barities of the Past, this congregation of shrines
and bloody pictures mars very much the unity of association so necessary
to the perfect enjoyment of any such scene.

We saw the flush of sunset fade behind the Capitoline Hill, and passed
homeward by the Forum, as its shattered pillars were growing solemn and
spectral through the twilight. I intend to visit them often again, and
"meditate amongst decay." I begin already to grow attached to their
lonely grandeur. A spirit, almost human, speaks from the desolation, and
there is something in the voiceless oracles it utters, that strikes an
answering chord in my own breast.

In the _Via de' Pontefici_, not far distant from the Borghese Palace, we
saw the Mausoleum of Augustus. It is a large circular structure somewhat
after the plan of that of Hadrian, but on a much smaller scale. The
interior has been cleared out, seats erected around the walls, and the
whole is now a summer theatre, for the amusement of the peasantry and
tradesmen. What a commentary on greatness! Harlequin playing his pranks
in the tomb of an Emperor, and the spot which nations approached with
reverence, resounding with the mirth of beggars and degraded vassals!

I visited lately the studio of a young Philadelphian, Mr. W. B.
Chambers, who has been here two or three years. In studying the legacies
of art which the old masters left to their country, he has caught some
of the genuine poetic inspiration which warmed them. But he is modest as
talented, and appears to undervalue his works, so long as they do not
reach his own mental ideal. He chooses principally subjects from the
Italian peasant-life, which abounds with picturesque and classic beauty.
His pictures of the shepherd boy of the Albruzzi, and the brown maidens
of the Campagna are fine illustrations of this class, and the fidelity
with which he copies nature, is an earnest of his future success.

I was in the studio of Crawford, the sculptor; he has at present
nothing finished in the marble. There were many casts of his former
works, which, judging from their appearance in plaster, must be of no
common excellence--for the sculptor can only be justly judged _in
marble_. I saw some fine bas-reliefs of classical subjects, and an
exquisite group of Mercury and Psyche, but his masterpiece is
undoubtedly the Orpheus. There is a spirit in this figure which
astonished me. The face is full of the inspiration of the poet, softened
by the lover's tendernes