But let us go on. A very pleasant wind is fanning our foreheads, and there is a charm about this drive which we never experienced before. A grim charm truly, but nevertheless, a charm after all. Are we not going to see the ruins. The ruins which came to us in a night--the heritage of the fire. We have a Dunga and a Dugga, and a Carthage of our own. In a few brief hours we had a desolation here, which, in other lands it took great centuries to create. We have crumbling ruins, and shapeless masses of stone in the very heart of a community which boasted, but a short time before, of a civilization and an enterprise unsurpassed the world over. Let the eye wander as we pass along the deserted streets, and take in the full view as it appears. What a fascination there is about this district of sorrow. Why is it we pause, and wonder if Troy ever looked like this; or the ruins of Sodom stood out against the sky like that house there, this edifice here or that once noble structure beyond. All, all is desolation, all blackness, despair, decay and misery. Look at those ponderous walls, which defied the flames to the last. See they are still standing, broken it is true, but standing proudly and defiantly for all that. See, the moon is throwing her light upon that church yonder. See how she dances, now high, now low, look, she disappears behind the tall wall, and all we see for a moment is a dark shadow. Now there she is again. Here comes the glittering Cynthia with her robes of white. She is coming along up, up, up by that angle there. Now she is soaring along the sky. Now she seems to stand right over our heads. How light it is. How bright and beautiful the moon is to-night. How playful the mad thing is, how merrily and joyously she disports herself in the heavens, and yet how kindly she turns her sympathetic face on the vale below. She sails along, casting lingering and tearful glances on the havoc-stricken land.