"Leo was at his villa at Magliana when the news of the entry of his troops into Milan was brought to him. He gave himself up to the feeling which is wont to accompany the successful termination of an enterprise, and contemplated with pleasure the festivities with which his people were preparing to celebrate his triumph. Up to a late hour in the night he went backwards and forwards from the window to the blazing hearth; it was in November. Somewhat exhausted, but full of joy and exultation, he returned to Rome. The rejoicings for the victory were just ended, when he was attacked by a mortal disease. 'Pray for me,' said he to his attendants, that I may still make you all happy.' He loved life, but his hour was come. He had not time to receive the viaticum, nor extreme unction. So suddenly, so early, so full of high hopes, he died as the poppy fadeth." "The Roman people," adds Ranke, "could not forgive him for dying without the sacraments, for spending so much money, and for leaving debts. They accompanied his body to the grave with words of reproach and indignation. You glided in like a fox,' said they; 'you ruled like a lion, you died like a dog.' Posterity, however, has stamped a century, and a great epoch in the advancement of the human race, with his name." Passing by Tor di Valle, where the emissary of the Alban Lake, made before the fall of Veii, discharges itself into the river, the church and convent of San Paolo alle Tre Fontane comes into view, a little removed from the banks on the right, about two miles distant from Rome. On the spot where this church stands St. Paul is said to have been beheaded. There is a fragment of a column shown on which he is supposed to have suffered. Near the altar are three several springs of water, said to mark the places where the head fell and rebounded. On the floor some curious and rude mosaics from Ostia symbolize the four seasons. There are also two other churches near. One of them contains some fine mosaics of the modern school. But the most interesting of the three is an old basilica built by Honorius the First in the year six hundred and twentysix, affording an excellent sample of the earliest form of Christian architecture in its transition from the ancient pagan temple. It has eight arches on either side, supported by pilasters. The roof is open woodwork, the wide nave being without chapels. In the front of the church is a portico supported by granite columns. The convent is inhabited by Trappist monks. It would be difficult to imagine a more dreary spot than that of this little settlement. Buried in a hollow of the Campagna, surrounded by desolate hills laid bare in many places for the pozzolana earth which they contain, removed from other habitations, in an unhealthy locality, it must surely be trying to the resident religious community. Perhaps, however, the wholesome rule of living by the labour of their own hands, the quiet retirement and peaceful thoughts nourished thereby, may enable these recluses to support so uncircumstantial an existence even with pleasure and satisfaction. A mile nearer to Rome, and close to the river, the Basilica of St. Paul stands, which early tradition marks as his burialplace. This splendid temple occupies the position of what was formerly one of the noblest monuments of Christian architectural art-the ancient Basilica of St. Paul, once under the protection of the kings of England, begun in the year three hundred and eighty-eight on the site of one still more ancient over the remains of a Roman Christian lady. This was destroyed by fire in eighteen hundred and twentythree, and of all its costly marbles and mosaics only a few fragments were saved. Large sums were immediately set aside and collected for its restoration. Whatever the former building may have been, it is not easy to imagine anything grander in its manner than that which has now taken its place. It has a spacious nave surmounted by large mosaic portraits of the popes from the earliest times; four ranges of enormous polished granite columns on either side sup porting a ceiling of carved and gilded woodwork: the floor is of polished marble, in which these columns are reflected as in a mirror. The fine altar and baldacchino borne on pillars of alabaster, the noble mosaics saved from the ancient church in the apse, the precious stones of costliest inlay with which the church is lined, the open, airy look communicated by the abundant light falling everywhere on objects of splendour, fill the mind with amazement and defy description. It must be confessed, however, that the tender and reflective nature of the Christian religion would seem to demand a more pensive atmosphere, more subdued lights and quieter surroundings whereon to rest the eye in its most devotional moods. This gorgeous fabric would more remind one of the ordered grace and elegance of some magnificent pagan temple of old than of the toned and softened accessories with which Christian worship loves to surround itself. Perhaps the more thoughful visitor will be better satisfied. with the tranquil images presented to the mind in the tasteful fancies of the adjoining cloister. Gracefully carved columns supporting the roof inclose a square patch of picturesque garden-ground. Once these columns were inlaid with mosaics, but time and sacrilegious hands have now carried them almost all away. Here the sunshine rests, seen from pleasant shade, where the good brothers of former days have walked and mused in the still hours of recreation. There still seems to linger an ancestral devotion about its quaint flower-beds and crumbling walls which time cannot destroy. Nothing can be conceived more unattractive than the external appearance of this wonderful temple. Bare, blank walls of light blink with straight, ugly-looking slits for windows, whilst the campanile is a monumental epitome of architecture gone mad. Pile upon pile of incongruous masonry climb to a height of ugliness it would be hard to match in the whole history of architectural follies. Perhaps, however, in neglecting the outside of the building the archi tect may have had the artistic intention of surprising the spectator with the contrast between the exterior and interior. If he had any such aim he certainly could not have carried it out more effectually. Just after passing St. Paul's the inconsiderable stream of the Almo empties itself. It was famous in ancient days as the spot where the image of Cybele and the utensils belonging to her worship were annually washed with great state and pomp. Ovid, speaking of the ceremony, says, "There is a spot where the rapid Almo flows into the Tiber, and the lesser stream loses its name in the greater. There does the hoary priest in his purple vestments lave the lady goddess and her sacred utensils in the waters of the Almo."* The custom is also alluded to by other writers. This stream flows from the so-called Grotto of Egeria by the temple of Bacchus on the Campagna, and is afterwards crossed by the Appian Way; but its source really lies in the Alban Hills near Marino, from which place it is conveyed to the Grotto by a subterranean channel. As we followed the windings of the river the dome of St. Peter suddenly met the sight and as suddenly vanished. The sun had long since set. The stars came out above our heads, shyly at first, and then more brightly. The mirth and merriment died away to a more reflective silence, and when we slid up to the quay the outline of the lofty Aventine, with its convents and churches and crowning cypresses, was softened in the silvery light of the moon and one fair planet that burned brightly beside it. Pale lights glimmered in the street. Friends bade each other farewell, and the faint murmurs of the city came to us muffled through the stillness of night. *“Est locus, in Tiberin qua lubricus influit Almo, Et nomen magno perdit ab amne minor. Illic purpurea canus cum veste sacerdos Fasti, iv. 337. CHAPTER III. ROME. FROM THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY TO THE TOWER OF ANGUILLARA. WH HAT a strange sensation is that which overpowers the traveller on his first arrival in Rome! With what varied and innumerable associations is his mind. filled! The very name of it is laden with memories which breathe a vitality through the vanished centuries, ensouling the present with the mighty energies and active life of the past. At first everything seems to bear a consecration to him; but presently his reverence gives place to a tender and loving interest, which familiarity seems rather to increase than diminish: so that nobody who has once visited Rome wishes it may be for the last time. The first object that meets the eye on entering the city by the upward course of the river is the Protestant burialground. It is situated on a gentle slope falling from the ivied walls-a beautiful spot, planted with tall cypresses that rise above its graves, dispensing a solemn gloom about their muffled precincts. There is, perhaps, no place in Rome so soothing as this tranquil corner in the evening hours, when the throstle sings his latest song and the cawing jackdaw retires to rest. Then everything seems to be surrounded with an atmosphere of repose. The far-off sounds of the city lulled to a faint murmur, the increasing dimness, the drooping immortelles, and the quiet graves— all breathe a pensive peacefulness through the mind, making death appear no more a mystery and a sorrow— |