not now as in her first age."

As the night grew late, the inquiries became more frequent, "Are we not
yet at Rome?" We were not yet at Rome; but we did all that men could
with four, and sometimes six, half-starved animals, bestrode by drowsy
postilions, to reach it. Now we were labouring in deep roads,--now
fording impetuous torrents,--and now jolting along on the hard pavement
of the Via Aurelia. By the glimpses of the moon we could see the
milestones by the roadside, with "ROME" upon them. Seldom has writing
thrilled me so. To find a name which fills history, and which for thirty
centuries has extorted the homage of the world, and still awes it,
written thus upon a common milestone, and standing there amid the
tempest on the roadside, had in it something of the sublime. Was it then
a reality, and not a dream? and should I in a very short time be in Rome
itself,--that city which had been the theatre of so many events of
world-wide influence, and which for so many ages had borne sway over all
the kings and kingdoms of the earth? Meanwhile the night became darker,
and the torrents of rain more frequent and more heavy.

Towards midnight we began to climb a low hill. We could see that there
was cultivation upon it, and, unless we were mistaken, a few villas. We
had passed its summit, and were already engaged in the descent, when a
terrific flash of lightning broke through the darkness, and tipped with
a fiery radiance every object around us. On the left was the old hoary
wall, with a whitish bulby mass hanging inside of it. On the right was a
steep bank, with a few straggling vines dripping wet. The road between,
on which we were winding downwards, was deep and worn. I had had my
first view of Rome; but in how strange a way! In a few minutes we were
standing at the gate.

Some little delay took place in opening it. The moments which one passes
on the threshold of Rome are moments he never can forget. While waiting
there till it should please the guard to open that old gate, the whole
history of the wonderful city on whose threshold I now stood seemed to
pass before my mind,--her kings, her consuls, her emperors,--her
legislators, her orators, her poets,--her popes,--all seemed to stalk
solemnly past, one after one. There was the great Romulus; there was the
proud Tarquin; there was Scylla with his laurel, and Livy with his page,
and Virgil with his lay, and Caesar with his diadem, and Brutus with his
dagger; there was t