CHAPTER I. Two cities.-Our home upon the waters.-Southward bound.-"Only a brass star."-At Ford's hotel. A dull haze hangs over the city; St. Paul has put on his cap of clouds, and the great dome looms dimly on our sight; the mystery of twilight has taken possession of the city, and shrouds the streets in the open day. The fine old trees in the parks and in the squares are losing their green foliage, and stand half naked, shivering in the damp autumn air, while their yellow shrunken leaves are swept rustling along the ground, moaning their melancholy protest against the wandering wind, and even thus early in the season-for it is only late September-visions of November fogs are looming in the near future. But we turn our backs upon the dreary prospect, and send our thoughts onward towards the City of Rome whither we are fast journeying-not that ancient city which sits upon its seven hills, like a discrowned queen, still ruling the world of Art, swaying the minds of men, and, like a gigantic loadstone, drawing the heart of the world towards herself, grander in her age of ruin than her youthful pride; the glory of her dead days circles her with a halo of poetry and romance which renders her immortal. Her ruined palaces and temples lift their hoary heads and crumbling columns heavenward-impressive, awe-inspiring, and time-defying, showing only the footprints of the ages as they have passed solemnly onwards. The stir and bustle of every-day commonplace life, the cavalcade of nineteenth-century frivolities and fashions, have failed to drive the spirit of antiquity from the place; it still sits brooding in the air, permeating the souls and stirring the hearts of men with a passionate enthusiasm for the days that are gone. There is no coming and going of armies, no heathenish maraudings, no slave-trading, war-waging population nowadays; no centurion guards, no glittering cohorts flashing their arms and tossing their white plumes in the face of the sun; yet they seem to have left their ghostly impression on the air, and in the still evening hours we feel their presence revealed to us through (what we call) our imagination, and the past marches solemnly hand-in-hand with the present before our spirit's eyes; and while we think we are merely day-dreaming-indulging in pleasant reveries-the subtle essence of ourselves is mingling with an immortal past.