It was long, doubtless, before the rude barbarians borrowed the refinements and arts of a conquered people, whose very civilization they regarded as a badge of slavery. “The ancient inhabitants of Italy,” says Muratori, “were so enervated, and were cast down to such a pitch of poverty, that no power or force of example remained by which to allure the conquerors to a more refined and elegant manner of living. For this reason the Lombards long retained their primitive ferocity and rudeness, and the barbaric style of look and dress, till the more genial sky of Italy, and the neighboring examples of the Greeks and Romans gradually led them, first to some cultivation of manners, and then to refinement.” And what this eminent antiquarian alleges in this particular case was, doubtless, true of all those barbarian hordes that overran the once fertile plains of the South. It was this fierce and savage independence that rendered the rude conqueror insensible, not only to the sight of his slave’s refinement, but even to the influence of the habitual view and contact of those innumerable and beautiful products of art which surrounded him on every side. Nothing less than the development of one strong passion--the passion for freedom--could have quelled those native instincts in the mind, which lead man so powerfully to embrace the inventions of others, and, in fault of these, to invent for himself. Doubtless, the constant succession of the waves of desolation was another main cause of their effacing power. Each succeeding invasion found a still decreasing civilization: the traces of arts and refinement grew ever fainter and fainter, till finally they were almost lost to view. ----- [2] Boeckh, “Economy of Athens.” [3] Smith’s “Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities.” * * * * * =SONNETS.= =BY MRS. ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS.= I.--THE OASIS. Think not that I am hapless, ye who read The pensive numbers of my fervent lyre: That in the heart is sown some upas-seed, Is not to prove all healthful germs expire; That in a garden are some withered bowers, Crisped buds and yellow leaves bestrew the ground, Is not to prove it hath nor herbs nor flowers. Think not because I’ve stood on every round Of Fortune’s ladder, that no oasis Amid the desert of my heart upglows Above the sands and sallow cypresses, Cheering the weary pilgrim as he goes; Not all the fires that rend volcanic wombs Can kill this one green spot that ’mid my heart-waste blooms. II.--JOYS OF INTELLECTUAL EMPLOYMENT.