I was within the palace of the Emperor
early enough to enjoy the company of Aurelian and Livia before the rest
of the world was there. We were carried to the more private apartments
of the Empress, where it is her custom to receive those whose friendship
she values most highly. They are in that part of the palace which has
undergone no alterations since it was the residence of the great
historian, but shines in all the lustre of a taste and an art that
adorned a more accomplished age than our own. Especially, it seems to
me, in the graceful disposition of the interiors of their palaces, and
the combined richness and appropriateness of the art lavished upon
them, did the genius of the days of Hadrian and Vespasian surpass the
present. Not that I defend all that that genius adopted and
immortalized. It was not seldom licentious and gross in its conceptions,
however unrivalled in the art and science by which they were made to
glow upon the walls, or actually speak and move in marble or brass. In
the favorite apartment of Livia, into which we were now admitted,
perfect in its forms and proportions, the walls and ceilings are covered
with the story of Leda, wrought with an effect of drawing and color, of
which the present times afford no example. The well-known Greek,
Polymnestes, was the artist. And this room in all its embellishments is
chaste and cold compared with others, whose subjects were furnished to
the painter by the profligate master himself.

The room of Leda, as it is termed, is--but how beautiful it is I cannot
tell. Words paint poorly to the eye. Believe it not less beautiful, nor
less exquisitely adorned with all that woman loves most, hangings,
carpets and couches, than any in the palace of Gracchus or Zenobia. It
was here we found Aurelian and Livia, and his niece Aurelia. The
Emperor, habited in silken robes richly wrought with gold, the
inseparable sword at his side, from which, at the expense of whatever
incongruity, he never parts--advanced to the door to receive us, saying,

'I am happy that the mildness of this autumn day permits this pleasure,
to see the mother of the Pisos beneath my roof. It is rare nowadays that
Rome sees her abroad.'

'Save to the palace of Aurelian,' replied my mother, I now, as is well
known, never move beyond the precincts of my own dwelling. Since the
captivity and death of your former companion in arms, my great husband,
Cneius Piso, the widow's hearth has been my hall of