in Rome show that they were decorated with prodigal magnificence, and with everything that could excite the passions,—­pictures, statues, ornaments, and mirrors.  The baths were scenes of orgies consecrated to Bacchus, and the frescos on the excavated baths of Pompeii still raise a blush on the face of every spectator who visits them.  I speak not of the elaborate ornaments, the Numidian marbles, the precious stones, the exquisite sculptures that formed part of the decorations of the Roman baths, but of the demoralizing pleasures with which they were connected, and which they tended to promote.  The baths ultimately became, according to the ancient writers, places of excessive and degrading debauchery.

     “Balnea, vina, Venus corrumpunt corpora nostra.”

If it were possible to allude to an evil more revolting than the sports of the amphitheatre and circus, or the extravagant luxuries of the table, I would say that the universal abandonment to money-making, for the enjoyment of the factitious pleasures it purchased, was even still more melancholy, since it struck deeper into the foundations which supported society.  The leading spring of life was money.  Boys were bred from early youth to all the mysteries of unscrupulous gains.  Usury was practised to such an incredible extent that the interest on loans in some instances equalled, in a few months, the whole capital; this was the more aristocratic mode of making money, which not even senators disdained.  The pages of the poets show how profoundly money was prized, and how miserable were people without it.  Rich old bachelors, without heirs, were held in the supremest honor.  Money was the first object in all matrimonial alliances; and provided that women were only wealthy, neither bridegroom nor parent was fastidious as to age, or deformity, or meanness of family, or vulgarity of person.  The needy descendants of the old patricians yoked themselves with fortunate plebeians, and the blooming maidens of a comfortable obscurity sold themselves, without shame or reluctance, to the bloated sensualists who could give them what they supremely valued,—­chariots and diamonds.  The giddy women in love with ornaments and dress, and the godless men seeking what they should eat, could only be satisfied with what purchased their pleasures.  The haughtiest aristocracy ever known on earth, tracing their lineage to the times of Cato and boasting of their descent from the Scipios and the Pompeys, accustomed themselves at last to regard money as the only test of their own social position.  The great Augustine found himself utterly neglected at Rome because of his poverty,—­being dependent on his pupils, and they being mean enough to run away without paying him.  Literature languished and died, since it brought neither honor nor emolument.  No dignitary was respected for his office, only for his gains; nor was any office prized which did not bring rich emoluments.  Corruption was so universal