them left the mark of his foot upon the pavement, over which the church was raised.

The tombs are now all picturesque ruins, some more perfect than others, some containing more columbaria, or niches for ashes, others still rich in statues and friezes; on and about all delicate ferns and bright flowers creep from every crevice, and little green lizards chase each other amid the stones of the dead. On one massive tomb near the catacombs of St. Callixtus, an inn has been built strange foundation for a house of entertainment! Driving along the straight road that leads to Albano, and gaining continual views of the soft Campagna, with its ruined aqueducts, and its background of silver and purple mountains dotted with many a town and village, we reach in about two miles a large circular tomb called that of Cæcilia Metella, and described by Lord Byron in lines so beautiful that I am tempted to give a portion of them at the end of my sketch of the Via Appia.

There is a stern round tower of other days,
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,
Such as an army's baffled strength delays,
Standing with half its battlements alone,
And with two thousand years of ivy grown.
The garland of eternity, where wave

The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown.

What was this tower of strength? within its cave

What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid?—A womans's grave!

But who was she, the lady of the dead,

Tomb'd in a palace?

How lived, how loved, how died she?

Perchance she died in youth, it may be vow'd,

With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb
That weighed upon her gentle dust; a cloud
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom

Heaven gives its favourites early death; yet shed
A sunset charm around her, and illume
With hectic light the Hesperus of the dead,
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red.
Perchance she died in age-surviving all,
Charms, kindred, children-with the silver grey
Of her long tresses, which might yet recall,
It may be, something of the day

When they were braided, and her proud array
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed
By Rome. But whither would conjecture stray?
Thus much alone we know-Metella died,

The wealthiest Roman's wife. Behold his love or pride!

But I will not let my pages of the New Monthly of the New Year end with the song of death. Ere we part, our talk of Rome shall be of livelier scenes; leaving palaces, churches, and pictures for another month, our walk to-day shall be through the streets of modern Rome, where we shall meet and see much to interest and

amuse us. Dress lightly-for even on this 10th of April the weather is warmer than that of most English summers—and start with me along the Via Babuino. As we leave the court-yard of the hotel we hear the chink of money, and turning to see whence the sound comes, we find close to us a tall figure, shrouded in coarse brown, or in soft white serge, from head to foot; his eyes shine through two loopholes, and his hands, white and delicate, shake, and hold towards us a small money-box. This hooded individual, we learn, is probably some Roman noble, a member of a penitential confraternità, expiating his sins by assuming the profession of a beggar in disguise; not an unprofitable one, it is said, particularly during the English season in Rome. A day's work along the Corso, and about the Piazza di Spagna, sends him home with many a lira in his money-box.

Except in very early morning the streets of Rome are never clean. At the corners of several streets are written the words, "Deposito provi sorio d'immondezza." And here are thrown every description of filth and rubbish by the householders in their neighbourhood. These heaps are cleared away every morning, but during the day they are the constant resort of the Roman dogs, which, though perhaps of a better breed, carry on much the same occupation as those of Constantinople; they not only grub into the rubbish, but in their search after dainty morsels strew the garbage far and wide. And not only do the dogs claim the right of investigating the masses of "immondezza;" at this time of the year they have often a fight over a tit-bit with a fine white goat. Troops of these pretty creatures are brought into Rome from the Campagna at Easter, and increase in no small degree the difficulty of walking along the streets; they always insist upon the side nearest the houses, and butt and tilt against any one who has the courage to question their right to hold the inner "tenour of their way."

Passing many an "old curiosity shop," lingering at others, where flowers exquisite in themselves are rendered still more so by the artistic taste with which they are arranged, stopping, too, to look at others where cushions are stuck with innumerable pins, headed with variously sized balls of alabaster, the germs of necklaces, and other ornaments of Roman pearl, we reach the Piazza di Spagna, and find ourselves at the base of a lofty pillar, surmounted by the figure of the Virgin, and surrounded at its foot by colossal figures of prophets and kings. It looks new and fine, and harmonises little with the buildings round it. We read its inscription, and find that Pio Nono has erected it to perpetuate the dogma of the Immaculate Conception, made a law of the Church by him in 1854, but only, if we may believe Dean Stanley, received by him second-hand from Mahomet, who introduces into his Koran the startling assertion that the Virgin was born free from all stain of

sin. But happily these dogmas of the Pope and Mahomet concern us little. We will leave them, and enjoy all we see in the fine piazza in which we stand. In the centre is the old fountain della Barcaccia, so called from its shape of a boat, where, on certain days of the week, the pet dogs of Rome are brought for a general wash. Behind it rise the magnificent flight of steps that lead to the church. of Trinità de' Monti, where it is well worth while on a Sunday afternoon to hear from behind a crimson curtain the sweet voices of the nuns in their vesper hymns. On these steps is many a figure, many a group that looks as if the pictures we have seen in church or palace had grown into life, and walked from their frames to mingle again with their fellows in the world; see there the blind beggar, who stops the Saviour of Raffaelle with his eager cry for light; there the Madonna of the same master, with her bambino tenderly clasped in her protecting arms. Here a group of boys prove how true to nature are the paintings of Murillo, and there a soft, dark eye, a sallow, oval face, brings back vividly Raffaelle's Violinist in the Sciarra Palace. It is said that these steps are now much less frequented than formerly by those who made sitting to artists their trade; but it is difficult not to be struck with the picturesqueness of the figures still seen in the full enjoyment of the "dolce far niente" as you ascend their broad low flights. At the corner of the piazza, near a lemonade stand, is a public letter-writer. He sits at a little table, sheltered by a large white umbrella, and, spectacles on nose, is calmly writing at the dictation of a most animated youth, whose words, judging from the gestures with which he delivers them, would scorch or melt the heart of her to whom we must suppose they are addressed. Near the letter-writer are some wine-carts from the country; their drivers are reclining beneath a cabriolet head, covered with sheepskin, for their noon-day meal of a roll, a lettuce, or a root of fennel, and a bottle of weak wine; at the edge of the cart by their side is a dog rolled up on a heap of woollen stuff, probably his master's cloak, whose head is often lifted to receive a portion of the frugal dinner. Wandering about the piazza are children with lovely little bouquets, which they try to make you buy, and, if refused, often throw at you with a merry laugh; men carrying nets, in which are sieves full of small live birds, tempt you to buy the poor little fluttering things as delicate additions to your larder; boys wheel hand-carts filled with fresh vegetables and sweet-smelling herds; and amid all this busy scene, in it and yet apart, are seen monks and friars of all descriptions; dirty Capuchins, Dominicans in pure white flannel, Benedictines, every order and every brotherhood, is now well and numerously "represented" in Rome; for to the city of the Pope all those whom the new Italian rule has in other parts driven from their monasteries have flown for refuge and support.

THE TWO OFFICERS.

PART IV.

As their stay on shore was to be only temporary, they found it necessary to lose no time in getting ready for the boats, which quickly came alongside to take them into Table Bay. There were two parties of passengers in two separate boats, which started at the same time, and both of them had great tossing about in the bay, and were tacking for at least two hours before they reached the wharf. When they landed, the beauty of the situation and the buildings of this Dutch town, the streets with the dyke running through their midst, the principal of which was the kaisergracht, the Dutch company gardens, with their menagerie and formal walks of trees, the parade grounds, the curious nature of the red sandy soil, the numbers of bullock carts drawn by oxen, sometimes fourteen in the team, the quantity of delicious fruit which was to be seen selling everywhere in the shops, and especially the waggon-loads of grapes in charge of a Hottentot with a cloth round his waist and straw hat completely conical; all these engaged the attention of the young officers, and Mrs. Green with her husband went from shop to shop looking at dresses, which she considered quite prodigies of antiquity. Mrs. Boreham and her husband met some officers on the parade, and entered into conversation with them. Each party accosted the other with most cordial greetings, and laughter long and loud followed upon their mutual recal of the names of several men of this regiment and that regiment, of Tomkins of your corps, and Jenkins of ours, a colloquy which would doubtless have excited most unmitigated disgust on the part of Mrs. Green had she stayed with the party and listened to it. The conversation first began by asking about all the ladies belonging to the 102nd, in succession, and then proceeded to the officers, each of whom was treated of in detail, as soon as every item of tittle-tattle which bore upon the fair sex, their dresses, their expenditure, their bonnets, their servants, their children, had been finished off. Williams and Clare found this conversation, which (owing to their composing the party), they had been obliged to listen to for some few minutes, one of not very engrossing interest, and took the first opportunity of withdrawing, and leaving Prose to Mrs. Boreham's mercies. They then went to one of the hotels, and having engaged for the hire of two horses, set off riding to Constantia, more for the purpose of seeing the country than for any attraction which they promised to themselves in visiting the famed vineyards. When they were out in the country Williams began

speaking to Clare about the voyage and the people they had just left, and asked him if he liked the idea of going on to live in Ceylon, and the sort of society they would have there.

Clare said, that, judging from what he saw of the military society, he did not think very favourably of it, but that perhaps there might be better specimens in Ceylon. Williams said, that his idea was that a military man must trust to his own resources for the method of passing his time; that there was no life where a man had more leisure time at his disposal than an officer, and especially in the tropics; that unless a man devoted himself to a regular course of study he would find time hang heavy on his hands, and be likely also to get into dissipated habits; that it was all very well to think that our days were only meant for pleasure or for sport, but that if a man did not wish to improve his mind, life itself became a burden to him, and especially in a country where he was necessarily obliged to pass seven or eight hours of the day within doors; he proceeded to say: "I have been myself now eight years in the army, and some of these I passed in tropical climates, and I have invariably found that the men who had no resources but sport, or whatever idle society there might be had amongst the inhabitants in the neighbourhood, were soon tired and dissatisfied with their condition, but the man who cultivated his mind found his days roll on happily.

Clare said, "I should think that this Cape of Good Hope was, from its climate, and all things relating to the country, a pleasant place to be quartered in."

Williams said, "From what I have heard the officers say of it, the principal amusement which they have here is the lion-shooting; but you must have good horses, and the means of travelling far into the country, to enjoy that sport properly."

Clare said, "There are, it seems to me, few places where, with plenty of money to procure the means of sport and enjoyment, you cannot get on, but without money it is a very up-hill sort of life in the army. Where there is no hope of active service, it is rather a dreary prospect at present. I wonder what Jones and Halstead are about now? It was very much against my grain our sailing away at that old captain's suggestion, when he obliged us to leave Madeira without them."

66 But," said Williams, "there is still great hopes of the colonel's ship arriving there, and of their being then picked up; and one comfort is, although the expense is something for getting a new sea kit for board ship from Madeira to Ceylon, both of them can well afford it. I am sorry for Halstead, but I cannot say I pity Jones."

Clare said, "I am sure I do not know what I should have done had it been me."