lomon and
the rest of them, and sigh out our vanitas, vanitas also, in the great
weary chorus.

No need, alas! for a Hawthorne, or Byron, or even a Shakspeare to
interpret what the Antinous says for us. Our own hearts do it.

Mae caught the spirit of all this, as her eyes roamed out of the window
on the Sabine hills, where woods and springs sang. She saw the aqueducts
bounding, even in their ruin, arch after arch, to the treasure house of
the waters. "They never can reach it, now," thinks she, "never. Suppose
they cannot, is not the spirit the same?" And now Mae is ready for the
sudden light that dawns on her soul. She springs to her feet. She is
alone in the room with the marble men; and they are quiet; even the
Gladiator bites back his last groan once more.

"The Eternal City," shouts Mae; "I know what it means at last. Oh! Rome,
Rome, I love you!" and she rests her hand on the windowsill, and looks
out on Rome. "Why, it is like a resurrection morn. Ruins? Yes, it is all
ruins, dry bones, and great dead in dust; but there is something more. I
only saw that graveyard part of it before; now, the spirit of the great
men, and great deeds, and words, and thoughts, and prayers," cries Mae,
exultantly. "Why, they are here; not dead, like the rest, but alive, all
around us. Oh! Rome, Rome, forgive me!"

Now, this might have seemed absurd to the custode, or some other people,
if they had put their head in at the door just then. But they didn't;
and, really, it was not absurd. I cannot believe that this small Mae
Madden is the only being who has had a swift, brilliant awakening from
the first surface, depressing thoughts of Rome--an awakening to the
living spirits which float proudly over their vacant shells that lie
below the old pavements. Once you do feel the strong, rich Roman life
about you, the decay, the ruin float off on the dust of the ages, before
the glorified breath of proud matrons and stately warriors, who step
over the centuries to walk by your side. And the centuries have
improved them,--have left their grandeur, and nobility, and bravery,
and civilized them a bit. They form into pageants for you, and fill the
baths and the palaces, but never crowd the Coliseum for the dreadful
contests, unless, maybe, for an occasional bull-fight--some great,
horrid, big bull which would be killed at market to-morrow at any
rate--and even that is as you please. It is wonderful, truly, once we
discern the spirits around us,