It is wonderful, truly, once we
discern the spirits around us, to notice what a miraculous place Rome
is; how the intervening years of purgatorial flames have turned old Nero
himself into a fairly benevolent, soft old gentleman, even though his
estates have crumbled to such an extent that he may put his golden
palace into the head of his cane, which he always carries now, since his
chariots have gone away. Where are they? Caligula has even made it up
with his mother-in-law, and you reflect with joy on that fact, as the
two flit by your mind's eye, hand in hand. All this nonsense is for
those of us who HAVE awakenings. The rest of "our party" may sit at
Spillman's and eat coffee-cakes and sip Lachrymae Christi, while we walk
alone through the Coliseum, with the crowd of old heathen. They stop,
every one, at the iron cross in the middle, reared over their carnage
and mad mirth, and press their lips to it now. The centuries have done
that. We only, alas! stand gazing mournfully, doubtingly.
Pages:
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157