aste, and heaps of ruins,
to which antiquaries--even Nibby himself--dare not give a name? All
swept away--buried beneath an ocean of oblivion, above which rise a
few great and glorious names, like rocks, over which the billows of
time break in vain.

"Indi esclamo, qual' notte atra, importuua
Tutte l'ampie tue glorie a un tratto amorza?
Glorie di senno, di valor, di forza
Gia mille avesti, or non hai pur una!"

* * * * *

One of the most striking scenes I saw to-day was the Roman forum,
crowded with the common people gaily dressed (it is a festa or saint's
day); the women sitting in groups upon the fallen columns, nursing or
amusing their children. The men were playing at mora, or at a game
like quoits. Under the vast side of the Palatine Hill, on the side of
the Circus Maximus, I met a woman mounted on an ass, habited in a most
beautiful and singular holiday costume, a man walked by her side,
leading the animal she rode, with lover-like watchfulness. He was _en
veste_, and I observed that his cloak was thrown over the back of the
ass as a substitute for a saddle. Two men followed behind with their
long capotes hanging from their shoulders, and carrying guitars, which
they struck from time to time, singing as they walked along. A little
in advance there is a small chapel, and Madona. A young girl
approached, and laying a bouquet of flowers before the image, she
knelt down, hid her face in her apron, and wrung her hands from time
to time as if she was praying with fervor. When the group I have just
mentioned came up, they left the pathway, and made a circuit of many
yards to avoid disturbing her, the men taking off their hats, and the
woman inclining her head, in sign of respect, as they passed.

All this sounds, while I soberly write it down, very sentimental, and
picturesque, and poetical. It was exactly what I saw--what I often
see: such is the place, the scenery, the people. Every group is a
picture, the commonest object has some interest attached to it, the
commonest action is dignified by sentiment, the language around us is
music, and the air we breathe is poetry.

Just as I was writing the word _music_, the sounds of a guitar
attracted me to the window, which looks into a narrow back street, and
is exactly opposite a small white house belonging to a vetturino, who
has a very pretty daughter. For her this serenade was evidently
intended; for the moment the musi