We love the relics of the Past. They awaken a long train of thought and strong emotions. Though dug from the earth, like to the simple lamp in the Eastern tale, they bear some secret charm. But let the ruins be august! Then with eagerness we ask, who piled up the frowning walls? what storms have they braved? what purpose have they subserved? what lesson do they teach? Where are their architects? In what Epic are they heroes? In what marble do they live? It is thus that we contemplate the Coliseum of ancient imperial Rome. It was begun by Vespasian and finished by Titus. Arches upon arches, and columns upon columns, recall to mind the myth of Pelion piled upon Ossa. The Doric and Ionic and Corinthian orders of architecture are illustrated. A hundred thousand Romans could there witness the gladiatorial contests. Anglo-Saxon pilgrims, in the middle ages, were amazed at this piece of massive masonry. They identified its duration with that of time itself. They said, "While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; when falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; and when Rome falls,-the world." But the wind and the lightning and the rain have made havoc with its walls; while man, a worse depredator still, has dislodged the stones from their places. Utilitarianism has thence drawn its materials, to construct many modern palaces. The same vandalic spirit has rudely torn from their niches the sculptures of the Parthenon. They now decorate the British Museum instead of the Temple of Minerva. But Greece has fallen. She stands no longer on the proud preeminence of Marathon and Salamis. Hence the ravagers of the works of Phidias "go unwhipt of justice." Thus the Coliseum of to-day is very unlike to the Coliseum of imperial Rome. Arches have been shattered, and columns have fallen. Vast apertures are made in the stately pile. The dove builds her nest, where once the successful gladiator raised the shrill cry of "hoc habet." The grass grows tall upon the arena, which once drank the blood of beasts and of men. Eternal silence has succeeded the acclamations of a hundred thousand Romans. A hermit of wild eye and strange demeanor, tenants the solitude. His spectral figure is often seen gliding along in the deep gloom of the night. Shelley saw this odd personage there, and has introduced him into the affecting story of a blind old man and his daughter. The father asks his child whither they have come. The hermit hears the interrogatory, and rebukes him for ignorance. "Wretched old man! know you not that these are the ruins of the Coliseum?" His subsequent knowledge of the father's blindness caused the rebuke to goad his own sensitive soul. But when the moon shines full, those ruins assume a peculiar charm, and show best their hoar antiquity. Nothing either of ancient or of modern art is grander, or so calculated to awaken emotion. Then Byron filled with enthusiasm, and wrote in lines which will live when the last stone shall have crumbled from the basement: "Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine As 'twere its natural torches, for divine Should be the light which streams here, to illume This long explor'd but still exhaustless mine Of contemplation." But why was built that vast pile of architecture? Was it to give a home to the destitute, and lengthen out the "thin-spun life?" Was it based on the dignity of man in this state of moral probation? No. Every spot of that ground is fertilized with his blood. Every spot is a witness to the cruel spirit of ancient customs. How could it be otherwise with such a nation, when their religion itself was a mass of gross corruption? The Gods of heathen Rome were cruel. They were engaged restlessly in prosecuting schemes of ambition and self-indulgence. That might is right was the "summune jus." Hence Jupiter, that he may rule, dethrones father Saturn. Hence the Titans attempt to hurl from power brother Jupiter. Had the Gods been men, they would have incurred every penalty in our codes of criminal law. They would have been hanged by the neck until they were dead. They would have illustrated a richer romance of crime, than the chronicles of the "Old Bailey." But they were Gods, and therefore not amenable to human codes. How should not such notions, when sanctioned by religion itself, react on the masses? It was natural that they should, and there is the best evidence that they did. The people became like to their Gods, cruel, licentious, ambitious, groveling. They thirsted after blood for an amusement, and raised the lofty walls of the Coliseum. They carried thither their children to laugh at the groans of the dying gladiator, and to invert their thumbs when he supplicated for life. The pagan religion has been superseded by another, essentially differing in spirit. It does not destroy, but it almost raises the dead. It has no slaughter-houses for men, but hospitals for the sick. It does not exult over the agonies of expiring nature, but it sympathizes, and points at the balm of Gilead. The one is fiend-like, the other god-like. The one makes us brutes, the other men. Moreover, there is hallowed ground about that old Coliseum. It is stained with richer blood than that of beasts and gladiators. There Christians gave the seal of martyrdom to the cause of their Master. There they illustrated the intolerance of the ancient religion. We prize the Christian dead of the Coliseum, more than the dead of Smithfield or of St. Bartholomew. In making their profession, they took their lives in their hands. They were promised no pleasure on earth, but that of a good conscience. They were to wait for their " recompense of reward." The world was against them, but they were stronger than the world. Atlas-like, their shoulders supported the pillars of the infant Church. Hence we would not wish to see the stones crumble away from the massive arches of the Coliseum. We would wish them to commemorate a great truth, that Rome was in need of a better religion. We would wish them to illustrate the comparative tolerance of Christianity. Let the wind and the rain fall lightly on the old ruins! Let man remove not a stone from its place! Let the cooing of the dove answer back to the bay of the watch-dog beyond the Tiber, and to the hooting of the owl from the palace of the Cæsars! Let the hermit steal along like to a ghost in the dark! Let the moonbeams still fall, until we exclaim this is a scene, "Where musing solitude might love to lift G. A. J. De Rosa Lee. 1. DUм vivebam in Tennessee, Uli-ali-ola-e Ambiebam Rosam Lee, Uli-ali-ola-e Nigerrimis luminibus, Labris baccis paribus; Quum nunc iverim primo, "Nunc" ait "ne stultus sis, Joe!" Uli-ali-ola-e- Uli-ali-ola-e Sub "bananâ" arbore. 2. "Plane" dixi "mea vita, Uli-ali-ola-e Mellitissimâ animâ, Uli-ali-ola-e Pedibus bellis tantisque Ut ex cothurno sint cunae; Rosa, me nunc accipe!" "Nunc" inquit "Joe, ne fac stulte !" Uli-ali-ola-e Ambiens in Tennessee, Uli-ali-ola-e Sub "banana" arbore. 3. Fabula mea indicta; Uli-ali-ola-e Collegit frigus tum Rosa! Uli-ali-ola-e— Doctorem mitte, nutricem ! Fecerunt eam pejorem. |