aithful to the institutions of the country. I joined a little group of
gazers before the window of the rooms of Periander, at which something
rare and beautiful is always to be seen, who, I found, were looking
intently at a picture, apparently just from the hands of the artist,
which represented Rome under the form of a beautiful woman--Livia had
served as the model--with a diadem upon her head, and the badges of
kingly authority in her hands, and at her side a priest of the Temple
of Jupiter, "Greatest and Best", in whose face and form might plainly be
traced the cruel features of Fronto. The world was around them. On the
lowest earth, with dark shadows settling over them, lay scattered and
broken, in dishonor and dust, the emblems of all the religions of the
world, their temples fallen and in ruins. Among them, in the front
ground of the picture, was the prostrate cross, shattered as if dashed
from the church, whose dilapidated walls and wide-spread fragments bore
testimony not so much to the wasting power of time as to the rude hand
of popular violence; while, rearing themselves up into a higher
atmosphere, the temples of the gods of Rome stood beautiful and perfect,
bathed in the glowing light of a morning sun. The allegory was plain and
obvious enough. There was little attractive, save the wonderful art with
which it was done. This riveted the eye; and that being gained, the
bitter and triumphant bigotry of the ideas set forth had time to make
its way into the heart of the beholder, and help to change its warm
blood to gall. Who but must be won by the form and countenance of the
beautiful Livia? and, confounding Rome with her, be inspired with a new
devotion to his country, and its religion, and its lovely queen? The
work was inflaming and insidious, as it was beautiful. This was seen in
what it drew from those among whom I stood.

'By Jupiter!' said one, 'that is well done. They are all down, who can
deny it! Those are ruins not to be built up again. Who, I wonder, is the
artist? He must be a Roman to the last drop of his blood, and the last
hair of his beard.'

'His name is Sporus,' replied his companion, 'as I hear, a kinsman of
Fronto, the priest of Apollo.'

'Ah, that's the reason the priest figures here,' cried the first, 'and
the Empress too; for they say nobody is more at the Gardens than Fronto.
Well, he's just the man for his place. If any man can bring up the
temples again, it's he. Religion is no sham