“And trailing clouds of glory did they come.”

On the Palatine Hill were the houses of Cicero and the Gracchi; Horace, Virgil, and Ovid resided on the Aventine; and Mecaenas and Pliny on the AEsquiline.  If one little fragment of a wall remained, which could with any shadow of probability be pointed out as belonging to the residence of Cicero, Horace, or Virgil, how much dearer, how much more sanctified to memory would it be than all the magnificent ruins of the fabrics of the Caesars!  But no—­all has passed away.  I have heard the remains of Rome coarsely ridiculed, because, after the researches of centuries, so little is comparatively known—­because of the endless disputes of antiquarians, and the night and ignorance in which all is involved; but to the imagination there is something singularly striking in this mysterious veil which hangs like a cloud upon the objects around us.  I trod to-day over the shapeless masses of building, extending in every direction as far as the eye could reach.  Who had inhabited the edifices I trampled under my feet?  What hearts had burned—­what heads had thought—­what spirits had kindled there, where nothing was seen but a wilderness and waste, and heaps of ruins, to which antiquaries—­even Nibby himself—­dare not give a name?  All swept away—­buried beneath an ocean of oblivion, above which rise a few great and glorious names, like rocks, over which the billows of time break in vain.

    “Indi esclamo, qual’ notte atra, importuua
    Tutte l’ampie tue glorie a un tratto amorza? 
    Glorie di senno, di valor, di forza
    Gia mille avesti, or non hai pur una!”

* * * * *

One of the most striking scenes I saw to-day was the Roman forum, crowded with the common people gaily dressed (it is a festa or saint’s day); the women sitting in groups upon the fallen columns, nursing or amusing their children.  The men were playing at mora, or at a game like quoits.  Under the vast side of the Palatine Hill, on the side of the Circus Maximus, I met a woman mounted on an ass, habited in a most beautiful and singular holiday costume, a man walked by her side, leading the animal she rode, with lover-like watchfulness.  He was en veste, and I observed that his cloak was thrown over the back of the ass as a substitute for a saddle.  Two men followed behind with their long capotes hanging from their shoulders, and carrying guitars, which they struck from time to time, singing as they walked along.  A little in advance there is a small chapel, and Madona.  A young girl approached, and laying a bouquet of flowers before the image, she knelt down, hid her face in her apron, and wrung her hands from time to time as if she was praying with fervor.  When the group I have just mentioned came up, they left the pathway, and made a circuit of many yards to avoid disturbing her, the men taking off their hats, and the woman inclining her head, in sign of respect, as they passed.