fully quiet and rural-looking, though within the walls
of a city. In this valley once stood the famous grove where Numa
Pompilius had his mysterious interviews with the nymph Egeria. A
spring still bubbles forth beside a cluster of farm-buildings, which
is said to be the veritable Fountain of Egeria. The temple of the
Muses, who were Egeria's counsellors, was close by; and the name of
the gate of the city, _Porta Capena_, was in all likelihood a
corruption of Camena, the Latin name for Muse, and was not derived, as
some suppose, from the city of Capua. The spot outside the present
walls, formerly visited as the haunt of the fabled nymph, before the
discovery of the site of the Capena gate fixed its true
position--beautiful and romantic as it is--was only the nymphaeum of
some Roman villa, used as a place of retirement and coolness in the
oppressive heat of summer. Of all the legends of Rome's earliest days,
none is more poetical than that which speaks of the visits of Numa to
this mysterious being, whose counsels in these sacred shades were of
such value to him in the management of his kingdom, and who dictated
to him the whole religious institutions and civil legislation of Rome.
Whatever historical basis it may have, the legend has at least a core
of moral truth. It illustrates the necessity of solitude and communion
with Higher Powers as a preparation for the solemn duties of life. All
who have influenced men permanently for good have drawn their
inspiration from lonely haunts sacred to meditation--ever since Moses
saw the burning bush in the desert, and Elijah bowed his strong soul
to the majesty of the still small voice at Horeb.

The romance of the grove of Egeria was, however, dispelled when the
valley was turned into a place of imprisonment for the Jews. Domitian
drove them out of the Ghetto, and shut them up here, with only a
basket and a wisp of hay for each person, to undergo unheard-of
privations and miseries. The Horticultural Gardens, where the shrubs
and plants are grown that ornament the public squares and terraces of
the city, now occupy the site of the celebrated grove. The shrill
scream of the railway whistle outside the gate, and the smell of the
gas-works near at hand--these veritable things of the present
century--are fatal to all enchantments, and effectually dissipate the
spell of the muses and the mystic fragrance of the Egerian solitude.
But wonderful is the persistence of a spring in a spot. C