ul
to hear that melody, purchased at the expense of manhood.

Near the dome is a bronze statue of St. Peter, which seems to have a
peculiar atmosphere of sanctity. People say their prayers before it by
hundreds, and then kiss its toe, which is nearly worn away by the
application of so many thousand lips. I saw a crowd struggle most
irreverently to pay their devotion to it. There was a great deal of
jostling and confusion; some went so far as to thrust the faces of
others against the toe as they were about to kiss it. What is more
remarkable, it is an antique statue of Jupiter, taken, I believe, from
the Pantheon. An English artist, showing it to a friend, just arrived in
Rome, remarked very wittily that it was the statue of _Jew-Peter_.

I went afterwards to the Villa Borghese, outside the Porta del Popolo.
The gardens occupy thirty or forty acres, and are always thronged in the
afternoon with the carriages of the Roman and foreign nobility. In
summer, it must be a heavenly place; even now, with its musical
fountains, long avenues, and grassy slopes, crowned with the fan-like
branches of the Italian pine, it reminds one of the fairy landscapes of
Boccaccio. We threaded our way through the press of carriages on the
Pincian hill, and saw the enormous bulk of St. Peter's loom up against
the sunset sky. I counted forty domes and spires in that part of Rome
that lay below us--but on what a marble glory looked that sun eighteen
centuries ago! Modern Rome--it is in comparison, a den of filth, cheats
and beggars!

Yesterday, while taking a random stroll through the city, I visited the
church of St. Onofrio, where Tasso is buried. It is not far from St.
Peter's, on the summit of a lonely hill. The building was closed, but an
old monk admitted us on application. The interior is quite small, but
very old, and the floor is covered with the tombs of princes and
prelates of a past century. Near the end I found a small slab with the
inscription:

"TORQUATI TASSI
OSSA
HIC JACENT."

That was all--but what more was needed? Who knows not the name and fame
and sufferings of the glorious bard? The pomp of gold and marble are not
needed to deck the slumber of genius. On the wall, above, hangs an old
and authentic portrait of him, very similar to the engravings in
circulation. A crown of laurel encircles the lofty brow, and the eye has
that wild, mournful expression, which accords so well with the
myster