off Trajan’s head they tell us, which had before been carried thither from the arch of Trajan himself.  The arch of Titus Vespasian struck me more than all the others we have named though; less for its being the first building in which the Composite order of architecture is made use of, among the numberless fabrics that surround one, than for the evident completion of the prophecies which it exhibits.  Nothing can appear less injured by time than the bas-reliefs, on one side representing the ark, and golden candlesticks; on the other, Titus himself, delight of human kind, drawn by four horses, his look at once serene and sublime.  The Jews cannot endure, I am told, to pass under this arch, so lively is the annihilation of their government, and utter extinction of their religion, carved upon it.  When reflecting on the continued captivity they have suffered ever since this arch was erected here at Rome, and which they still suffer, being strictly confined to their own miserable Ghetto, which they dare not leave without a mark upon their hat to distinguish them, and are never permitted to stir without the walls, except in custody of some one whose business it is to bring them back; when reflecting, I say, on their sorrows and punishments, one’s heart half inclines to pity their wretchedness; the dreadful recollection immediately crosses one, that these are the direct and lineal progeny of those very Jews who cried out aloud—­“Let his blood be upon us, and upon our children!”—­Unhappy race! how sweetly does St. Austin say of them—­“Librarii nostri facti sunt, quemadmodum solent libros post dominos ferre.”

The arca degli orefici is a curious thing too, and worth observing:  the goldsmiths set it up in honour of Caracalla and Geta; but one plainly discerns where poor Geta’s head has been carried off in one place, his figure broken in another, apparently by Caracalla’s order.  The building is of itself of little consequence, but as a confirmation of historical truth.

The fountains of Rome should have been spoken of long ago; the number of them is known to all though, and of their magnificence words can give no idea.  One print of the Trevi is worth all the words of all the describers together.  Moses striking the rock, at another fountain, where water in torrents tumble forth at the touch of the rod, has a glorious effect, from the happiness of the thought, and an expression so suitable to the subject.  When I was told the story of Queen Christina admiring the two prodigious fountains before St. Peter’s church, and begging that they might leave off playing, because she thought them occasional, and in honour of her arrival, not constant and perpetual; who could help recollecting a similar tale told about the Prince of Monaco, who was said to have expressed his concern, when he saw the roads lighted up round London, that our king should put himself to so great an expence on his account—­in good time!—­thinking it a temporary illumination made to receive him with distinguished splendour.  These anecdotes are very pretty now, if they are strictly true; because they shew the mind’s petty but natural disposition, of reducing and attributing all to self:  but if they are only inventions, to raise the reputation of London lamps, or Roman cascades, one scorns them;—­I really do hope, and half believe, that they are true.