commonwealth, one may choose, but one
dares not make comparison. The genius of the Greeks absorbed the world's
beauty into itself, distilled its perfection, and gave humanity its most
subtle quintessence; but the Latin arm ruled the world itself, and the
imperial Latin intelligence could never find any expression fitted to
its enormous measure. That is the secret of the monstrous element in all
the Romans built. And that supernormal giantism showed itself almost for
the last time in the building of Saint Peter's, when the Latin race had
reached its last great development, and the power of the Latin popes
overshadowed the whole world, and was itself about to be humbled. Before
Michelangelo was dead Charles the Fifth had been Emperor forty years,
Doctor Martin Luther had denied the doctrine of salvation by works, the
nations had broken loose from the Popes, and the world was at war.

[Illustration]

Let us part here, at the threshold of Saint Peter's, not saying farewell
to Rome, nor taking leave without hope of meeting on this consecrated
ground again; but since the city lies behind us, region beyond region,
memory over memory, legend within legend, and because we have passed
through it by steps and by stations, very quickly, yet not thoughtlessly
nor irreverently, let us now go each our way for a time, remembering
some of those things which we have seen and of which we have talked,
that we may know them better if we see them again.

For a man can no more say a last farewell to Rome than he can take leave
of eternity. The years move on, but she waits; the cities fall, but she
stands; the old races of men lie dead in the track wherein mankind
wanders always between two darknesses; yet Rome lives, and her changes
are not from life to death, as ours are, but from one life to another.
A man may live with Rome, laugh with her, dream with her, weep with her,
die at her feet; but for him who knows her there is no good-bye, for she
has taken the high seat of his heart, and whither he goes, she is with
him, in joy or sorrow, with wonder, longing or regret, as the chords of
his heart were tuned by his angel in heaven.

But she is as a well-loved woman, whose dear face is drawn upon a man's
heart by the sharp memory of a cruel parting, line for line, shadow for
shadow, look for look, as she was when he saw her last; and line for
line he remembers her and longs for her smile and her tender word. Yet
be the lines ever so deep-grav