use of the wrath of the Lord, it shall not be
inhabited, but it shall be wholly desolate. Every one that goeth by
Babylon shall be astonished, and hiss at all her plagues. Cut off the
sower from Babylon, and him that handleth the sickle in the time of
harvest. I will also make it a possession for the bittern, and pools of
water. And Babylon, the glory of kingdoms, shall be as when God
overthrew Sodom and Gomorrah: it shall never be inhabited, neither dwelt
in from generation to generation; but wild beasts of the deserts shall
lie there, and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures, and owls
shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there."

About half-way to Rome the road parted company with the shore, and we
turned inland over the plain. The night came on with drifting showers,
which descended in torrents, lashing the naked plain, and battering our
vehicle with the force and noise of a waterspout. And though at length
the moon rose, and looked out at times from the cloud, she had nothing
to show us but houseless, treeless desolation; and, as if scared at what
she saw, she instantly hid her face in another mass of vapour. The
stages were short, and the halts long; for which the postilion had but
too good excuse, in the tangled web of thong and cord which formed the
harnessings of his horses. The harnessing of an Italian _diligence_ is a
mystery to all but an Italian postilion. The postilion, on arriving at a
stage, has to get down, shake himself, stride into the post to announce
his arrival, unharness his horses, lead them deliberately into the
stable, bring out the fresh ones, transfer the same harness to their
backs, put them to, gulp down his glass of brandy, address a few more
last observations to the loiterers, and, finally, light his cigar. He
then mounts with a flourish of his whip; but his wretched nags are not
able to proceed at a quicker trot than from three to four miles an
hour. He meets very probably a brother of the trade, who has been at
Rome, and is returning with his horses. He dismounts on the road,
inquires the news, and mounts again at his pleasure. In short, you are
completely in the postilion's power; and he is quite as much an autocrat
in his way as the Czar himself. He sings, it may be, but his song is the
very soul of melancholy,--

"Roma, Roma, Roma, non e piu,
Come prima era."

It needed but a glance at that pale moon, and drifting cloud, and naked
plain, to tell me that "Rome was