ROUGH NOTES ON ROME. 159

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stirring scenes as the siege of Tillietudlem Castle, the |

skirmish of Drumelog, and the battle of Bothwell Bridge ;
and those who would gain a good insight into the respec-
tive characters of the Royalist and Puritan warriors of
that day cannot study better examples than Sergeant
Bothwell and John Balfour of Burley. A little later on,
and in * Waverley” we are in the atmosphere of plots and
panies, secret signs and white cockades which enveloped
the fortunes of the Young Pretender; and still later, in
“The Heart of Midlothian,’ one of the most touching
stories is made to turn on the well-known historical event
of George II.’s life, the storming of the Tolbooth prison,
in Edinburgh, and the Porteus riots. But we have come
to the end of our journey with the Great Enchanter; we
may not here listen to such winning voices as those of
Catherine Glover or Julia Mannering, or linger in such
goodly company as that of the Antiquary, or Dominie
Sampson, or Dugald Dalgetty. Minna and Brenda from
their wild home in Orkney, and the spells of Norna of Fit-
ful Head, alike appeal tous invain. We leave reluctantly
the company of the Northern Prospero, who, though his
wand is broken, has left us the enchantment of his stories
to interest, to elevate, and to teach us all that is pure, and
manly, and right.

ROUGH NOTES ON ROME.

Rey LD you visit Rome in your travels ?”
Si} asked a gentleman in the interval of
4) a waltz, of his partner, who had just
returned from “doing” the continent

6< Tp

of Europe.

“Rome? Rome ?” replied the young lady, ina
hesitating voice; “let me see. Did we go to
Rome? Oh yes. That was where we saw the
woman shaving a dog on the steps of a church.”

Now it is perfectly true that this is a sight
which may be seen in Rome. I have seen it
myself, and Trajan’s Forum, just outside our
lodgings, was frequently provided with two or
three dogs chained up to the posts, and drying
in the sun after the operation; but I confess that
I should hardly like to be able to characterize
Rome by nothing better than this. I should not
like to be called on to characterize Rome by any
one thing; but, if I was obliged to do so, I think
that I should choose Runs.

We were there in 1867, and were lodged in the
midst of ruins. Far away from the ordinary
English quarter of the Piazza di Spagna, we were
located at the other extremity of the Corso. You
might chuck a biscuit into the Tomb of Bibulus,
probably 2000 years old, though some think it later.
Trajan’s Column, 1700 years old, stood within
sight of our windows, among the stumpy fragments
of its colonnades. The gloomy red-brick Torre
delle Milizie, built in the thirteenth or fourteenth
century, glowered across the housetops over its
shoulder. Opposite to us rose the Palazzo di
Venezia, telling more than one tale of decay. We

ee ee

had the honour of a sentinel at our front door, for
immediately over our heads lodged the Dowager
Ex-Queen of Naples, a fragment of a ruined
dynasty ; and occasionally we met a gorgeously
attired official on the stairease, inviting us with
the words, “Il Re” (the King), to make room for
a& young man—who came tripping lightly down,
and, hailing a cab off the stand, drove away to
his own abode—the dethroned King of Naples.

Yes, we were in the midst of ruins, and since
then another has been added—that of the temporal
power of the Pope, so that, if I was obliged to
characterize Rome by one thing only, I should
choose Ruins.

Let us take a short turn; two or three minutes
will bring us to the Piazzi d’Ara Ceeli, from
which rise two great flights of steps. We will
take the left hand one, which leads to the church
of Ara Ceeli—the Church of the Heavenly Altar,
some 1300 years old, aecupying (it is generally
supposed) the site of the Temple of Capitoline
Joye, where a wild tradition says that the Emperor
Augustus erected to the Saviour an altar, which
gives its name to the church.

The great treasure of this church is the so-called
miraculous image of Il Santissimo Bambino (the
Most Holy Infant), said to have been carved, or at
any rate painted by St. Luke. This image takes
more fees, and is affirmed to work more cures, than
any other doctor in Rome, which, strange as it may
seem, is not incredible. The patients believe in
him, and he does not biced them, which the Italian
doctors are too fond of doing to their not very
confiding patients. A carriage is kept for his
special use: we saw him drive up in it, as he

returned from a visit to some sick person. Two |

Franciscans brought the image from the carriage
in an oblong box, and, having taken him out of it,
set him up in his special chapel. A woman far
advanced in pregnancy was waiting for his blessing
and protection. A short service was said, he was
unhooked from the wall, and the officiating priest
crossed her with the image on different parts of
her person. Verily here was another ruin, a ruin

of faith, on the crumbled fragments of which had |

been erected an edifice of credulity and superstition.
The Roman Catholic Church may protest against
idolatry, but the Roman Catholic people practise
what is marvellously like it.

Let us descend the steps again—not Pharisees,
with our haughty, “ God, I thank thee,” but hum-
bly asking ourselves whether we may not have
idols in our own hearts, more insidious and more
dangerous than the coarsest outward ones.

We mount the other flight of steps. Facing us
is the Palace of the Senator, with its lofty tower.
The Senator—another ruin. Time was when the
Senate of Rome was a name and a power to the