of residing, till his death, in a country which afforded such exquisite landscapes; and at the very moment that I pen this letter, I have the pleasure of being acquainted with M. d'Agincourt, who has lived here alone for five-andtwenty years, and who holds forth fair promise that France will also have her Winckelman.

Whoever occupies himself solely in the study of antiquities and the fine arts, or whoever has no other ties in life, should live at Rome. He will there find, for his society, a district which will nurture his reflections and take possession of his heart, with. walks, which will always convey to him instruction. The stone, which he treads upon will speak to him, and the dust, which the wind blows around him, will be decomposed particles of some great human being. Should he be unhappy-should he have mingled the ashes of those, whom he loved, with the ashes of the illustrious dead, what placid delight will he experience when he passes from the sepulchre of the Scipios to the tomb of a virtuous triend, from the superb mausoleum of Cecilia Metella to the modest grave of an unfortunate woman!

He will fancy that their beloved shades find pleasure in wandering round these monuments, with that of a Cicero still lamenting his dear Tullia, or an Agrippina still occupied with the urn of Germanicus. If he be a christian, how will he be able to tear himself away from this land, which is become his own country-this land, which is become the seat of a second empire more sacred, and more powerful than the first-this land, where the friends, whom we have lost, sleep with saints in their catacombs, under the eye of the father of the faithful, appearing as if they would be the first who awoke from their long sleep, and the nearest to Heaven.

Though Rome, when internally examined, resembles at present, in a great degree, the generality of European cities, it still preserves a peculiar character; for no other city affords a similar mixture of architecture and ruins, from the Pantheon of Agrippa to the gothic walls of Belisarius, or the monuments brought from Alexandria to the dome erected by Michael Angelo. The beauty of the women is another distinguishing

feature. They recal by their gait and carriage the Clelias and Cornelias. You might fancy that you saw the ancient statues of Juno and Pallas, which had descended from their pedestals, and were walking round their temples. Among the Romans too is to be seen that tone of carnation which artists call the historic colour, and which they use in their paintings. It appears natural that men, whose ancestors played so conspicuous a part in the great theatre of the world, should have served as models for Raphael and Dominichino, when they represented historical personages.

Another singularity of the city of Rome is the number of goats, and more particularly, large oxen with enormous horns. The latter are used in teams; and you will find these animals lying at the feet of the Egyptian obelisks, among the ruins of the Forum, and under the arches, through which they formerly passed, conducting the triumphant Roman to that Capitol which Cicero calls the public council of the universe.

Romanos ad templa Deûm duxêre triumphos.

With the usual noise of great cities is here mingled the noise of waters heard on every side, as if you were near the fountains of Blandusia and Egeria. From the summit of the hills, inclosed within the boundaries of Rome, or at the extre mity of several streets you have a view of the fields in perspective, which mixture of town and country has a very picturesque effect. In winter the tops of the houses are covered with herbage, not unlike the old thatched cottages of our peasantry. These combined circumstances impart to Rome a sort of rural appearance, and remind you that its first dictators guided the plough, that it owed the empire of the world to its labourers, and that the greatest of its poets did not disdain to instruct the children of Romulus in the art of Hesiod.

Ascræumque canó romana per oppida carmen.

As to the Tiber, which waters, and participates in the glory of this city, its destiny is altogether strange. It passes through a corner of Rome, as if it did not exist. No one deigns to cast his eyes towards it, no one speaks of it,

no one drinks its waters, and the women do not even use it for washing. It steals away between the paltry houses which conceal it, and hastens to precipitate itself into the sea, ashamed of its modern appellation, Tevere.

I must now, my dear friend, say something of the ruins, which you so particularly requested me to mention when I wrote to you. I have minutely examined them all, both at Rome and Naples, except the temples of Pæstum, which I have not had time to visit. You are aware that they assume different characters, according to the recollections attached to them.

On a beautiful evening in July last I seated myself at Colisée, on a step of the altar dedicated to the sufferings of the Passion. The sun was setting, and poured floods of gold through all the galleries, which had formerly been thronged with men; while, at the same time, strong shadows were cast by the broken corridors and other ruinous parts, or fell on the ground in large masses from the lofty structure. I perceived among the ruins, on the right of the edifice, the gardens of Caesar's palace, with