so curious, that a description of them may not be uninteresting. Connected with St. John Lateran, a church which will be referred to hereafter, is the famous Scala Santa, or Holy Staircase, said to be the identical stairs over which Christ descended into the judgment hall of Pilate. Whether the identity of this relic can be proved is a question. Proof does exist to show that the house was taken down and removed to Rome, and this spacious staircase would compare very well with what we may suppose Pilate's hall to have been in other respects. But, while the identity of the stairs is very apocryphal, the use to which they are put is very plain. These stairs now lead to a little Gothic chapel at the top, while another parallel staircase, separated by a wall, runs up on each side. There are twenty-eight of the holy steps, and pilgrims ascend them on their knees. The number who make the ascent is so great, that, a few years ago, it was found necessary to cover them with plank, lest the marble should be entirely worn away. One of our