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adopted religion, but with perfect delicacy, and the most studied regard to my feelings. There was even a liberality in censuring what he thought blame-worthy, which was somewhat surprising in a new

convert.

A hard bed, laid on bare planks, a table, a desk, two or three chairs, a small crucifix, and the pictures of some Romish saints, were all the articles with which his solitary chamber was furnished. He was dressed in a coarse black cassock, which is the habit of his order; the crown of his head was shaved, and both in his countenance and in all the objects around him, there was an air of austerity and mortification.'

In the following there is an expression of just feeling, mingled with classical reverence, and related with a purity of style, that we seize on with pleasure.

'In the evening I made a visit, with two or three of my friends, to the Coliseum, by moonlight. Excepting a guard or two at the entrance, and a few persons who had been led there by the same feelings as ourselves, there was nothing to interrupt our reflections. After looking around awhile from the arena, we went above, ranged cautiously through the gloomy corridors, and at length gained the best and highest point from which this stupendous ruin can be view. ed. Here, the outer wall having fallen, we could dimly see at a distance one or two solitary monuments of the ancient city. From our elevated position, and the obscurity of night, the irregularities of the interior were in a great measure lost. This vast mass of ruins was thrown into shape, the elliptical form appeared more perfect and beautiful, the magnitude and extent enlarged, and the height more towering and majestic. The loftiest part, on our right, was buried in deep shade, except where the moon-beams broke through the arcades and other apertures, and faintly lighted the winding galleries. They fell with full lustre on the other, showing the uneven outline of broken walls, and the decayed and falling arches, with the most charming effect. In such a place, so still, so secluded and sublime, could the recollections of carnage and tumult have been suppressed; could any one purpose to which it had been devoted have been referred to the honour or happiness of man; we could not help feeling a melancholy kind of delight bordering on enthusiasm. As it is, we only admire the grand and picturesque appearance of these ruins. We become pensive and thoughtful. The end of man and his works, the fate of empires, the vanity of all earthly glory, is forced upon our minds by the solemn emblem before us. We love to indulge in these feelings. They agitate the heart for a moment, but they soon sooth and compose it again. We lingered for an hour before we could prevail on ourselves to part with the scene or the reflections it excited.'

In the examination of religious rites, and edifices set apart to worship, to which our author gives so much of his time, we think him on the whole liberal; and on these subjects his distinctions

are more minute and accurate than those of a layman. To most of our readers the following will have interest.

To-day I attended mass in the Pontifical palace, on the Quirinal hill. It was the anniversary of the election of Pius VII. and it was understood that the Pope himself would assist in the celebration. Twenty-four Cardinals, who were dressed in flowing purple robes, the hoods of which were lined with white damask, and whose heads were powdered and crowns covered with a circular piece of scarlet cloth, took the upper seats on each side of the chapel; the dignitaries next in rank sat below them; and the inferior clergy on seats scarcely raised above the floor. They had not proceeded far in the service before the masters of ceremonies (who on this occasion were dressed in black robes, with scapularies of netted muslin hanging on their shoulders) went in to the Cardinals, and, almost in the twinkling of an eye, changed their purple mantles for scarlet. A few minutes after, the infirm old Pope, a man of a mild and meek conntenance, who in bis person, his features, and especially in his air and manner, was not unlike the late Bishop Moore, of New-York, was brought in on a chair, and placed upon a throne. Bishops (as I supposed) adjusted the folds of his garments, Cardinals ministered around him, incense was thrown into his face, and every mark of respect short of absolute homage, was shown to this vicegerent of Heaven. They then went on celebrating the mass with extraordinary pomp, and the Pope occasionally took a part in it with the officiating Cardinal, in a low, hollow, and tremulous voice. They both wore mitres, which were of a light straw colour, and not distinguishable at the distance from which I saw them, either in their form or appearance. In the more solemn parts of the service they were taken off. The Cardinals afterwards rose in succession from their seats; they advanced towards the Pope, while the masters of ceremonies arranged the long train of their garments, to prevent entanglement and confusion; they bowed profoundly to his holiness, kissed his hand, and returned. Two of the inferior clergy kissed his foot. During the mass, there was music occasionally, but it was less sweet and harmonious than common. After the gospel, a Cardinal, taking a censer, repeated the ceremony of throwing incense in the Pope's face, and then did it successively to all his brethren. These things were performed with grace and dignity. The behaviour of Cardinal Doria was singularly composed and devout, and, of the greater part, perfectly grave and becoming, though I observed, among a few, a degree of levity in less solemn parts of the service, and, in one or two instances, even while on their knees. When mass was ended, the Pope was carried out in the same manner as he had been brought in.

In the form and pageantry of this morning's ceremonies there was much for the eye; but to those unacquainted with the significance and grounds of them, there seemed to be little for the heart and understanding. On descending, the court was filled with the gaudy carriages of these ecclesiastical dignitaries, and we were as strongly

reminded below of the vanities of this world, as above of the solemn realities of another.

In the evening we went to Trinity Church of the Pilgrims, to see these humble men of the staff and beads served by Cardinals and nobles. Preparations were made for washing their feet and satisfying their stomachs, but the spiritual lords showed no love of this employment, and neither poverty of spirit, nor the ostentation of it, could bring a single one of them there, to assist at so edifying a spectacle. A few young men, and some laymen of distinction, washed the feet of these followers of St. Philip, and then kissed them in token of humility and brotherly love, but with a fastidiousness justly warranted, even after this ablution. They then waited on them at supper, embarrassing the poor pilgrims by this unwonted service, though without taking off the edge of their appetites. These were always either keen and active, or else they had been held in requisition for the occasion.'

One of the principal features that we discover in Mr. Berrian, which may be said to distinguish him from other travellers through Italy, is the vein of common sense which runs through his writings, maugre the classic ground on which he treads. If we have noticed a solitary instance where his love for the reputation of the poet induced him to lose sight of the transgressions of the man, we with greater promptitude make an extract that shows his regard for truth, under circumstances that might tempt most men to give the tale all the varnish of imagination.

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To-day we went out to Pompeii. The road follows the indented sweep of the bay, passing through the long and beautiful street of Portici, the village of Resina, and the devoted town of Torre del Greco, so often overwhelmed by the burning torrents of Vesuvius, and raised again from its ashes. The course of devastation is still visible in the huge masses of consolidated lava which appear between and around the houses, and can be traced to the edge of the sea. A little before mid-day we reached Pompeii. We were first taken into a court, which was surrounded by a portico resting on doric pillars covered with stucco. The ranges of apartments behind the portico, are supposed to have been the quarters of the legionary soldiers. We passed from the opposite side of the court into the smaller and larger theatres. The marble pavement of the former is still left, with a short Latin inscription in letters of brass. The latter is in a more perfect state. We could discover the form and all the arrangements of this building for the audience and actors, the semicircular seats rising above one another, intersected by flights of steps of a more convenient elevation; the orchestra, the stage, the dressing rooms, and the places of ingress and egress. The stage is so small as to have left but little room for action or scenic effect; though this was indeed of no importance, as the scenes were not varied in ancient theatres according to the nature of the subject. Here also the pavement and many of the marble steps are preserved.

This theatre is built against the side of a hill, and communicates with a forum above, where we observed an altar and other vestiges of a temple. Under the cool shade of an arched passage where the actors entered, we made an excellent dinner that we had providently brought along with us, and refreshed ourselves with some palatable wine procured for us at the place.

The temple of Isis, behind the smaller theatre, is a curious remain. It consists of an inner court with a portico. Near the entrance there is a square hollow block of marble for ablutions. At one extremity we see the chapel raised a few steps above the court, an open altar, and the inmost shrine beneath, or a hidden cell, with which there is a communication by a secret stairs.

The amphitheatre was excavated by the orders of Murat. The corridors are entirely cleared, the seats have left their form on the earth, though the stones are removed, and the arena is fully exposed. Situated in a hollow, it has no boldness without, and within it is more remarkable for its exact preservation than for its size and grandeur.

From these public buildings we proceeded to examine the private houses. We had already seen many of the monuments of the pride and power of the Romans, but we had never been admitted into their domestic retirement, nor permitted to judge of their comforts or their wants. Time has destroyed every clue to these things except at Herculaneum and Pompeii. At the latter we see something, but little however corresponding with the heated fancies or exaggerated descriptions of most persons who have visited it.

The first street consists of private dwellings, more than half demolished by the superincumbent weight of pumice stones and ashes. The roofs are broken in, the floor of the second story (where there was one) is gone, and nothing is standing but the naked walls of the first. In many instances even this is, in a great measure, choaked up and concealed by sand.

The excavations, in the next street, were more complete. Here, the rooms being cleared, we had a good opportunity of examining the arrangements in the dwellings of the ancients. The apartments are very small, seldom communicating with each other, and receiving no light from without except by doors. They generally open upon an inner court, where the inhabitants must have looked for light, air, and enjoyment. There are no chimneys and no entries or halls; and, in short, there is a total want of room, convenience, and comfort, in all of them.

The shops, however, have windows opening upon the streets. They are very narrow, and the door and window take up the whole front.

We observed among them a baker's shop, a grocer's, with the amphoræ for wine still remaining, and an apothecary's, with a symbol over the door expressive of his calling.

There was but one private edifice in Pompeii on a larger scale. Here the apartments were comparatively spacious, the court more

extensive, and the different ornaments in better taste. The pavements were of neat mosaic; there were some reliques of beautiful marble in the baths; and the arabesque paintings made a nearer approach towards elegance. Every where else they seemed to me exceedingly rude and imperfect.

The streets are as narrow as the houses are insignificant. The broadest are not more than twenty-four feet wide, and I measured one which was not more than seven or eight. As a portion of this even is taken up with side-walks, only a single carriage could pass at a' time. They are paved with misshapen pieces of basalt as they were taken from the quarry, and fitted nicely to each other. The deep traces of the wheels in this hard substance are a plain indication of the antiquity of this city at the time it was destroyed. They were trodden for centuries before our æra, and we now pass over the very stepping-stones by which the people of such remote ages crossed these very streets. There is nothing so impressive in this region of wonders.

At the extremity of one of the streets there is, on each side, a range of sepulchral monuments. They are of various dimensions and designs. The greater part are diminutive and neat, but a few, with sculptured decorations, have a degree of elegance and grandeur. The white marble of which they are built is scarely discoloured by time. We went into some of them, and saw the niches where the vases had stood with the ashes of the dead. In one or two others, which were closed, we perceived, through the grating of the door, that some of these cinerary urns still remained.

A little farther on, the gate of the city and part of the wall are exposed. They are of the same shrunken proportions as every thing else in the place.

Excavations have recently been made in another part of the town, and they are now carrying on the work with spirit. In going to examine these new discoveries, we passed over a part of Pompeii, which is not yet disinterred. It is covered with trees and vines,

and gives no sign of the city beneath.

The ruins which have been lately brought to light consist entirely of porticos, forums, basilicæ, and temples. There is a certain air of magnificence in them at the first glance which disappears upon close inspection. The columns, in these public buildings, are generally composed of brick, and covered with white or coloured stucco. la one of the temples they are of marble. I remarked here a very singular and interesting appearance. The lower steps of the portico, having been shaken and displaced by some convulsion, had sunken considerably into the earth, and declined from their horizontal position. But by a composition of stucco they have been restored to their level. It looks exactly like a recent job. May not this injury, in appearance so lately repaired, have been occasioned by the shock of the earthquake that took place a short time before the eruption which overwhelmed Pompeii ?

There were some rough pillars, lying near this temple, which had not yet received the finishing touches of the workmen.

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