From Pole to Pole: A Book for Young People — Sec 15 Stockholm to Egypt

I STOCKHOLM TO EGYPT

TO LONDON AND PARIS

Again we set out from Stockholm in the evening by train, and the next morning we reach Malmö, a port on the west coast of Sweden, not many miles north of Trelleborg, from which we started on our journey eastwards across Asia.

From Malmö a steamer soon takes us across the narrow sound to Copenhagen, the beautiful capital of Denmark, and then we take the train across the large, rich, and fertile island of Zealand.

There farms are crowded close together among the tilled fields; there thriving cattle graze on the meadows, yielding Denmark a superfluity of milk and butter; there the productive soil spreads everywhere, leaving no room for unprofitable sandy downs and heaths, as on the west coast of Jutland.

The Danes are a small people, but they make a brave struggle for existence.

Their country is one of the smallest in Europe, but the first in utilising all its possibilities of opening profitable commerce with foreign lands.

Much larger are its possessions in the Arctic Ocean, Greenland, and Iceland, but there the population is very scanty and the real masters of the islands are cold and ice.

At Korsör, on the Great Belt, we again go on board a steamer which in a few hours takes us between Langeland and Laaland to Kiel, the principal naval port of Germany.

Here we are on soil which was formerly Danish, for it was only during her last unfortunate war that Denmark lost the two duchies of Schleswig and Holstein.

We travel by train from Kiel through fertile Holstein southwards to the free Hansa town of Hamburg on the Elbe, the greatest commercial emporium on the mainland of Europe, and, after London and New York, the third in the world.

From Hamburg the train goes on through Hanover and Westphalia, across the majestic Rhine, through South Holland, not far north of the Belgian frontier, to the port of Flushing, which is situated on one of the islands in the delta of the Scheldt.

Here another steamer is ready for us, and after a passage of a few hours we glide into the broad trumpet-shaped mouth of the Thames and land at Queenborough.

There again we take a train which carries us through the thickly-peopled, well-cultivated country of Kent into the heart of London, the greatest city of the world.

[Illustration: MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM STOCKHOLM TO PARIS.

] After a few days' stay in London we go on to Paris--by train to Dover, across the Channel at its narrowest part in a swift turbine steamer, and again by rail from Calais to Paris, through one of the most fruitful districts of France, vying with the valleys of the Rhone and Garonne in fertility.

In a little over seven hours after leaving London we arrive at the great city (Plate XXIV.

) where the Seine, crossed by thirty bridges, describes a bend, afterwards continuing in the most capricious meanderings to Rouen and Havre.

[Illustration: PLATE XXIV.

PARIS.

Looking eastwards from Notre Dame.

] The first thing the stranger notices in Paris is the boulevards--broad, handsome streets, with alleys of leafy trees between rows of large palatial houses, theatres, cafés, and shops.

The oldest, the boulevards proper, were formerly the fortifications of the town with towers and walls; "boulevard" is, then, the same word as the English "bulwark."

Louis XIII.

, who enlarged and beautified Paris, had these bulwarks pulled down, and the first boulevards laid out on their site.

They are situated on the north side of the Seine, and form a continuous line under different names, Madeleine, des Capuchines, des Italiens, and Montmartre.

This line of boulevards is one of the sights of Paris.

In later times boulevards were also laid out where there had been no fortifications before.

Under Louis XIV.

and his successors Paris grew and increased in splendour and greatness; then it was the scene of the great Revolution and its horrors; then under Napoleon it became the heart of the mightiest empire of that time.

With the fall of Napoleon Paris was twice entered by the forces of the Allies, and in 1871 it was besieged and captured by the Prussians.

Since then Paris has been spared from disastrous misfortunes, and is, as it has been for many centuries, the gayest and most animated city in Europe.

Let us take a rapid walk through the town, starting at the Place de la Bastille, on the north bank of the Seine, where formerly stood the fortress and prison of the Bastille.

This prison was stormed and destroyed at the commencement of the Great Revolution, on July 14, 1789, and since that year July 14 has been the chief national festival-day.

In the middle of the square stands the July Column, and from its summit a wonderful view of Paris can be obtained.

We now follow the Rue de Rivoli, the largest and handsomest street in Paris.

On the left hand is the Hôtel de Ville, a fine public building, where the city authorities meet, where brilliant entertainments are given, and where the galleries are adorned with canvases of famous masters.

Farther along, on the same side, is the largest public building of the city, the palace of the Louvre.

Like the British Museum, it would require months and years to see properly.

Here are stored colossal collections, not only of objects of art and relics from great ancient kingdoms in Asia and Europe, but also of the finest works of European sculptors and painters of all periods.

We walk on north-westwards through the luxuriant gardens of the Tuileries, and stop a moment in the Place de la Concorde to enjoy the charming views presented on all sides--the river with its quays and bridges, the parks and avenues, the huge buildings decorated with exquisite taste, the wide, open spaces adorned with glorious monuments, and the never-ending coming and going of pleasure-loving Parisians and Parisian ladies in costumes of the latest fashion.

From the Place de la Concorde we direct our steps to the Champs Élysées, a magnificent park with a broad carriageway along which the fashionable world rides, walks, or drives in smart carriages and motor cars.

At the northern side of the park lives the President of the Republic in the palace of the Élysées.

If we now follow the double row of broad avenues northwards we come to the Place de l'Étoile, a "circus" where twelve avenues of large streets meet.

One of them, a prolongation of the Champs Élysées, is named after the grand army of Napoleon and leads to the extensive Bois de Boulogne.

In the middle of the Place de l'Étoile is erected a stately triumphal arch, 160 feet high, in memory of Napoleon's victories.

From here we follow a busy street as far as the bridge of Jena, and on the opposite bank of the Seine rises the Eiffel Tower, dominating Paris with its immense pillar 1000 feet high.

The Eiffel Tower is the highest structure ever reared by human hands, twice as high as the cathedral of Cologne and the tallest of the Egyptian pyramids.

At the first platform we are more than 330 feet above the vast city, but the hills outside Paris close in the horizon.

When the cage rises up to the third platform we are at a height of 864 feet above the ground, and see below us the Seine with its many bridges and the city with its innumerable streets and its 140 squares.

A staircase leads up to the highest balcony, and at the very top a beacon is lighted at night visible 50 miles away.

From the parapet we hardly dare allow our eyes to look down the perpendicular tower to the four sloping iron piers at its base, especially when it blows hard and the whole tower perceptibly swings.

There is no need to go up in a balloon to obtain a bird's-eye view of Paris; from the top of the Eiffel Tower we have the town spread out before us like a map.

NAPOLEON'S TOMB

When we have safely descended from the giddy height, we make our way across the Champ de Mars to the Hôtel des Invalides.

Formerly several thousand pensioners from the great French armies found a refuge in this huge building, but now it is used as a museum for military historic relics.

[Illustration: PLATE XXV.

NAPOLEON'S TOMB.

Hôtel des Invalides, Paris.

] We pass in under the glittering gilded dome, visible all over the city, and find ourselves in a round hall, the centre of which is occupied by a crypt, likewise round and several feet deep and open above.

On the floor in mosaic letters are glorious names, Rivoli, Pyramids, Marengo, Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, Wagram, and Moscow.

Twelve marble statues, representing as many victories, and sixty captured colours keep guard round the great sarcophagus of red porphyry from Finland which contains the remains of Napoleon (Plate XXV.

).

No one speaks in here.

The deepest silence surrounds the ashes of the man who in his lifetime filled the world with the roar of his cannon and the thunder of his legions, and who within the space of a few years completely changed the map of Europe.

Pale and subdued, the light falls over the crypt where the red porphyry speaks of irresistible power, and the white goddesses of victory are illumined as it were with a reflection of the years of glory.

Unconsciously we listen for an echo of the clash of arms and the words of command.

We seem to see a blue-eyed boy playing at his mother's knee at Ajaccio in Corsica; we seem to hear a youthful revolutionist, burning with enthusiasm, making fiery speeches at secret clubs in Paris.

Pale and solemn, the shade of the twenty-six-year-old general floats before our mind's eye as he returns from a series of victories in northern Italy, where he rushed like a storm over the plains of Lombardy, made a triumphal entry into Milan, and for ever removed the ancient republic of Venice from the list of independent States.

We recall the campaign of the French army against Egypt and the Holy Land.

Napoleon takes his fleet out from the harbour of Toulon, escapes Nelson's ships of the line and frigates, seizes Malta, sails to the north of Crete and west of Cyprus, and lands 40,000 men at Alexandria.

The soldiers languish in the desert sands on the way to Cairo, they approach the Nile to give battle to the Egyptian army, and at the foot of the pyramids the East is defeated by the West.

The march is continued eastwards to Syria.

Five centuries have passed since the crusaders attempted to wrest the Holy Sepulchre from the hands of unbelievers.

Now again the weapons of Western lands clash in the valley of the Jordan and at the foot of Mount Tabor, and now the French General obtains a victory over the Turks outside Nazareth.

In the meantime, however, Nelson has annihilated his fleet.

The flower of the republican army is doomed to perish, and Napoleon's dream of an oriental dominion has vanished with the smoke of the last camp fire.

He leaves Egypt with two frigates, sails along the coasts of Tripoli and Tunis, and passes at night with extinguished lights through the channel between Africa and Sicily.

Again our eyes turn to the dim light under the cupola of the Invalides, and the marble columns and statues look white as snow.

Then our thoughts wander off to the Alps, the Great St. Bernard, the St. Gotthard, Mont Cenis, and the Simplon, where the First Consul, like Hannibal before him, with four army corps bids defiance to the loftiest mountains of Europe.

We seem to see the soldiers dragging the cannon through the frozen drifts and collecting together again on the Italian side.

At Marengo, south of the Po, a new victory is added to the French laurels, and the most powerful man in France has the fate of Europe in his hands.

Then various episodes of his marvellous career pass before us.

Our eyes fall on the name Austerlitz down in the mosaic of the crypt.

The Emperor of France has marched into Moravia and drawn up his legions under the golden eagles.

A distant echo seems to sound round the crypt--it is Napoleon's cavalry riding down the Russian guards, it is the "grand army" annihilating the Austrian and Russian forces, it is the French artillery pounding the ice on the lake and drowning the fugitives, their guns and horses.

A murmur passes through the crypt, an echo from the battle of Jena, where Prussia was crushed, its territory devastated from the Elbe to the Oder, and its fortresses surrendered, Erfurt, Magdeburg, Stettin, Lübeck, while the victor made his entry into Frederick the Great's capital, Berlin.

We hear the tread of the columns and the tramp of horses through the mud on the roads in Poland, and we see the bloody battlefields of Pultusk, east of the Vistula, and Eylau in West Prussia, where heaps of bodies lie scattered over the deep snow.

We see Napoleon on his white horse after the battle of Friedland in East Prussia, where the Russians were defeated.

The guards and hussars rode through them with drawn swords.

Their enthusiastic cry of "Long live the Emperor" still vibrates under the standards round the sarcophagus; and above the shouts of victory the beat of horse hoofs is heard on the roads of Europe; it is the courier between the headquarters of the army and Paris.

The conqueror marches to Vienna, and threatens to crush Austria.

He gains the bloody battle of Wagram, north-east of Vienna, he wipes out states and makes them dependencies of France and their rulers his obedient vassals, and he gives away royal crowns to his relations and generals.

His dominion extends from Danzig to Cadiz, from the mouth of the Elbe to the Tiber; he has risen to a height of power and glory never attained since the golden age of Rome.

Bayonets and sabres, cuirasses and helmets flash in the sunlight as the invincible army camps with band and music and song above the Niemen.

Half a million of soldiers are on their way to the old capital of Russia, Moscow.

The Russian roads from Vilna to Vitebsk are full of endless lines of troops, squadrons of cavalry in close formation, and enormous baggage trains.

The Russians know that their freedom is in danger; they burn their own towns and villages, devastate their own provinces, and retire little by little, as they did a hundred years earlier when Charles XII.

invaded Russia.

At length there is a battle at Moscow, and the French army enters the town.

We see in imagination the September nights lighted up far and wide by a blazing flame.

Moscow is on fire.

On the terrace of the Kremlin stands a little man in a grey military coat and a black cocked hat, watching the flame.

Within a week the old holy city of the Muscovites lies in ashes.

The early twilight of winter falls over Paris, and we see the shadows deepen round Napoleon's tomb.

We fancy we see among them human figures fighting against hunger, cold, and weariness.

The time of misfortune is come.

The great army is retreating, the roads are lined with corpses and fragments.

The cannon are left in the snow.

The soldiers fall in regiments like a ripe crop.

Packs of wolves follow in their tracks: they are contented with the dead, but the Cossack squadrons cut down the living.

At the bridge over the Beresina, a tributary of the Dnieper, 30,000 men are drowned and perish.

All discipline is relaxed.

The soldiers throw away their guns and knapsacks.

Clothed in furs and with a birchen staff in his hand, the defeated emperor marches like a simple soldier in the front.

Thanks to the severe climate of their country and its great extent, and thanks also to their own cautious conduct of the war, the Russians practically annihilated Napoleon's army.

The darkness deepens.

At Leipzig Russians, Austrians, Prussians, and Swedes oppose Napoleon.

There his proud empire falls to pieces, even Paris is captured, and he loses his crown.

He is carried a prisoner down the Rhone valley through Lyons, and shipped off to the island of Elba.

Once more he fills the world with tumult.

With a brig and seven small vessels he sails back to the coast of France.

He has a force of only 1100 men, but in his hands it is sufficient to reconquer France.

He marches over the western offshoots of the Alps.

At Grenoble his force has increased to 7000 men.

In Lyons he is saluted as Emperor, and Paris opens its gates.

He is ready to stake everything on a single throw.

In Belgium is to be the decisive battle.

Hostile armies gather round the frontiers of France, for Europe is tired of continual war.

At Waterloo Napoleon fights his last battle, and his fate is sealed for ever.

He leaves Paris for the last time.

At the port of Rochefort, between the mouths of the Loire and the Garonne, he goes on board an English frigate.

After seventy days' sail he is landed on the small basaltic island of St. Helena in the southern Atlantic, where he is doomed to pass the last six years of his eventful life.

Here also his grave is digged under the willows in the valley.

Nineteen years after Napoleon's death the simple grave under the willows was uncovered, the coffins of wood, lead, and sheet-iron were opened in the presence of several who had shared his long imprisonment, the remains were taken on board a French frigate amid the roar of guns and flags waving half-mast high, the coffin was landed at Cherbourg in Normandy, and the conqueror of Europe once more made his entry into Paris with military pomp and ceremony, in which all France took part.

Drawn by sixteen horses in funereal trappings and followed by veterans of Napoleon's campaigns, the hearse, adorned with imperial splendour, was escorted by soldiers under the triumphal arch of the Place de l'Étoile and through the Champs Élysées to the Hôtel des Invalides, where the coffin was deposited in the Finnish sarcophagus.

Thus was fulfilled the last wish of the conqueror of the world: "I desire that my remains may rest on the banks of the Seine."

PARIS TO ROME

The stranger leaves Paris with regret, and is consoled only by the thought that he is on his way to sunny Italy.

The train carries him eastwards, and he looks through the window at the hills and plains of Champagne, the home of sparkling wine.

Around him spread tilled fields, villages, and farmhouses.

Where the soil is not suitable for vines, wheat, or beet, it provides pasture for large flocks.

Men are seen at work everywhere, and the traveller realises that France is so prosperous because all its small proprietors, peasants, and townspeople are so industrious and so thrifty.

Now the frontier is reached.

The great fortress of Belfort is the last French town passed, and a little later we are in Alsace.

Another frontier is crossed, that between Germany and Switzerland, and the train halts at the fine town of Bâle, traversed by the mighty Rhine.

Coming from the Lake of Constance, the clear waters of the river glide under the bridges of Bâle, and turn at right angles northwards between the Vosges and the Black Forest.

From Bâle we go on south-westwards to Geneva.

Along a narrow valley the railway follows the river Birs, which falls into the Rhine, and winds in curves along the mountain flanks, sometimes high above the foot of the valley, and sometimes by the river's bank.

It is towards the end of January, and snow has been falling for several days on end.

All the country is quite white, and the small villages in the valley are almost hidden.

Now we come to three lakes in a row, the Lake of Bienne, the Lake of Neuchâtel, and the great Lake of Geneva, which we reach at the town of Lausanne.

Here the snow has ceased to fall, and the beautiful Alps of Savoy are visible to the south.

The sun is hidden behind clouds, but its rays are reflected by the clear mirror of the lake.

This view is one of the finest in the world, and our eyes are glued to the carriage window as the train follows the shore of Geneva.

In outline the lake is like a dolphin just about to dive.

At the dolphin's snout lies Geneva, and here the river Rhone flows out of the lake to run to Lyons and debouch into the Mediterranean immediately to the west of the great port of Marseilles.

Geneva is one of the finest, cleanest, and most charming towns in the world.

Between its northern and southern halves the water of the lake, deep blue and clear as crystal, is drawn off into the Rhone as into a funnel.

There the current is strong, and the river is divided into two by a long island.

The finest sight, however, is the view south-eastwards when the weather is clear.

There stand the mighty summits and crests of the Alps of Savoy, now covered with snow, and glittering in white, light blue, and steely grey tints.

There also Mont Blanc is enthroned above the other mountains, nay, above all Europe, awesome and grand, the crown of the Alps, the frontier pillar between Switzerland, France, and Italy.

From Geneva we go eastwards along the northern shore of the lake.

The air is hazy, and the Alps of Savoy look like a light veil beneath the sun.

In this light the water is of a bright green like malachite.

Beyond Lausanne the mist disappears, and the Alps again appear dazzling white and steep as pyramids and towers.

Towns, villages, and villas cast reflections of their white or coloured house-fronts and their light balconies on the lake.

The shore is lined by a row of hotels surrounded by gardens and promenades.

Travellers come hither from all countries in summer to feast their eyes on the Alps and strengthen their lungs by inhaling the fresh air.

We leave the lake and mount gently up the Rhone valley between wild rocks.

It becomes narrower as we ascend.

The Rhone, a tumultuous stream, roars in its bed, now quite insignificant compared to the majestic river at Geneva.

In the valley tilled fields are laid out, dark green spruces peep out of the snow on the slopes, while above all the snow-white summits of the Alps are enthroned.

A few minutes beyond Brieg the train rushes at full speed straight into the mountain.

The electric lamps are lighted and all the windows closed.

The tunnel is filled with smoke, and a continuous reverberation dins our ears.

The Simplon tunnel is the longest in the world, being 12-1/2 miles long.

It is only a few years since it was completed.

Work was begun from both sides of the mountain at the same time, and when the excavations met in the middle and a blasting charge burst the last sheet of rock, it was found that the calculations had not been an inch out.

After fully twenty minutes it begins to grow light, and when the train rolls out of the tunnel we are on Italian ground.

The train now descends a lovely valley to the shore of Lago Maggiore.

Framed in steep mountains, the dark blue lake contains a small group of islands, full of white houses, palaces, and gardens.

One of these is well known by the name of Isola Bella, or the Beautiful Island.

Night hides from our eyes the plains of Lombardy, Milan with its famous cathedral, the bridge over the Po, and then a number of famous old towns, including Bologna with its university about fifteen hundred years old.

Next morning, however, we see to the south-west something like a flaming beacon.

It is the gilded dome of St. Peter's Church, which, caught by the rays of the rising sun, shines like a fire above the eternal city.

THE ETERNAL CITY

The King of Italy has 35 million subjects, but in Rome lives another mighty prince, the Pope, though his kingdom is not of this world.

His throne is the chair of St. Peter, his arms the triple tiara and the crossed keys which open and close the gates of the kingdom of heaven.

He has 270 million subjects, the Roman Catholics.

For political reasons he is a voluntary prisoner in the Vatican, a collection of great palaces containing more than 10,000 halls and apartments.

There also are installed museums, libraries, and collections of manuscripts of vast extent and value.

The Vatican museum of sculpture is the richest in the world.

In the Sistine Chapel, a sanctuary 450 years old, Michael Angelo adorned the roof with great pictures of the creation of the world and man, of the Fall and the Flood, and at the end wall an immense picture of the Last Judgment.

To the west of the palace stands the Pope's gardens and park, and to the south the Church of St. Peter, the largest temple in Christendom.

The whole forms a small town of itself; and this town is one of the greatest in the world, a seat of art and learning, and, above all, the focus of a great religion.

For from here the Pope sends forth his bulls of excommunication against heretics and sinners, and here he watches over his flock, the Catholics, in accordance with the Saviour's thrice repeated injunction to Peter: "Feed my sheep."

A drive through Rome is intensely interesting.

The streets are mostly narrow and crooked, and we are always turning corners, driving across small triangular open places and in lanes where it is ticklish work to pass a vehicle coming in the opposite direction.

Yet no boulevards, no great streets in the world, can rival in beauty the streets of Rome.

They are skirted by old grey palaces built thousands of years ago rather than centuries, decorated with the most splendid window frames, friezes, and colonnades.

Every portal is a work of art; round every corner comes a new surprise, a fountain with sea-horses and deities, a mediæval well, a moss-grown ruin of Imperial times, or a church with a tower whence bells have rung for centuries over Rome.

And what a commotion there is in all these narrow streets!

Here comes a peasant driving his asses weighed down with baskets of melons and grapes.

There a boy draws a handcart piled up with apricots, oranges, and nuts.

Here we see men and women from the Campagna outside Rome, clad in their national costume, in which dirty white and red predominate, the men with black slouched hats, the women with white kerchiefs over their hair.

They are of dark complexion, but on the cheeks of the younger ones the roses appear through the bronze.

The patricians, the noble Romans who roll by lazily in fine carriages, are much fairer, and indeed the ladies are often as pale as if they had just left the cloister or were ready for the bier.

Boys run begging after the carriage, and poor mothers with small infants in their arms beseech only a small coin.

There are many in Rome who live from hand to mouth.

But all are cheerful, all are comely.

Now we reach the bridge of St. Angelo over the muddy Tiber, and before us stands the massive round tower of the castle of St. Angelo, which the Emperor Hadrian built 1800 years ago as a mausoleum for himself.

On the left is the piazza of St. Peter, which, with its surrounding buildings, its curved arcades, St. Peter's Church and the Vatican, is one of the grandest in the world.

Between its constantly playing fountains has stood for 300 years an obelisk which the Emperor Caligula brought from Egypt to adorn Rome.

It witnessed wonderful events long before the time of Moses.

At its foot the children of Israel sang the melodies of their country during their servitude.

It was a decoration of Nero's circus, and saw thousands of Christian martyrs torn to pieces by Gallic hounds and African lions; and still it lifts itself 80 feet into the air in a single block, untouched by time and the strife of men.

At the north side of the piazza is the gate of the Vatican, where the Swiss Guards keep watch in antique red and yellow uniforms.

Before us are the great steps of St. Peter's Church.

We enter the grand portico and pass through one of the bronze doors into the church.

All the dimensions are so immensely great that we stop in astonishment.

Now our eyes lose themselves in sky-high vaulting, glittering with colour, and now we admire the columns and their capitals, pictures in mosaic or monuments in marble.

Rome was not built in a day, says the proverb, and St. Peter's Church alone was the work of 120 years and twenty Popes.

Italy's foremost artists, including Raphael and Michael Angelo, put the best of their energies into the building of this temple, where is the tomb of the Apostle Peter.

The great church contains a bronze statue of the Apostle Peter in a sitting position, and the right foot is worn and polished by the kisses of the faithful.

High above in the vaulting over his head is to be seen the following inscription in Latin:--"Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven."

Paul has also a worthy memorial church in Rome, St. Paul's, which stands outside the walls.

On the way thither we pass a small chapel where, it is said, Peter and Paul took leave of each other before they went to suffer martyrdom.

On the façade the final words are inscribed.

Paul said: "Peace be with you, thou foundation of the church and shepherd of Christ's lambs."

And Peter: "Go forth in peace, thou preacher of the gospel, righteous guide to salvation."

Paul's tomb is under the high altar of St. Paul's Church.

In the interior of the church we notice portraits in mosaic of all the Popes from St. Peter to Leo XIII.

Rome is inexhaustible.

It has grown up during 2600 years, and each age has built on the ruins of the preceding.

The city is piled up in strata like a geological deposit.

What lies hidden at the bottom is scarcely known at all; that is from the time of the early kings of Rome.

Then follows the city of the Republic, and upon it the Rome of the Emperors, the cosmopolitan city, where the Cæsars from their palace on the Palatine stretched their sceptre over all the known world from foggy Britain and the dark forests of Germany to the burning deserts of Africa, from the mountains of Spain to Galilee and Judæa. Many stately remains of this time of greatness are still preserved among the modern streets and houses.

Vandals, Goths, and other barbarians have sacked Rome, monsters of the Imperial house have devastated the city to wipe out the remembrance of their predecessors and glorify themselves; but if Rome was not built in a day, so two thousand years have not sufficed to blot out its magnificence.

Then follow new strata, the Christian age, the Middle Ages, and modern times, with their innumerable churches, monasteries, and massive solemn palaces.

Christianity built on the ruins of paganism.

Ancient and modern times are inextricably mixed.

Up there on the Capitoline hill rides a Roman Emperor, Marcus Aurelius, in bronze.

Look round, and there on the farther bank of the Tiber another horseman looks over the eternal city, the brave champion of young Italy's liberty, Garibaldi.

You ride through a street lined with grand shops in new buildings, and in a couple of minutes you are at the Forum Romanum, the Roman market-place, the heart of the world empire, the square for markets, popular assemblies, and judicial courts, a marble hall in the open air.

Over its flags, victors, accompanied by their comrades in arms and their prisoners, marched up to the Capitol to sacrifice in the temple of Jupiter, where now only a few pillars and ruins remain of all the splendour Julius Cæsar and Augustus lavished upon it.

At one time we are like pilgrims in the fine Church of St. Peter; at another we are strolling under the triumphal arch of Titus, erected in remembrance of the destruction of Jerusalem in the year A. D.

70. The largest and grandest ruin in Rome is the Colosseum (Plate XXVI.

), an amphitheatre which was built by the two Emperors, Vespasian and Titus, and which was finished eighty years after the birth of Christ.

The outside walls are nearly 160 feet high.

The tiers of benches, which could accommodate 85,000 spectators, were divided into four blocks, of which the outermost and highest was set apart for freedmen and slaves with their women.

The tickets were of ivory, and indicated the different places so clearly that every one could easily find his way in the huge passages, colonnades, and staircases.

The benches were covered with marble, and many statues of the same material adorned the upper walls of the amphitheatre.

The spectacles were usually held in the daytime, and to abate the heat of the sun immense silken awnings were stretched over the arena and the auditorium.

When the theatre was full, it presented a scene of dazzling splendour.

In the best places sat senators in purple-bordered togas, the priests of the various temples, the Vestal virgins in black veils, warriors in gold-embroidered uniforms.

There sat Roman citizens in white or coloured togas, bareheaded, beardless, and closely cropped, eagerly talking in a language as euphonious as French and Italian.

All strangers who were staying in Rome were there, ambassadors from all the known countries of the world, statesmen, merchants, and travellers from Germany and Gaul, from Syria, Greece, and Egypt.

A circus or theatre of our day is a toy compared to the Colosseum.

The old Romans were masters in the arrangement of spectacles to satisfy the rude cravings of the masses.

Woods and rocks were set up, in which bloody contests were fought, and where gladiators hunted lions and tigers with spears.

The immense show-ground could be quickly filled with water, and on the artificial lake deadly sea battles were fought; and the bodies of the slain and drowned lying on the bottom were invisible when the water was dyed red with blood.

The arena could be drained at once by ingenious channels, slaves dragged out the corpses through the gate of the Goddess of Death, and the theatre was made ready for the night performance.

Then the arena was lighted up with huge torches and fires, and troops of Christians were crucified in long rows or thrown to the lions and bears.

When a Roman emperor celebrated the thousandth anniversary of the founding of Rome, two thousand gladiators appeared in the Colosseum, thirty-two elephants, and numbers of wild animals.

[Illustration: PLATE XXVI.

THE COLOSSEUM, ROME.

] Not far from the Colosseum begins one of the oldest and most famous roads ever trodden by the foot of man--the Appian Way.

Here emperors and generals marched into Rome after successful wars; here their remains were carried out to be burned on pyres and deposited in urns in mausoleums and tombs.

Here the Christians came out at night in silent ranks to consign the remains of their co-religionists, torn to pieces in the arena, to the catacombs of underground Rome.

Here also St. Paul made his entry into Rome, escorted by troops of Christians, as recorded in the last chapter of the Acts of the Apostles; and to-day we find on this road a small chapel which is called "Whither goest thou?"

(_Quo vadis?

_) at the point in the road where Peter saw his vision.

POMPEII

From Rome we go on to Naples, where to the east the regular volcanic cone of Vesuvius rears itself like a fire-breathing dragon over the bay, and where towns, villages, and white villas stand as thick on the shore as beads on a rosary.

Our time is short; we drive rapidly through the lava-paved streets of Naples, and cannot feast our eyes long enough with the sight of these fine dark men in their motley dirty garments, and cannot hear enough of their melodious songs in honour of delightful Naples.

Their warm affection for the famous city is quite natural, and one of their sayings, "See Naples and die," implies that life is worthless to any one who has not been there.

During our wanderings we come to the National Museum, and there we are lost to everything outside.

There we forget the bustling life of the streets, the blue bay and the green gardens; for here we are in the presence of antiquity--an immense collection of artistic objects, statues, and paintings from Pompeii.

[Illustration: MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM PARIS TO ALEXANDRIA.

] In the sixth century B. C.

Pompeii was founded at the southern foot of Vesuvius, not far from the shore of the bay.

About eighty years before our era Pompeii came under the rule of Rome, and during the succeeding 150 years it was changed into a genuine Roman town in all respects--in style of building, language, trade, and manner of life.

A

wall with towers enclosed this collection of streets and houses, and at night the eight town gates were closed and shut in 20,000 inhabitants.

In its principal square, a place of popular assemblies and festivals, stood the Temple of Jupiter among porticoes, arcades, and rows of marble statues.

In another square theatres were erected, and there also stood an old Greek temple.

Many rich and eminent Romans loved Pompeii, and built costly villas in the town or its beautiful environs.

One of these was the famous orator and author, Cicero, whose villa was situated near the north-eastern town gate.

Again and again he went to Pompeii to rest after the noise and tumult of Rome, and the last time he is certainly known to have sojourned there was in the year 44 B. C.

, shortly after the murder of the great Cæsar.

From the vicinity of Cicero's villa ran north-west the Street of Tombs, bordered with innumerable monuments like the Appian Way outside Rome.

Some were quite simple, others resembled costly altars and temples, and all contained urns with the bones and ashes of the dead.

Some streets were lined entirely with shops and stores.

Most of the streets were straight and regular, some broad, others quite small; they were paved with flags of lava and had raised footpaths.

Here and there stones were laid in a row across the street, whereon foot passengers could cross over dryshod after the heavy torrential rains, which then, as now, repeatedly converted these lanes into rivers and canals.

Pompeii had several bath-houses, luxuriously and comfortably furnished, built of stone, dark and cool, and very attractive during the warm, sultry summer.

In the _apodyterium_ the visitor took off his clothes, and then repaired to the various rooms for warm air, warm baths, and cold baths.

The walls in the _frigidarium_ were decorated with paintings representing shady groves and dark forests; the vaulted roof was painted blue and strewn with stars, and through a small round opening the sunlight poured in.