will one day belong to antiquity. Look! (for the expanded sun is on the horizon) it has already commenced its backward course, amid the mystery and the eternity of the past. The Coliseum, the most remarkable monument of all these mouldering wrecks, appears, from its present form, to be most liable to new changes; and though it has remained nearly two thousand years, and, had it been left to time and nature alone, would have probably perished only with the "great globe itself." It has been a theatre, a market, a fortress, a convent, a temple of christian worship, and a common quarry, from which brutal rapine long drew materials for other edifices. Three hundred years ago, the whole exterior circumference of one thousand six hundred and twelve feet stood entire! It is now rent asunder, and an immense segment of the wall is supported only by artificial aid. Whether the strength of its original construction, and the assistance of the modern architect, will succeed in preserving it for the amazement and admiration of posterity, is a question probably not yet decided, or perhaps discussed; as the holy fathers of the imperial city have, at present, other fabrics to prop, beside those reared by the ambition of Titus. But, while measuring the stupendous and broken summit from its base, the giddy, insecure height appears tottering in the air, and I half expected, as I turned away, to be astounded with the crash of its downfall. We may sympathise, in anticipation, with the regrets of posterity, for the loss of a spectacle so extraordinary and magnificent.

There is, however, cause to hope that most of these monuments will remain without any important change-an impressive lesson to future ages. The four great causes of their present ruin mentioned by Gibbon, are the injuries of time and nature, the hostile attacks of the barbarians and christians, the use and abuse of materials, and the domestic quarrels of the Romans. It may be presumed that the last three have ceased their operations, and even the first must act with diminished power. The injuries of natnre arise from tempests, earthquakes, or inundations. The first may overthrow a fabric, but cannot destroy the materials. The geological character of their situation, and the authority of experience, exempt them from serious apprehensions of the second; as one elegant historian observes, that the city has ever been free "from those convulsions

of nature which in the climate of Antioch, Lisbon, or Lima, have crumbled in a few moments the works of ages into dust." Danger from the Tiber is also now terminated, in consequence of the remarkable elevation of the plain, by the deposits of its once ungovernable flood. The vague and unassisted enmity of time, then, is the only foe which these mighty vestiges have to fear; and, as even his destroying step requires an indefinite number of centuries to dissolve to dust and air the rock and marble, their solid fragments may almost aspire to the same duration as the earth on which they lie.

With these emblems of mortality before him, another reflection forces itself upon the most casual observer. Asia, Africa, and Europe, exhibit, trains of other more ancient and resplendent cities, abandoned like this, to solitude and desolation. Palmyra, Thebes, Athens, Sparta, all moulder like wrecked ships, dry on the shore. Will the present metropolises of the world lie thus exposed to the wonder and pity of remote generations? Will some new barbarians strip St. Peter of its golden ceilings and precious marbles, and leave its grassy arena thus open to the sun and storm? Will Paris, London, and the fair and rising cities of my own land, at length sink to ruin, their busy millions swept utterly away-their fields unpeopled, and grown with weeds-their dwelling-houses and churches the haunt of owls, wolves, and robbers? These questions involve others of yet broader importance. Is human nature capable of a permanent improvement-may the earth at length unite in adoring truth, virtue and wisdom? Have two thousand years elevated the moral character of mankind? Was Washington more than Cincinnatus ? Were the subjects of Alexander, or of Constantine, less than those of Napoleon? In the tremendous vicissitudes of human affairs, which have placed the images of two Christian apostles on the triumphal columns of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius, which have reared the standard of Mahomet on Mount Calvary, and molten a statue of Jove into one of St. Peter; may not some new hero, drunk with the conquests of accident or military genius, lead the hordes of over-populated Asia and Europe, upon the broad and vacant fields of America, massacring her defenders, dragging her women into slavery, and passing the ploughshare over the site of her towns? What enterprise of Romulus or Cæsar, was more unjust than the

oppressions of Great Britain against Ireland, or us, her American colonies? Was Commodus or Caligula more monstrous accidents of circumstance and nature than that of Danton, Marat, and Robespierre? And where have antiquity and paganism equalled the satanic horrors of the inquisition? But Rome is not the spot where human nature would choose to be judged, unless an orator of surpassing eloquence stood here to defend her against the accusations of yonder plain.

The renowned churches amply repay a visit from their intrinsic splendours; their gorgeous displays of statuary and paintings, and the perpetual profusion of precious marbles. But they advance a more serious claim to interest in their relics, nearly all being blessed with some sacred deposit, of divine origin and miraculous virtue, from the thumb to the head, of a saint or an apostle. In spite of the thunders of Luther and his successors, a train of supernatural agents is yet in attendance on the Pope and his bishops. The nymph of Numa has fled from the fountain of Egeria, and Jupiter and Minerva, with all their pagan pomp, are no longer present to their earthly worshippers; but the hierarchy of saints and angels, with their subordinate deities, which the sturdy reformers imagined they had quieted for ever, are yet often occupied upon their old ground; and, if nature is no longer, as of yore, "the obsequious handmaid of the pope," she still sometimes waits upon him in a friendly way. The power of setting aside the course of the universe, still resides in these old relics. You would be astounded to hear a grave priest enumerating or exhibiting a lock of the Virgin Mary's hair, and a piece of her petticoat-a robe of Jesus, sprinkled with his blood; some drops of his blood in a phial; some of the water which flowed out of the wound in his side; a piece of the sponge, the lance, and the chain of the passion; the table off which he ate his last supper; a piece of the stone of the sepulchre on which the angel sat; the porphyry pillar on which the cock crowed when Peter denied his Lord; the well of Samaria, (a fine circular case of marble); the seat whereon the soldiers cast lots for the garments; the pillars of the temple rent asunder at the moment of crucifixion; the heads of Saints Peter and Paul; the baby-linen of Jesus, and the rod of Moses. Most of these we saw in San Giovanni in Laterano. One or two are, or at least were, exhibited in France. It

is natural enough that these should be shewn to the lower order of the Roman people, who devoutly believe their bishop can procure any favour from heaven by their potent aid; but it is curious that they should continually expose them to the impious incredulity or ridicule of strangers. But perhaps the two or three paoli received as a douceur by the exhibiter, may afford the apothecary's argument in Romeo and Juliet-"my poverty, and not my will, consents."

This mania for relics and saints is the remnant of the corruptions consequent upon the conversion of Constantine, and for twelve hundred years raged almost beyond the credulity of these more enlightened days. The disinterred bones of a martyr, or a malefactor (mistakes will happen), among other miraculous virtues, possessed the power of raising the dead. At Minorca, the relics of Saint Stephen, in eight days, converted four hundred and fifty Jews; and in the seventeenth century, an inveterate ulcer was cured by the touch of a prickle from the holy thorn. In dismissing this subject, let me transcribe for you the following interesting passage from the "History of the Decline and Fall of the Empire."

"After the final destruction of the temple, by the arms of Titus and Hadrian, a ploughshare was drawn over the consecrated ground, as a sign of perpetual interdiction. Sion was deserted; and the vacant place of the lower city was filled with the public and private edifices of the Delean colony, which spread themselves over the vacant hill of Calvary. The holy places were polluted with monuments of idolatry; and, either from design or accident, a chapel was dedicated to Venus, on the spot which had been sanctified by the death and resurrection of Christ. Almost three hundred years after those stupendous events, the profane chapel of Venus was demolished by the order of Constantine; and the removal of the earth and stones, revealed the holy sepulchre to the eyes of mankind. A magnificent church was erected on that mystic ground, by the first Christian emperor; and the effects of his pious munificence were extended to every spot which had been consecrated by the footsteps of patriarchs, of prophets, and of the Son of God.

"The passionate desire of contemplating the original monuments of their redemption, attracted to Jerusalem a successive crowd of pilgrims, from the shores of the Atlantic ocean, and the most distant countries of the east; and

their piety was authorized by the example of the Empress Helena, who appears to have united the credulity of age with the warm feelings of a recent conversion. Sages and heroes who have visited the memorable scenes of ancient wisdom and glory, have confessed the inspiration of the genius of the place; and the Christian who knelt before the holy sepulchre, ascribed his lively faith and fervent devotion to the more immediate influence of the divine spirit. The zeal, perhaps the avarice of the clergy of Jerusalem, cherished and multiplied these beneficial visits. They fixed, by unquestionable tradition, the scene of each memorable event. They exhibited the instruments which had been used in the passion of Christ; the nails and the lance that had pierced his hands, his feet, and his side; the crown of thorns that was planted on his head; the pillar at which he was scourged; and, above all, they shewed the cross on which he suffered, and which was dug out of the earth in the reign of those princes who inserted the symbol of Christianity in the banners of the Roman legions. Such miracles as seemed necessary to account for its extraordinary preservation and seasonable discovery, were gradually propagated without opposition. The custody of the true cross, which on Easter Sunday was solemnly exposed to the people, was intrusted to the bishop of Jerusalem; and he, alone, might gratify the curious devotion of the pilgrims by the gifts of small pieces, which they had enchased in gold, or gems, and carried away in triumph to their respective countries. But as this gainful branch of commerce must soon have been annihilated, it was found convenient to suppose, that the marvellous wood possessed a secret power of vegetation; and that its substance, though continually diminished, still remained entire and unimpaired."

A paragraph from the notes of a traveller, at present in Rome, describing the Vatican as a "large building erected by several popes prior to the French revolution!" while received by most as a matter of merriment, I shall improve into one of instruction. I may add, however, under the license of personal impression, that the Fountain of Egeria, so much painted and praised, did not appear to us invested with other charms than those derived from association; that the shapeless and enormous fragments, usually scattered by travellers over the Palatine hill, are either so diminished in size and number or perhaps so sunken in

the soil, as to be invisible to the prosaic coolness of a second visit; that notwithstanding the evidence of the guide-books, and the collateral assurances of the cicerone, the sceptical student will often find his classic fervours abated by doubt and dissatisfaction; and that the Tarpeian Rock, (whose identity, by the way, was long disputed by the antiquarians), is approachable only through scenes of beggary and filth; and that the eager visiter will never be more likely to inquire "Where is it?" than while standing on its summit. But Rome is changed, not only in a moral sense. The climate is no longer the same, but appears yielding to the encroachments of the awful morbific principle which already afflicts its people with disease and premature death. The shrunken river winds through an obstructed channel, (over what unheard of treasures!) and is nearly lost to the purposes of navigation; the remains of the sewers are of such a magnitude, that precludes even their repair by the papal government-the city has descended from the Seven Hills, the plain itself has risen many feet, and the dreadful summit of the Tarpeian Cliff, which frowned over the Forum in the days of Caius Manlius, has itself fallen, and its rocky fragments have disappeared with the names of its thousand victims !

If it has

Well, we have seen Rome. been a sincere gratification, it has been also a heavy labour. So powerful are the necessary exertion and excitement, both mental and bodily, that candidly, the spirit faints under the task, and we long for the repose and dulness of the common world. In some cases it is greatly prejudicial to the health; and an instance came under my observation, of a young man who actually killed himself here by sightseeing. For after dragging the rounds of this imperial city across the sunshiny squares, amid filth, offals, market-women, beggars, asses, barefooted friars, and skinned bull-frogs; into churches, whose sudden chill threatens health and life; now by torch-light exploring dungeons; now, with an umbrella, climbing hills, towers, steep flights of steps; here within the hall of St. Peter's, there in the Marmentine prisons, panting and sweating, you wish Rome and all her classical associations at the very devil. Then the cicerone, a dull, unceasing, unfeeling rascal, dinging your ears with swollen descriptions of heaven only knows what! Some one says, not without a shew of reason, "the pleasure is not to travel, but to have travelled." N. P. WILLIS.

"WELL," said I to myself, getting into the diligence to go from Havre to Paris, "a pretty day I shall have of it, to be crammed from sunrise till sunset in a jolting prison, face to face with a parcel of folks I have never before laid eyes on!" To tell the truth, I was in a mood for grumbling, and on looking at my companions there was nothing to soften it. They were well dressed, to be sure, but there was a general air of coldness, distance, restraint, that promised badly.

"What are we waiting for?" I inquired, rather pettishly, of the conduc

"Ah, gentlemen," said he, looking round on taking his seat, "I am glad to see we are full. A diligence is a dull affair, which nothing can make tolerable but good company.

My blue-devils took flight in a minute. The officer had made his remark in such a pleasant tone that it seemed immediately to banish the reserve and awaken the kind feelings of every one, and the next moment we were as merry as if we had been over a bottle of champagne. The Colonel was the life of the party; witty and easy, at the same time well-informed and polite.

In a

The diligence rolled on rapidly, and as we suddenly turned round a hill that overhung the river, one of the passengers cried out, "There is Caudeback; what a beautiful landscape!" moment every eye was directed through the windows and fixed in admiration. It was, indeed, a lovely prospect. The valley below, swelling in gentle undulations, was covered with wheat and rye fields in their tenderest green, and far away rose lofty hills in softened blue. Not a fence or hedge-row broke the wide-spread sea of verdure, but here and there wooded spots with lofty trees lay like islands, and white cottages sprinkled over the scene, shone like so many distant sails. Just at our feet glided on the river, broad, still, and silvery, which, here making a bend, en

closed most of the valley in its semicircle. The day was one of the sweetest to give effect to picturesque beauty; clear, without being dazzling, with a few light, white clouds now and then skimming across the sun, and varying the tints of the landscape beneath. Our handsome officer, who had hitherto been the life of the party by his wit, intelligence, and good humour, sunk back in his seat, with his hand passed over his eyes.

The diligence rattled on through the town, ascended the hill beyond, and entering a road, bordered on either side by formal rows of apple-trees, the beautiful landscape disappeared behind us. Once, and only once, as our lumbering vehicle was passing through the town, the officer looked hurriedly out of the windows, and convulsively shrinking back, resumed his former position. I know not how it was, but his sudden and incomprehensible taciturnity seemed contagious. From being as gay as a wedding party, we became as grave as the attendants of a funeral. The officer was the first to break the silence, and, by his conversational powers, our former hilarity was soon restored.

"And now, Monsieur l'officier," said a passenger, "if I be not too bold, pray tell me why you were seized with such a fit of the blue-devils-you, 'the gayest of the gay'-just when every one else was enraptured with the finest view on our route?"

The officer's countenance fell, but he immediately regained an appearance of composure.

"I have no reason, gentlemen," said he, "to make any mystery; and perhaps my involuntary conduct demands an explanation. I was in that town once before, and the sudden mention of it brought to memory one of the most eventful and awful scenes of my lifeone which I cannot even think of now without shuddering. I would detail what, after five years, has lost little of its original intensity, did I not fear of tiring you."

We all earnestly begged him to proceed, as we well perceived it was no ordinary circumstance that had produced such enduring effects on one of his temperament.

"Five years ago, then," said the officer, "as I was on my way from Paris to Havre, to join my regiment, the diligence, in passing through Rouen, took in an old gentleman and his daughwhose whole air and appearance

ter,

bore the stamp of birth and education. I occupied a back seat, and as they entered, I alternately offered it to both of them; but they declined, coldly, though politely. The other seats were filled with young officers, destined for the same place as myself. They were all strangers to me; yet, as there is a kind of free-masonry among military men, conversation soon became general and unrestrained among us. The father and daughter seemed alone excluded from the common gaiety. It was not until after perhaps an hour, that I bethought me of the want of good feeling, not to say of politeness, in making these two individuals feel that they were the only strangers. I addressed some few indifferent words to the old gentleman, who replied readily and freely, and we soon got into a steady and interesting conversation. He now, of his own accord, requested me as a favour to exchange seats, as riding backward affected him. This change brought me alongside the daughter; not a little to my wishes, you may be sure, as I was gal. lant to all the sex, and especially to those having any pretension to beauty. I had not distinctly seen my fair fellowtraveller, on account of her veil and bonnet; but a fine form, and glimpses of sparkling black eyes, and a lovely complexion, were quite enough. Never in my life did I use so much exertion to render myself interesting, and never with less success. She always answered me intelligently and politely, yet so very briefly, that after several attempts I desisted, and renewed my intercourse with the more sociable father. When we arrived at the hotel, in the town we have just passed, we officers agreed to sup together. The father and daughter withdrew to their apartments. Our supper was prolonged until pretty late in the night; but, as we had to depart at the break of day, we at last separated to get a few hours' repose. Whether it was the fatigue of the journey, mental excitement, or the effect of an extra glass, I know not, but I felt no inclination to sleep. I took books out of my trunk-novels, travels, and poetry-but all to no purpose. My eye glanced over the pages in a kind of vacuity, that left no distinct impression on the mind. I looked out at the moon, and paced up and down the room with a vague feeling of impatience and unhappiness, for no assignable reason. It was so very still that the ticking of my watch struck me with a distinctness so painful, that I stopped it.

"While in this state, I was startled by a voice quite near me, which I immediately knew for that of my fair fellow-traveller, warbling exquisitely, in a soft under-tone, the beautiful air Nel Corpo,' from the opera of Idalide. For a moment I experienced a thrill of satisfaction that a human being was awake, and so near me. On examination I found that there was a door between my room and hers, apparently long nailed up and disused. Two or three times I was on the point of tapping, and of attempting a conversation, but the utter impropriety and indelicacy of such conduct has often struck me. As I was impatiently ruminating, she commenced in the same sotto voce the song from Trilby Lutrin, Ecoute.' I listened till she had concluded the first verse. Then taking up the tune, I sang, loud enough for her to hear, the second verse, where Trilby replies to Jenny. Her voice immediately ceased, and after a few light footsteps and gentle movements, I heard no farther noise in her chamber. I listened long and eagerly, and then refiected with compunction that I had taken an unwarrantable liberty in breathing one accent to a strange lady in her bed-room.

"It must have been very late, when, wearied more in mind than body, I threw myself, without undressing, on the bed. As for sleep, I had no expectation of it. I did sleep, however— a sleep I shall never forget. Frequently I was awaked by sudden starts, and when I slumbered again I was surrounded by strange forms and faces, that stared frightfully at me, and shouted in my ear. My dreams eventually assumed greater distinctness on my senses. I seemed to hear tumultuous voices, the roaring of drums, the ringing of bells, and occasionally peals like thunder: I felt oppressed by the glare of light. Even now, I am conscious of having suffered much in the throes of that deep and feverish sleep. A noise like thunder, and a violent vibration, startled me from my uneasy couch, and I sprung on the floor; I looked around me with half-scattered senses; my dreams still continued, for I heard the shouts and screams of hundreds of voices; the drums rolled their alarms, as on the eve of battle; numerous bells clanged forth their jangling notes, and the room glared red with rapid flashes, as if illuminated by the burstings of a volcano. Accustomed to danger, I soon collected myself; I approached the