and Hilda
Chapter XXIV. The Tower among the Apennines
Chapter XXVI. The Pedigree of Monte Beni
Chapter XXIX. On the Battlements
Chapter XXXI. The Marble Saloon
Chapter XXXII. Scenes by the Way
Chapter XXXIII. Pictured Windows
Chapter XXXIV. Market Day in Perugia
Chapter XXXV. The Bronze Pontiff’s Benediction
Chapter XXXVII. The Emptiness of Picture Galleries
Chapter XXXVIII. Altars and Incense
Chapter XXXIX. The World’s Cathedral
Chapter XL. Hilda and a Friend
Chapter XLI. Snowdrops and Maidenly Delights
Chapter XLII. Reminiscences of Miriam
Chapter XLIII. The Extinction of a Lamp
Chapter XLIV. The Deserted Shrine
Chapter XLV. The Flight of Hilda’s Doves
Chapter XLVI. A Walk on the Campagna
Chapter XLVII. The Peasant and Contadina
Chapter XLVIII. A Scene in the Corso
Chapter XLIX. A Frolic of the Carnival
Chapter L. Miriam, Hilda, Kenyon, Donatello
Volume I
CHAPTER I
MIRIAM, HILDA, KENYON, DONATELLO
Four individuals, in whose fortunes we should be glad to interest the reader, happened to be standing in one of the saloons of the sculpture-gallery in the Capitol at Rome. It was that room (the first, after ascending the staircase) in the centre of which reclines the noble and most pathetic figure of the Dying Gladiator, just sinking into his death-swoon. Around the walls stand the Antinous, the Amazon, the Lycian Apollo, the Juno; all famous productions of antique sculpture, and still shining in the undiminished majesty and beauty of their ideal life, although the marble that embodies them is yellow with time, and perhaps corroded by the damp earth in which they lay buried for centuries. Here, likewise, is seen a symbol (as apt at this moment as it was two thousand years ago) of the Human Soul, with its choice of Innocence or Evil close at hand, in the pretty figure of a child, clasping a dove to her bosom, but assaulted by a snake.
From one of the windows of this saloon, we may see a flight of broad stone steps, descending alongside the antique and massive foundation of the Capitol, towards the battered triumphal arch of Septimius Severus, right below. Farther on, the eye skirts along the edge of the desolate Forum (where Roman washerwomen hang out their linen to the sun), passing over a shapeless confusion of modern edifices, piled rudely up with ancient brick and stone, and over the domes of Christian churches, built on the old pavements of heathen temples, and supported by the very pillars that once upheld them. At a distance beyond — yet but a little way, considering how much history is heaped into the intervening space — rises the great sweep of the Coliseum, with the blue sky brightening through its upper tier of arches. Far off, the view is shut in by the Alban Mountains, looking just the same, amid all this decay and change, as when Romulus gazed thitherward over his half finished wall.
We glance hastily at these things, — at this bright sky, and those blue distant mountains, and at the ruins, Etruscan, Roman, Christian, venerable with a threefold antiquity, and at the company of world-famous statues in the saloon, — in the hope of putting the reader into that state of feeling which is experienced oftenest at Rome. It is a vague sense of ponderous remembrances; a perception of such weight and density in a bygone life, of which this spot was the centre, that the present moment is pressed down or crowded out, and our individual affairs and interests are but half as real here as elsewhere. Viewed through this medium, our narrative — into which are woven some airy and unsubstantial threads, intermixed with others, twisted out of the commonest stuff of human existence — may seem not widely different from the texture of all our lives.
Side by side with the massiveness of the Roman Past, all matters that we handle or dream of nowadays look evanescent and visionary
