hood so noble in its might, or age so venerable in its majesty, as here? If, in this ruined amphitheatre, humanity has been most debased, by the despoiling hand of cruelty, where has she exhibited more of the sublimest of her energies-the spirit of self-sacrifice? Often as this air has wafted the sigh and groans of suffering and remorse, has it not likewise borne upward the prayer of faith and the thanksgiving of joyful confidence? Though glances of ferocity and revenge have been turned, in impotent malignity, through this broad opening to the smiling sky above, how often have eyes, beaming with forgiving love, or fixed in religious fervour, looked into its blue depths, from the awful death of the Coliseum! And yet, while the abandonment and decay of Flavian's amphitheatre plainly indicate the departure of those ideas and customs, in accordance with which it was reared, the question forcibly suggests itself to the observer of its remains, has the principle, which sustained so long an institution like this, utterly and forever departed? Have we nothing in our experience, resembling what seems to have originated in a deeper sentiment than caprice, and from its long continuance and popularity, has an apparent foundation in our nature? The reply to such self-interrogations is affirmative. What student of humanity, or observer of man, does not recognize the same principle operating eternally? Those who hold the system of Christianity, in its purity, hold the whole philosophy of the principle. Individual man has arrayed against him the varied force of circumstances without and passion within. Of the insidiousness, the power of these opponents, who is ignorant? And there are, too, spectatorstoo often as heartless, curious, and cold lookers on, as those which thronged the galleries of the Coli seum. E THE PANTHEON, PALACES, CHURCHES. NEXT to the Coliseum, as an architectural remain, is the Pantheon. Its magnificent dome, antiquated and immense pillars, and old pavement, combine to realize the high anticipations with which it is visited. The proximity of this grand building to the scenes of ordinary life, exposed to the sounds and influences ever present in populous cities, and especially marred by the emblems of the popular faith, and surrounded by the filth of a market-place— these are circumstances which strike one most disagreeably, and break in most inharmoniously upon his cherished associations. The ruins called the Baths of Caracalla,' are massive and broken walls, indicative of former magnificence only from their number. Rank weeds have quite overgrown the space which they enclose. All the decorations and luxurious arrangements are gone; the former are either destroyed, converted into ornaments for modern churches, or preserved in the public museums. As one walks amid these deserted remains, a sense of solitude and mournful ness powerfully affects him even beneath the cheerful light of noon-day. The extensive site of these baths realizes, in a measure, our ideas of the state of elegant luxury to which the Romans had attained. The Baptistry of St. Constantine, a small octagonal building, contains several pillars of red porphyry and two brazen gates, taken from these baths. The summit of the Palatine Hill is, however, occupied with ruins still more remarkable, even considered as architectural vestiges. So complete is the deformity and decay which time and violence have worked upon that luxurious abode of royalty, the Palace of the Cæsars, that no observation, however critical, can discover any evidence of former splendour, except what is discoverable in the extent and solidity of the broken and straggling walls. These stand in heavy groups, or isolated and towering fragments, while about them the gay forms of vegetable life flourish, with a fertility that seems to mock the barrenness of the ruins which their green and clustering beauty but imperfectly conceals. As I wandered there, the mildness of the air was wonderful for the season, and the bright sun-light, verdant earth, and beautiful surrounding prospect, took from the view the sadness usually observable in scenes, the prominent features of which are antiquated. Yet, though the sterner shades of the picture were thus mellowed, its solemn lesson was as forcibly imparted. 66 Tully was not so eloquent as thou, Thou nameless column with the buried base! In the statue gallery of the Museum of the Capitol, comparatively little is found to excite admiration in the mind of one familiar with the treasures of the Vatican. The Dying Gladiator differed essentially from the notion I had previously entertained respecting it. The chief, the particular merit of this celebrated statue seems to consist in its admirable expression of physical suffering. The position, in view of the wound, is so perfectly true to nature (as described and illustrated by Dr. Bell), that one cannot but study it with growing gratification. But he must, I think, be very imaginatively disposed to discover that look of mental anguish and dying sentiment, which might be naturally anticipated. * In the Borgehese Palace I paid frequent and admiring attention to the most interesting work it contains-Raphael's Deposition from the Cross. The picture hall of the Palazzo Colonna must, when illuminated, present one of the finest scenes of the kind in Rome. After inspecting the views by Claude, and several works by the old masters, *Vide Bell's Philosophy of Expression. |