superb Arch of Peace, with its enormous bronze horses and car, and the reclining forms of the deities of Peace and Prosperity. In artistic merit, as a short study would prove, it is much superior to the boasted Arc de l'Etoile, of Paris, although its dimensions perhaps are not so vast. It is here that the great Simplon route commences, that worthy monument of Napoleon's truest glory. A little to the right, lies a large modern arena, with seats rising one above the other and with royal lodges or piazzas. They use it for public exhibitions, as in the olden time-foot races, nautical fights, and so forth. But it is in one view, a humiliating sight to look upon, for him who has visited the Coliseum and the amphitheatres of Nismes and Verona. It seems a mere caricature upon those stupendous edifices, like a school-boy's imitation of the grand old hexameters of Homer. But the young keeper who has ascended with you gets impatient, and the reflection from the bright marble around burns and half blinds you. You begin the descent, and after sundry short revolutions like those of a horse in a dark mill, in which your legs become almost ungovernable and begin to swing about in air before each step, you touch at last the cathedral floor. "Your excellency wont forget the guide," insinuates your companion, as he opens the little door. "Get out! Didn't I pay that man behind the desk before starting?" E vero, your excellency. But that was for the church." "It was, hey?" "One is constantly reminded here," said a philosophizing friend of mine, on his first visit in an Italian town, "that one is a 'stranger in a strange land.'” Yes, thought I, a very strange land! THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. FROM A PICTURE BY FLAGG. BY ELIZABETH G. BARBER. The cold, pale blue of wintry skies is o'er them, Pale wife of Winslow! beautiful and tender Is the soft light within those upraised eyes; That soon shall greet thee far beyond the skies, For even now, death's angel hovers round thee; In love, in constancy, in pure affection strong, Fair Rose! there beams upon thy face a beauty, Of woman's sweet, heroic spirit born. A peerless flower for yon dark soldier's wife. Oh, man of God! a spirit pure and holy, Beams from thy placid eye, thy furrowed brow- Say, gallant Standish! shall that counsel guide thee- Awhile still listen to the eloquence Of words divine; ere long, and thou shalt brave The guide and champion of the pilgrim band- And thou, young Alden! with a lofty bearing, Strong to accomplish deeds of purpose high; Bend thus in prayer, oh pilgrim band, beseeching The Holy One to counsel and to bless; Crowned with His smiles, and strengthened by His teaching, The God who calmed the raging of the sea, A noble gift is thine, oh painter! tracing These scenes of old thy pencil shall enshrine, CLASSIC VAGARIES. PROLOGUE. It was by accident that we omitted to allude to what were called the Journals of the Roman people, in the first of our series. Two or three of our daily and weekly newspapers have been the arena of a learned discussion concerning them, and have thereby reminded us of our neglect. A Philadelphia editor had the hardihood, while setting forth the superior advantages of a poor man in our age to those of a Roman Emperor, to remark to this effect; that Augustus Cæsar, " in all his glory," had no newspaper to read at the imperial breakfast table. Another journal took up this clever and palpably true observation, and endeavored to prove it false. To make out his case, the latter writer goes so deep into Murphy's Tacitus, as to show himself altogether incapable of suspecting a joke from a grave commentator. The playful fancy of the translator of Tacitus, led him to indulge in a jesting comparison between a Roman diarist and a modern editor, between the public records of Rome and the newspaper press of our day. Upon this, our Pennsylvania sage builds his idea of a 66 Roman newspaper." But to let alone for the present the manifest absurdity of calling the "Journals of the Roman people" newspapers, we may ask whether such a thing as a newspaper did exist at Rome. Every body knows, that manuscript copies of daily events could not be multiplied sufficiently fast to render them serviceable after the manner of a modern newspaper. The art of printing is the very life of periodical literature. The latter could not have existed before the invention of the former, and the silence of all history shows the truth of such an inference. Had there been any such channel of communication with the people, Cicero, who was never slow to appeal to public opinion to corroborate his facts, would have alluded to it in his orations. Its statements would not have escaped the sarcasm of Juvenal. Some of the poems of Statius, Claudian and Catullus would have filled its " pet's corner," instead of descending to us in the form of books; Lesbia would have been addressed with complimentary lines; poetical descriptions of the baths of Rome would have been given; and Stelichon would have been flattered through the columns of-to carry out the droll conceit of the learned Theban before-mentioned the "Journal of the Roman People." As it is, however, the classical writers are silent with regard to everything of this nature. What then were the "Journals of the Roman people?" The custom prevailed very generally in Rome of keeping private diaries. Augustus compelled his daughters and grand-daughters to keep such records, and enter in them an account of their daily conduct. These diaries they were accustomed to read over just before retiring for the night. A similar course seemed to have been observed with respect to public affairs. Those events, not of sufficient importance to be entered in the annals or year-books, were mentioned in the daybooks-both of which were evidently public records. These daybooks were called the journals of the Roman people, of which, either copies or abstracts were made to be sent as dispatches to the army, when abroad, and to the provinces of Rome. It was such an abstract as these that the Roman soldiers were so eager to see, in the days of Nero. They wished to learn from it how universal was the influence of their favorite, Thrasea. We cite this instance, because the newspaper writer, whom we are keeping in view, alluded to this fact in support of his theory. There were also records of public affairs kept by private persons. These were likewise divided into annals and diaries. Tacitusterse, forcible, elegant Tacitus-was an annalist. From him we cite the following sentence: "During the consulship of Nero and Piso, little occurred worthy of being noted, except by those who fill volumes with the praises of buildings, and incite discussions of the question, which of the Cæsars erected the theatre in the Field of Mars? for it is now found necessary to the dignity of the Roman people that great events should be recorded in the annals, and less important occurrences in journals." These, however, were books, not newspapers. They were an inferior kind of history. Like Bishop Burnet's account of his own Times, or Col. Trumbull's Reminiscences, they were narratives of the ordinary events of certain ages of the Roman Empire. II. Instead of wandering to-day through the streets of Rome, will the reader accompany me to a retired spot, whither my avocations call me, and converse about some of the strange coincidences and contrasts between the character of the men and events of old, and that of the men and events of the present age? We will at a future time resume our ramble in pursuit of novelty. We will make our visit to the villa of Horace at Tivoli. He is now absent at Rome, dining daily with Virgil at the table of Augustus, who never allows the meal to pass off without his standing joke upon Horace's asthma and Virgil's opthalmia; "I sit between sighs and tears." The villa will not be occupied by its owner until September. It is then that it seems to him the paradise of the world. It is beautifully situated; lying in a valley between twin mountains, sheltered by them from the breezes of the north and south, although they do not shut out the rosy brightness of the rising sun or the moist lustre of his setting beams. The olives line the hillside, and their berries hang in rich clusters from every bough. The meadows below wave with golden grain. Plums are growing here engrafted on thorn-bushes, and oaks and elms stand on every side of us, with draperies of vines trailing around their gigantic forms. We will enter what is called the " city-wing" and seat ourselves in Horace's study. We will not spend time in examining it, as I shall doubtless conduct you to those which are far more magnificent in their artificial appurtenances. Let us take from the shelf this copy of Cicero's Republic or treatise on Government.* You have, of course, read it, and were intered in his description of the quiet but powerful virtues of Marcus Cato. But did it suggest itself to you to compare him, as there described, with the great American-John Quincy Adams? Another distinguished politician of our country has received the enviable title of the "Cato of America," but you shall judge whether the ExPresident does not deserve it more. I need not allude to the severe morality, the vehement and fiery style of eloquence, the extreme taste for public life, the discursive and somewhat verbose style of writing which characterized both. But you will remember, that Adams was called "an old idiot" in debate, by some of his Southern peers, who were enraged at his noble and effectual stand for the right of petition. You are also aware, that, having once attained to the highest honors of the republic, he is still in a more humble capacity, serving his country at a time of life, when the retirement of home, and reflection upon his past honors would seem more fitted to his age and strength. So had Marcus Cato been elevated to the highest offices of the Roman republic. See now what Cicero says of him. The first edition of this profound work was published in Rome in year 51, before Christ: the second, at the same place, in the year of our Lord 1822. |