Colosseum filled an enormous space; on the right rose the complicated arches of the Palatine, over- topped by cypress trees, through which the winds for ever moan the dead emperors who dwelt there; while in the distance Monte Cavo and the Alban hills lay like clouds upon the horizon, alone unchanged and unchangeable as when Rome was the mighty mistress of the world, and the nations stooped in chains at her feet. Curiously enough, the church of Santa Fran- cesca Romana, with its square tower, still occupies one end of the excavations of the Forum, blending the present with the past, representing mediaeval, as the ruins do imperial Rome, and the new lines of white Parisian-like buildings the modern capital of the house of Savoy. Where elsewhere on earth is such a scene? where such poetry, so much grandeur? What memories crowd around the very name! The history of the long centuries during which she has existed is all comprised within the one word — Rome! and the poet and the artist will ever turn to her lovingly, as to the country which is by birthright his home, whatever land may claim him as her own. The artist sat and sketched, oblivious, as artists generally are, of her surroundings, enjoying the sweet spring air, and absorbing, almost unconsciously, the melancholy spirit of the scene. For success — and success Alma had obtained — is ever mingled with sorrow: the loss of youth, the loss of friends, the loss of hope; — perhaps failure and success are more nearly allied than we imagine. Amid these
