THE COLISEUM AT MIDNIGHT. 139 LETTER XXVIII. The Coliseum at Midnight. ROME, April. DEAR E.-Last night was a beautiful clear night, and "the full round moon" seemed sailing the heavens on purpose to see how mysterious and solemn a light she could throw over the ruins of ancient Rome. Byron says the Coliseum should always be seen by moonlight, as the glare of day is too strong for it. So acting under his advice I sallied forth at midnight to visit it. It is at least a mile or a mile and a half from the centre of the city, and the dark and deserted streets and Trajan's lonely column that stood in the way, naturally put me in the mood to enjoy a ramble through it. I passed through the ruins of the Basilica of Constantine, climbed over its fallen columns, and finally emerged into the open moonlight right before the Coliseum. Its high and uneven top stood against the blue sky, with the pale and yellow light falling all over it, while the arches opened like caverns beneath, and the clambering ivy glistened and rustled in the passing night wind. Here, said I to myself, one can for once romance and dream with nothing but the moonlight and the Coliseum to criticise him. But alas, my expectations were soon blasted, for to my surprise, as I approached, I saw a long line of carriages drawn up under the arches. Other people knew the Coliseum looked well by moonlight beside myself. I was half inclined to turn back, but finally concluded to enjoy it another way-by seeing how the fashionable world took such a scene. After groping through one of the arches, by which a carriage stood, with the driver fast asleep on the box, I stepped into the arena and looked around me. Arch above arch, seat above seat, arose that vast amphitheatre, and the ruined corridors, black cavernous arches, the rustling ivy, the mysterious grandeur of the whole, and the sudden rush of centuries over the weak and staggering memory, completely swept every thing but the past from my vision. I felt afraid where I stood—I could not wholly grasp the scene-I seemed amid something awful, and yet could hardly tell what. I turned, and lo! I was leaning over the lion's den. I started, as if a sudden roar had burst up around me. The next moment it was all gone. The quiet moon was sailing along the quiet sky-the night breeze sighed mournfully by, and nature was breathing long and peacefully. A gay laugh dispersed the whole, as a fashionable couple passed near me, speaking of some one's grand soirée. I wander. ed around, meeting groups of sauntering idlers, talking French, Italian and German. A French couple promenaded backward and forward across the arena, without once looking up to the moonlit ruin. They spoke low and earnestly, and their walk was of that slow and steady pace which always denotes an absorbed mind. I stood for a long while in the shadow of the ruins and watched them. It was a love scene in the Coliseum, but the Coliseum itself was quite forgotten. The voice of one man thrilled deeper in that fair one's heart than the thousand-tongued ruin around her. Her heart was busy amid other scenes. Under its magic power the Coliseum was buried and Rome forgotten, and a fabric more beautiful than both, in their glory was reared above them-a fairy fabric where love dwelt and fate spun her golden thread. Alas, I sighed, as I turned away, there are more ruins in the world than the Coliseum, and more awful. The saddest fragments are not those that meet the eye, and the light that memory flings over buried hopes, is lonelier than moonlight here. This second dream was also dispelled by a shout above me: a company, guided by a man with a torch, now emerged in view overhead, and again dropped through the corridors. Suddenly a French girl near me exclaimed, as they again came on to an arch and stood looking down upon us, "C'est tres joli ?" "Oui," was the answer. "C'est magnifique," and then a laugh as clear and mirthful as ever rung from a careless heart. I wished also to ascend the ruin for the view, but kept deferring it, as it was necessary to have a guide and torch to prevent one from ventur. THE COLISEUM AT MIDNIGHT. 141 ing over weak arches and tumbling down ruined flights of steps. It was abominable to be compelled to trot around after a sleepy guide who was thinking the while of the paul each was to give nim. It seemed downright sacrilege, but I must do it, or not go at all. So I joined a mixed party of ladies and gentlemen and commenced the ascent just as one does an unpleasant duty. I followed doggedly the guide and torch awhile, when, seizing a favorable opportunity, I dodged one side, threaded my way amid the darkness to the top of the building, and clambering over a iuined parapet lay down, determined to take my own time to view the Coliseum. The humdrum guide did not miss me, and I was left alone with the Coliseum and the night. One by one the groups retired, and I heard with joy the last carriage rattle away toward the city. Behind me stood the arch of Constantine-on my left was the Palatine hill, the Roman forum with its few remaining columns and the Capitol, and beneath me was the arena where thousands had been "butchered to make a Roman holiday." Up those very stone steps below me had passed hasty feet more than a thousand years ago. Right around me had been the bustle and hum of the eager assembly. Before me, through that grand archway in which now the bayonet of a solitary sentinel glistened, had passed the triumphal Cæsars, while the mighty edifice rocked to the shout of the people. Beneath me, far down in the arena, on which the moonlight lay so peacefully, had stood the gladiator while his quick ear caught the roar of the lion, aroused for the conflict. "Hic habet," had been shouted from where I lay, as the steel entered some poor fellow's bosom. There the dying gladiator had lain as the life stream ebbed slowly away, while his thoughts, far from the scene of strife, reckless who was the victor, were "Where his rude hut by the Danube lay There were his young barbarians all at play, Oh, what wild heart-breakings had been in that arena! Every inch of it had been soaked in blood, and yet not a stain was left —not a scar remained to tell of the death-struggles these walls had witnessed. The Cæsars and the people, the slave and the martyred Christian, had all passed away. The spot where the one looked and the other suffered alone was left.-Thought crowded on thought as I looked down upon it, till the solitude and silence became too painful for me. I seemed to have lived years in those few minutes. I turned to descend, but alas, I was without a guide or a torch, locked up on the Coliseum after midnight. To thread my way through the dark galleries and down the broken steps, was no easy task; but after going and returning, mounting and descending for near a quarter of an hour, (and which seemed an hour,) I found the way, and landed safely at the entrance. After some thumping, the guide came and set me free. I returned through the Basilica of Constantine, and while standing and musing over one of its fallen columns, I suddenly heard the scream of a night bird which came from the Palatine hill, and was echoed back by another from near the Capitol. I had never heard it then, though I often have since. It was a shrill, single cry, that, heard amid those ruins at midnight, was indescribably thrilling.Right above me, on a ruined front, leaned several marble statues, in attitudes so natural, that it was almost impossible to believe they were not human beings keeping watch among the ruins. Just then the wind began to sweep by in gusts, shaking the ivy over my head, while the wild, mournful cry of that night bird seemed like the wail of a ghost amid the surrounding desolation. The hour, the place, and the silence, made it too lonely. It was fearful. I would stand and listen, anxious, yet afraid to hear it repeated, and when again it rung over the ruins, it sent the blood back with a quicker flow to my heart. I passed under the great arch, and began to enter the city, feeling as if I had heard the ghost of Rome crying out amid her ancient ruins. But I know all description must seem rhodomontade to you at this distance, yet to a heart that has not lost all worship for "the great and the old," it is widely different. The only good description I have ever seen, is in Byron's Manfred. It is much better than in Childe Harold. "I do remember me that in my youth When I was wandering; upon such a night |