heart; and, as he marked the melancholy beauty of those eyes, usually so full of fire, he reproached himself with having thus depressed a spirit so framed for sweet and joyous impressions; he would fain have restored them; but Corinne's uncertainty of his intentions, as to his stay or departure, entirely disordered her accustomed serenity. She led him through the gates to the old Appian Way, whose traces are marked in the heart of the country by ruins on the right and left, for many miles beyond the walls. The Romans did not permit the dead to be buried within the city. None but the emperors were there interred, except one citizen named Publius Biblius, who was thus recompensed for his humble virtues; such as, indeed, his contemporaries were most inclined to honor. To reach the Appian Way you leave Rome by the gate of St. Sebastian, formerly called the Capena Gate. The first tombs you then find, Cicero assures us, are those of Metellus, of Scipio, and Servilius. The tomb of the Scipio family was found here, and afterwards removed to the Vatican. It is almost sacrilege to displace such ashes. Imagination is more nearly allied to morality than is believed, and ought not to be offended. Among so many tombs names must be strewn at random; there is no way of deciding to which such or such title belongs; but this very uncertainty prevents our looking on any of them with indifference. It was in such that the peasants made their homes; for the Romans consecrated quite space enough to the urns of their illustrious fellow-citizens. They had not that principle of utility which, for the sake of cultivating a few feet of ground the more, lays waste the vast domain of feeling and of thought. At some distance from the Appian Way is a temple raised by the republic to Honor and to Virtue; another to the god who caused the return of Hannibal. There, too, is the fountain of Egeria; where in solitude Numa conversed with Conscience, the divinity of the good. No monument of guilt invades the repose of these great beings; the earth around is sacred to the memory of worth. The noblest thoughts may reign there undisturbed. The aspect of the country near Rome is remarkably peculiar; it is but a desert, as boasting neither trees nor houses; but the ground is covered with wild shrubs ceaselessly renewed by energetic vegetation. The parasitic tribes creep round the tombs, and decorate the ruins, as if in honor of their dead. Proud nature, conscious that no Cincinnatus now guides the plough that furrows her breast, there repulses the care of man, and produces plants which she permits not to serve the living. These uncultivated plains may, indeed, displease those who speculate on the earth's capacity for supplying human wants; but the pensive mind, more occupied by thoughts of death than of life, loves to contemplate the Campagna, on which present time has imprinted no trace; it cherishes the dead, and fondly