kings) to cast a rapid glance at the aspect and condition of the Seven-hilled City, during the latter part of the sixteenth century.

It was in the spring-time of the year 1585, when Rome mourned for Gregory XIII.; for that same pope who reformed the Julian Calendar, and of whom Montaigne makes mention in his Voyage Transalpin.

By the effeminate descendants of the king-people, the debonnair administration of Gregory was sincerely regretted.

The conclave had been opened, and its choice, as is well known, fell upon that one among the aspirants who appeared to possess the least chance of success upon the Cardinal Montalto.

The guiding hand of providence was thought to have been recognised in this election; for what could be more marvellous than the destiny of the new pope; who, from a simple swineherd had been raised even to the chair of Saint Peter, under auspices no less happy than those attending the elevation of Saint Hilde brand, whose genius and potitical supremacy seemed revived in his person.

Equally well known also is the disappointment of the cardinals who had nominated him; and how astonished they were to find that, instead of a feeble and gouty old man, in the last stage of imbecility and inanition, they had to contend with a master-spirit, full of health and vigour, and as absolute as an eastern prince.

This pope (whom it is almost superfluous to name), was the celebrated Sixtus the Fifth.

Scarcely were the ceremonies of his installation terminated, ere he occupied himself with an indefatigable activity in reforming the innumerable abuses which the indolent and incapable administration of his predecessor had suffered to increase to a frightful extent. It required nothing less than all the characteristic inflexibility of the new pope, for the thorough accomplishment of this difficult task. Rome swarmed with bandits whose numbers increased daily; the laws were impotent against them, protected as they were by the nobles, who, for the greater part of that period were their accomplices.

This state of affairs could not exist under a sovereign of a character like that of Sixtus. He steeled himself with an inexorable severity, and punished crime wholly regardless of the rank or respectability of the guilty parties. A few signal examples of summary punish

The sun had darted his last glorious ray and disappeared, after having scorched all day the ancient Sabine fields, and Rome, like unto an empress newly arisen from long and deep repose, extends herself through space, and fills it with her majesty. Her circling hills, catching a purple hue, form for a few brief moments a frame of gold, in the bosom of which the city of the Cæsars displays her melanchoty grandeur. Soon, too soon, fades that glowing tint-the gigantic cupola of Saint Peter becomes effaced—the towers and domes of the four hundred churches the Christian city engirdles, grow pale, and are plunged into obscurity. And this is the hour, when the inhabitants of Rome, rendered captive by the devouring heat of the day, quit their dwellings, spread themselves through the streets, bustle about the brilliant promenade, which, invaded at all parts, becomes an arena of noise and motion. The palacelife (if the expression may be allowed)· commences; the lattices and balconies are flung wide open-the evening breeze, like a long expected friend, circulates through the apartments, and wantons with the raven tresses which serpentine around the classic heads of the Roman

fair ones. That city which, but a few hours back, was a burning focus, silent, apparently deserted as after the devastations of the Vandal-that city is no longer the same. A starred and azure heaven gazes down upon, consoles, and surrounds her, as with a glittering mantle. So the melancholy silence succeeds a wide hum, broken ever and anon by the noisiest exclamations. tinkle; the song resounds on every side. With but little stretch of the imagination might it be said, that one half of Rome was recounting its joys and its griefs to the other part, and that the predominant interests of mankind, forgotten for a few hours, permitted the universal interchange of an amiable sympathy.

The guitars

O queen of Christianity! what is that mysterious power which here associates remembrance of the martyr-saints with emotions of the world? A feeling of religion it doubtless is, which hovering over those exalted heads, gives to all that one sees around us, all that one experiences here, that yearning after futurity

and hope, with which the soul feels itself transported!

Here all is imprinted with an irresistible, an indefinable charm ;—it is a mixture of the vague, the positive, the indolent, the energetic;-a species of reverie into which one falls nowhere else; a vaporous medium, in which the imagination unceasingly exercises itself. The tinge of the rose is in the air, there also is the burning lava of the volcano; and that African breeze wafts a perfume of antiquity, which seems to aggrandize the mind of man, and prepare it for the illustration of fame. The moon appears larger and more luminous; the sun to hold nigher neighbourhood to earth; and when the Antonine column projects its imposing shadow, one is almost apt to expect that poet of ancient days might, on a sudden, find a tongue to "syllable forth men's names," and babble of great

matters.

But whilst yielding oneself up to that abandon which music heard at night invariably inspires, whilst one is identifying oneself with the singer who, stationed under a balcony, warbles forth his tale of joy or grief, a dull and distant hum-the solemn chant of male voices, anon resounding deep and wide, strikes upon the ear; torches glare, the way is flooded with a sudden light-two by two, innumerable Capuchins are seen slowly advancing, their arms crossed upon their breasts, seemingly to sustain their thick beards; they chant the offices for the dead; and these lugubrious strains are in turn repeated by the other brotherhoods, distinguishable by the colour of their capuchon or hood, and who walk after the Capuchins; these latter forming the invariable avant-garde in all religious ceremonies at Rome. The iron-barred palaces lining the via, seem to have opened their low-arched vaults and to send back in sepulchral echoes the sonorous voices of the priests. The torches approach; they surround, precede, and follow a bier carried on the shoulders of four vigorous laymen. The face of the dead is uncovered, the pale and livid features reflect the flickering light by which it is surrounded. It is a practical memento-a contrast of all human illusions! Alas! but yesterday, he that is thus carried by, perchance sang also under yon balcony, before which, cold and insensible he now passes-perhaps withdrew himself from its shade, framing fond projects for a blissful future -perchance, even this very day, was he to have received the hand of her he had so fondly woed and won!

As the sad procession advances, the death-dirge interrupts the joyous serenade: the crowd opens a path, every head is bowed whilst the funeral cortège defiles through it; the torches are soon eclipsed in the distance- the brown robes of the Capuchins fade fast from the sight; the sombre harmony faintly dies away, and like the fretting wave exhausting itself upon the strand, the lugubrious sound expires in a last and far-off murmur.

This grave impression, however, is quickly effaced:-the groups re-gather on all sides; the guitars retuned, vibrate and prelude afresh. Amidst this torrent of human life, some sing, some listen in silence. Here it is a stanza of Tasso, recited by an expressive voice, in most impassioned accents. There the tender Metastasio lends his charm to some mysterious grief. Still further off, it is a vivid, elegant, and glowing improvisation. One might really think Erato, hovering over the city, prodigalised the treasures of her imagination during her encircling, hauting flight. All around assumes a lively and seductive hue, embellished as it were by a thousand diverse shades; for exaltation is at once in the gesture, the thought, and the voice; the soul overflows in violent or generous emotions; it actively bestirs itself to catch every impression of which it is susceptible; it listens, comprehends; and yielding to the influence of benevolent disposition, suffers itself to be carried away by that catholic charity, which wafts it back towards its divine essence.

At intervals, however, a cry of distress arises to interrupt the multifarious harmonies, and spreads terror through the hearts of all. The poignard of a rival has struck; and whilst the victim is reeling beneath the homicidal steel, the crowd makes way, divides itself, and allows the assassin to escape. Jealousy is here a malady peculiar to the sun; that malady has its crisis, its paroxysms; and as each man knows not but that he himself may be attacked by it the very next moment, a reflective sentiment is the consequent result, which arrests indignation, and gives to the guilty an opportunity for flight.

Towards the Aventine, by the banks of the Tiber, remote from the city's haunts of stirring life and intrusive revelry, roamed the young, the enthusiastic Fontana, hand in hand with his affianced, a lovely girl, whose budding charms a sixteenth summer was gently disclosing. Through the burial fields called Prati del popolo Romano, these happy ones took

their wonted ramble; where, high above the varied forms of sepulchral monuments, arms, and sarcophagi, with which the groves of these "lugentes campi" -these dreary plains were so thickly planted, the pyramidal tomb of Caius Cestius reared its graceful proportions in lonely pomp against the clear, soft sky; seeming to preside, as it were, over those fields of silence and mortality. Entranced in mute though eloquent communion, like the placid river by which they directed their course, faintly stirred into melancholy music by the night breeze, the current of those gentle hearts flowed on, unruffled save by the fitful incertitude engendered of all those mingled influences peculiar to that hour, which one of the monarch-poets of their clime, the sublime Florentine, has so solemnly described ::

"Che paja 'l giorno piangere che si muore."

At that holy vesper-time little dreamed they the spirit of evil had aught to do with them, had dogged their footsteps through that lovely evening's walk, was crouching near to mar their innocent happiness, about to dart with tiger-spring across their path. Scarcely, however, had the lovers stepped within the lengthened shadow cast by the pyramid, when the quick ear of the young architect (for such he was) caught the stealthy tread of footsteps turning the angle of the tomb in deepest shade behind them, and had barely time to unsheath his rapier and throw himself before his mistress, ere they found themselves beset by four ruffians; two of whom rudely seizing the terrified girl, proceeded to carry her off, whilst their sanguinary accomplices rushed upon Fontana with evident determination to take his life. Although attacked with savage fury by both assailants, the young man, placing his back to the tomb, defended himself with great intrepidity and address for several instants. But, in parrying a furious lunge made by the tallest, whose features, not withstanding the obscurity of the spot and the confusion of the moment, seemed familiar to him, his foot happening to strike against a fragment of stone, ere he had time to recover himself, the weapon of the bravo entered his swordarm and he fell to the ground. As they were on the very point of dispatching him, and whilst his reeling gaze caught their gleaming weapons raised for the coup de grace, the solemn chant of monks, bearing a corpse to its appointed

*Alighieri.

resting-place hard by, broke clear and loud upon the still air, as their sad procession wound round a slope, thickly shaded with mulberry trees, within a short distance of the pyramid. To the verge of this grove the ruffians had borne the swooning girl, whose last despairing shriek rose piercingly above the first chord of the death-dirge, and, catching the ears of the brotherhood, saved her lover from the steel of the assassin-herself from a still worse fate.

On the evening succeeding that during which the occurrence just narrated took place, the pope was occupied in his cabinet; his major-domo, or rather his bosom friend, the old Giralmo alone with him; when suddenly a great uproar was heard from without voices, mingling menaces with the clash of swords. prelate entered with a terrified countenance, exclaiming :

A

"6 Holy Father, the Count Ranuccio Salembini, whilst accompanying the ambassador of Ferrara to the palace, chanced in passing through the gallery, to meet the architect Fontana; a fierce altercation arose between them; they drew their swords; but the intervention of the guard put an end to the affray."

"Can it be possible," angrily replied Sixtus, "is it possible that during my reign, they dare outrage the pontifical palace with duel and assassination? Bring them hither, I shall find a way to punish the guilty ones, bring them in.”

Ranuccio and Fontana entered, accompanied by an officer; the latter had his arm slung in a scarf.

"Insensates!" exclaimed the pope in his severest tone, "whence this profanation of my palace?—you merit death -say, what is the cause of your brawl?

Speak first, Count Ranuccio!"

"I was traversing the gallery,” replied the Count with a manner somewhat approaching nonchalance, "when this despicable individual accosted me with touching a very insignificant matter, and an overwhelming torrent of invective I was compelled to draw my sword in personal defence."

"An insignificant matter! cried the young architect, who could not express his indignation; “and since how long, duction and assassination been insigI pray you, Signior Count, have abnificant matters?"

"Go on!" replied the Holy Father, in a voice, the assumed placidity of which smote to the heart all present: "proceed; 'tis your turn to speak, Signior Fontana."

"I was walking last evening with my

betrothed," replied the architect, "near the pyramid of Cestius, when I was assailed by four strangers who sought to carry off my companion; I defended myself, as every man with a particle of spirit would have done under the like circumstances; I received a wound in the arm from a sword stab; the noise attracted the attention of the passersby; one of the aggressors was arrested, and I recognized him as a domestic of the Count Ranuccio, On coming hither to beg justice of you, I met the Count himself, who jeered me with ironic answers. You know the rest."

"Death to thee!" cried the impetuous pontiff; "death to thee, who hast outraged so shamelessly the public peace: your crime too shall meet its punishment, Count Salembini; you are a prisoner; away with him instantly"

...

The count retired with a dejected air, accompanied by the two cardinals. The young Fontana awaited the decision of the holy father upon his own fate, with modest firmness. A short interval.of silence ensued, after which Sixtus thus expressed himself:

Young man, you have committed a grave offence against the pontifical dignity; I can offer you pardon on one condition alone; execute by the art which you profess, some work capable of obliterating your fault, and at the same time of immortalizing your name!"

"Say, holy father, what is it necessary that I should do?" inquired the young artist with enthusiasm: "I feel myself in a position, the nature of which will infallibly ensure me the accomplishment of aught that an architect may undertake.

"You are a very bold young man," replied Sixtus: "know you the obelisk which formerly decorated the Circus of Nero ?"

"I do know it ;-but a short time since it was buried amid heaps of ruins ; I caused it to be cleared of the debris, in order to take its dimensions; it weighs at least ten thousand quintals."

"Think you it would be possible to raise and transport it from its present situation to another spot?'

66 Perhaps so," replied the young man, after a few moments' reflection.

"Well then," rejoined Sixtus, "go! take you the necessary steps for raising the obelisk; cause it to be transported to the grand piazza before St. Peter's church, and there let it be erected on a pedestal twenty-four feet high. If you achieve your undertaking, I will pardon

your offence; and, furthermore, recompense you in a manner worthy of your talents;-in the contrary event, you are lost!"

"You will give me the means for executing this work?" inquired Fontana. "Nothing shall be wanting you," replied the pope.

The architect threw himself upon his knees, exclaiming with exultation, "I will either perish then, or raise the obelisk. I comprehend you, holy father: you cannot pardon me without attaint to your dignity, but you punish me after a manner worthy of your lofty soul; and which punishment, I hope, will but serve to immortalize my name. All I crave of you is your benediction !"

"On the decisive day I will give it you," replied the pope, who with difficulty concealed his emotion; "now be gone, and make your preparations."

The architect stooped to kiss the slipper of St. Peter's successor, and then took his departure.

A few days afterwards, the Circus of Nero was covered with a multitude of workmen. The enormous obelisk* was

* A recent traveller briefly describes it as "a single piece of granite, about 80 feet in length, which, with its pedestal and the cross that tops it, rises to the height of 136 feet. It was removed from the Circus of Nero to the front of St. Peters, by Domenichino Fontana, under the orders of Sixtus V." The notice given by Vasi in his " Picture of Rome," slightly differs from the above, as regards the dimensions of the obelisk, and is as follows:

Although this obelisk, which is of Egyptian granite, is not the largest in Rome, and has not any hieroglyphics, it is considered the most precious and the most esteemed of all, because it is the only one which has been preserved entire. It was raised at Heliopolis, by the king of Egypt, son of Sesostris; and Caligula transported it to Rome in a vessel, which was afterwards sunk for the construction of the port of Ostia. That emperor placed it in his circus at the Vatican, which was called Nero's Circus, because he augmented and adorned it. Constantine the Great destroyed this circus to build St. Peter's, but left the obelisk standing in the place now occupied by the sacristy of St. Peter's. It was not until 1586, nearly a century before the construction of the colonnade, that Sixtus V., thinking it worthy to be placed opposite the church, employed Domenico

still lying in the same place, but encircled with ponderous rings of iron, which increased its weight to more than forty thousand quintals. The road which led to St. Peter's was blocked up with huge rollers; and the preparations made upon the area before the church were so gigantic, that the Romans, although possessing great confidence in Fontana's skill, felt dubious of the success of the enterprise.

The scaffoldings which obstructed the piazza, gave it the aspect of a forest; nothing was to be seen around save stan.. chions, squaring beams, levers, cranes, and other machines; it would have been a somewhat difficult matter to have counted the long file of cars laden with wood, iron, cables, and chains. In the midst of all this tumult, one man alone might be descried, to whom the workmen paid the greatest respect, and who, with a portfolio in his hand, followed attentively and in silence, the progress of the works. This was Fontana.

It

Several weeks had rolled away, and now was fast approaching the day fixed for the transportation of the obelisk. required no less than eight hundred men and seventy horses, to bring it beside its pedestal.

The great day at length arrived; ere sunrise, the roofs and windows of the houses which commanded the piazza, were lined with spectators. Three hundred persons only could be accommodated with sittings upon the platform erected for the nobility. The workmen awaited the signal; the horses were put to, and enormous cables surrounded the obelisk.

A death-like silence pervaded the 'crowd. Its gaze mournfully reverted to the corner of the piazza, where a scaffold reared itself aloft, upon which stood the executioner, with a glittering axe in his hand.

The chief of the sbirri proclaimed :"The holy father orders that all present

Fontana, who, with admirable skill, succeeded in the operation. The expense of the removal amounted to nearly ten thousand pounds sterling. The height of this obelisk is 84 feet, and its greatest width 90; measuring it from the ground to the end of the cross, it is 134 feet high the weight is about 300 tons. To the north of this obelisk is drawn a meridian line, marked with the signs of the Zodiac, so that when the sun is at the meridian, the shadow of the top of the obelisk falls upon the sign in which the sun then is."

:

do keep the most religious silence when the bell of the capitol shall be heard tolling."

A spectacle of this nature was peculiarly to the taste of Sixtus. But a short time before, he had caused a Spanish gentleman guilty of a murder, to be hanged before the window of his apartment, whilst he sat at dinner; and he gaily rose from table, protesting that he had never dined with a better appetite.

Fontana had been awaiting for two long hours at the Vatican, to receive there the pope's benediction'; at length with a firm step he approached towards the balustrade which encircled the piazza, carying a red flag, and attired wholly in black; his countenance was very pale.... Directing his gaze towards the obelisk, he waved his flag, and at the same instant the solemn, full-toned resonance of the great bell made itself heard above the hum of the multitude, which instantly became hushed; and, though agitated with intense anxiety, maintained a breathless attention.

At this moment, a young girl forced her way through the waving masses of people; her sorrowful and anxious looks encountered those of Fontana, who by a gesture reassures her drooping spirits: it was his well-beloved, his affianced, his beautiful Antonia!....

At another beat

The architect made a fresh signal with his flag. Another stroke upon the bell echoed through the air, and this imposing scene gave place to another. Everything was in motion, all in action-workmen, horses, and machines. of the bell, all again became silent. The obelisk was already raised several feet. The architect beheld it with attention, ascended the ladders to assure himself of the solidity of the cables and pullies, and redescended with a satisfied air.

Antonia gazed at him with a throbbing bosom; and to conceal her emotion from the crowd, drew the veil of her headdress thickly across her features.

All was in order. ... Fontana again waved his flag; the stroke of the bell vibrated anew; all bent forward with the same eagerness as evinced on the first essay, and the obelisk still further reared itself aloft. The same signals succeeded one another forty times, without the slightest interruption. The obelisk was almost perpendicular, but it yet remained to be placed upon the pedestal.

Anxiety again appeared upon the faces of the spectators; but how great was their delight when they saw that porten.