ving place to Paul, and Trajan to St.
Peter. Then, there are the ponderous buildings reared from the
spoliation of the Coliseum, shutting out the moon, like mountains; while
here and there are broken arches and rent walls, through which it gushes
freely, as the life comes pouring from a wound. The little town of
miserable houses, walled, and shut in by barred gates, is the quarter
where the Jews are locked up nightly, when the clock strikes eight--a
miserable place, densely populated, and reeking with bad odors, but
where the people are industrious and money-getting. In the daytime, as
you make your way along the narrow streets, you see them all at
work--upon the pavement, oftener than in their dark and frowsy shops;
furbishing old clothes, and driving bargains.

Crossing from these patches of thick darkness out into the moon once
more, the fountain of Trevi, welling from a hundred jets, and rolling
over mimic rocks, is silvery to the eye and ear. In the narrow little
throat of street beyond, a booth drest out with flaring lamps, and
boughs of trees, attracts a group of sulky Romans around its smoky
coppers of hot broth, and cauliflower stew; its trays of fried fish, and
its flasks of wine. As you rattle around the sharply twisting corner, a
lumbering sound is heard. The coachman stops abruptly, and uncovers, as
a van comes slowly by, preceded by a man who bears a large cross; by a
torch-bearer, and a priest; the latter chanting as he goes. It is the
dead-cart, with the bodies of the poor, on their way to burial in the
Sacred Field outside the walls, where they will be thrown into the pit
that will be covered with a stone to-night, and sealed up for a year.

But whether, in this ride, you pass by obelisks, or columns, ancient
temples, theaters, houses, porticoes or forums, it is strange to see how
every fragment, whenever it is possible, has been blended into some
modern structure, and made to serve some modern purpose--a wall, a
dwelling-place, a granary, a stable--some use for which it never was
designed, and associated with which it can not otherwise than lamely
assort.

II

FLORENCE

THE APPROACH BY CARRIAGE ROAD[26]

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

Immediately after leaving Incisa, we saw the Arno, already a
considerable river, rushing between deep banks, with the greenish hue of
a duck-pond diffused through its water. Nevertheless, tho the first
impression was not altogether agreeable, we soon became re