f Rome seem deterred from
approaching its favoured soil; it impresses the mind as a place set
apart by common consent for the presence of the innocent and the
joyful--as a scene that rest and recreation keep sacred from the
intrusion of tumult and toil.

Its appearance in modern days is the picture of its character for ages
past. Successive wars might dull its beauties for a time, but peace
invariably restored them in all their pristine loveliness. The old
Romans called it 'The Mount of Gardens'. Throughout the disasters of
the Empire and the convulsions of the Middle Ages, it continued to
merit its ancient appellation, and a 'Mount of Gardens' it still
triumphantly remains to the present day.

At the commencement of the fifth century the magnificence of the
Pincian Hill was at its zenith. Were it consistent with the conduct of
our story to dwell upon the glories of its palaces and its groves, its
temples and its theatres, such a glowing prospect of artificial
splendour, aided by natural beauty, might be spread before the reader
as would tax his credulity, while it excited his astonishment. This
task, however, it is here unnecessary to attempt. It is not for the
wonders of ancient luxury and taste, but for the abode of the zealous
and religious Numerian, that we find it now requisite to arouse
interest and engage attention.

At the back of the Flaminian extremity of the Pincian Hill, and
immediately overlooking the city wall, stood, at the period of which we
write, a small but elegantly built house, surrounded by a little garden
of its own, and protected at the back by the lofty groves and
outbuildings of the palace of Vetranio the senator. This abode had
been at one time a sort of summer-house belonging to the former
proprietor of a neighbouring mansion.

Profligate necessities, however, had obliged the owner to part with
this portion of his possessions, which was purchased by a merchant well
known to Numerian, who received it as a legacy at his friend's death.
Disgusted, as soon as his reforming projects took possession of his
mind, at the bare idea of propinquity to the ennobled libertines of
Rome, the austere Christian determined to abandon his inheritance, and
to sell it to another; but, at the repeated entreaties of his daughter,
he at length consented to change his purpose, and sacrifice his
antipathy to his luxurious neighbours to his child's youthful
attachment to the beauties of Nature as displayed