speaking; and I was a silent spectator in the conversations of our envoy, Sir Horace Mann, whose

ness.

slight deviation from the right line which is traced by nature gives more of grace and soul to their figures. 15. Hadrian. This bust is very fine. We here behold, agreeably to the testimony of historians, that this prince was the first who allowed his beard to grow. In the mean time he had it cut occasionally, and did not pique himself upon carrying that long, pendent, and well-nourished beard, which formed the great pride of the philosophers of this age. With respect to the hair, the first emperors wore it short, dressed with very little care, and falling upon the forehead. Upon the bust of Otho we perceive the hair dressed in great curls in front, a fashion of which that prince was the inventor. All this regards the emperors only. Seneca, who affected philosophy, has much hair and a beard. 16. Antinous. The bust of this minion of Hadrian is very fine. The countenance is elegantly formed, with a mixture of force and sweetThe shoulders, the bosom, and the paps are treated with peculiar softness. The finest embonpoint injures not, in this instance, the grace of the contour. This bust, which is larger than life, is altogether antique, a rare and almost unique circumstance. The whole, or most of them, have the head alone antique, of which some part has generally been restored, and the nose has almost always been broken. It is with Antinous that the eyes of the busts begin to exhibit eyeballs, although in this instance scarcely perceptible. It is impossible to conceive to what an extent the eyeball gives life and expression to the whole, and animates every feature. It was right that this aid should be afforded to sculpture, when it touched upon the period of its decline. 17. Antoninus Pius. It abounds with truth of expression, especially the upper part of the face, the forehead, and the eyes. Antoninus adds to his beard a pair of small curled mustaches. 18. Marcus Aurelius. There are three of these ; that which represents him young is the best. We may remark in all this family the same style of sculpture, that is to say, greater beauty of detail, with a less striking tout ensemble. 19. Annius Verus. It is a young child, and truly a chef-d'œuvre A small round face, sparkling with the graces of joy and innocence. We should never be weary of beholding it. 20. A bust much larger than life. This is a face young, although fully formed, and very handsome; it lifts up its eyes towards heaven with the finest and strongest expression of grief and indignation. It is said to be Alexander about to expire. Could the assertion be adequately authenticated, we might flatter ourselves with possessing an unique production from the hand of Lysippus, the only sculptor whom Alexander allowed to carve him in marble. In this chef-d'œuvre of nobleness, simplicity, and expression, there is nothing which contradicts the age of Alexander, or the opinion that it might be formed by Lysippus. 21. Pertinax. This. appears to me fine. 22. Clodius Albinus. It is of alabaster; and the

most serious business was that of entertaining the English at his hospitable table. After leaving Florence I compared the solitude of Pisa with the industry of Lucca and Leghorn, and continued my journey through Sienna to Rome, where I arrived in the beginning of October. 2. My temper is not very susceptible of enthusiasın, and the enthusiasm which I do not feel I have ever scorned to affect. But, at the distance of twenty-five years, I can neither forget nor express the strong emotions which agitated my mind as I first approached and entered the eternal city. After a sleepless night I trod, with a lofty step, the ruins of the Forum; each memorable spot where Romulus stood, or Tully spoke, or Cæsar fell, was at once present to my eye; and several days of intoxication were lost or enjoyed before I could descend to a cool and minute investigation. My guide was Mr. Byers, a Scotch antiquary of experience and taste; but in the daily labor of eighteen weeks the powers of attention were sometimes fatigued, till I was myself qualified, in a last review, to select and study the capital works of ancient and modern art. Six weeks were borrowed for my tour of Naples, the most populous of cities relative to its

merit of good workmanship is combined with that of the greatest rarity. When we call to mind that this shadow of royalty was followed by the reign of twenty years of a cruel and implacable enemy, the cause of this scarcity is easily understood. 23. Septimus Severus. It is good, but I prefer the style to the execution of this bust. 24. Geta. The representation of this child is very pretty, but it appears more mature than Annius Verus. 25. Caracalla. Good, but in my eyes a little dry. It was now that the Roman sculpture declined, together with the architecture, to which it is probably more closely allied than with painting. I believe that these last pieces are by artists who still existed of the golden age of the Antonines, and who formed no pupils for the iron one of the Severuses, under whom the government became truly military and despotic. The last busts in the series are, 26, Gallienus, and 27, Eliogabalus. The whole of the busts in the galleries amount to ninety-two.

size, whose luxurious inhabitants seem to dwell on the confines of paradise and hell-fire. I was presented to the boy-king by our new envoy, Sir William Hamilton, who, wisely diverting his correspondence from the Secretary of State to the Royal Society and British Museum, has elucidated a country of such inestimable value to the naturalist and antiquarian. On my return I fondly embraced, for the last time, the miracles of Rome; but I departed without kissing the foot of Rezzonico (Clement XIII.), who neither possessed the wit of his predecessor Lambertini, nor the virtues of his successor Ganganelli. 3. In my pilgrimage from Rome to Loretto, I again crossed the Apennine; from the coast of the Adriatic I traversed a fruitful and populous country, which could alone disprove the paradox of Montesquieu, that modern Italy is a desert. Without adopting the exclusive prejudice of the natives, I sincerely admire the paintings of the Bologna school. I hastened to escape from the sad solitude of Ferrara, which in the age of Cæsar was still more desolate. The spectacle of Venice afforded some hours of astonishment; the University of Padua is a dying taper; but Verona still boasts her amphitheatre; and his native Vicenza is adorned by the classic architecture of Palladio: the road of Lombardy and Piedmont (did Montesquieu find them without inhabitants?) led me back to Milan, Turin, and the passage of Mount Cenis, where I again crossed the Alps on my way to Lyons.

The use of foreign travel has been often debated as a general question; but the conclusion must be finally applied to the character and circumstances of each individual. With the education of boys, where or how they may pass over some juvenile years with the least

mischief to themselves or others, I have no concern. But after supposing the previous and indispensable requisites of age, judgment, a competent knowledge of men and books, and a freedom from domestic prejudices, I will briefly describe the qualifications which I deem most essential to a traveller. He should be endowed with an active, indefatigable vigor of mind and body, which can seize every mode of conveyance, and support with a careless smile every hardship of the road, the weather, or the inn. The benefits of foreign travel will correspond with the degrees of these qualifications; but in this sketch those to whom I am known will not accuse me of framing my own panegyric. It was at Rome, on the 15th of October, 1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins of the capitol, while the barefooted friars were singing vespers in the Temple of Jupiter,* that the idea of writing the decline and fall of the city first started to my mind. But my original plan was circumscribed to the decay of the city rather than of the empire: and, though my reading and reflections began to point towards that object, some years elapsed, and several avocations intervened, before I was seriously engaged in the execution of that laborious work.

I had not totally renounced the southern provinces of France, but the letters which I found at Lyons were expressive of some impatience. Rome and Italy had satiated my curious appetite, and I was now ready to return to the peaceful retreat of my family and books. After a happy fortnight, I reluctantly left Paris, embarked at Calais, again landed at Dover, after an interval of two years and five months, and hastily drove through the summer dust and solitude of London. On

* Now the Church of the Zocolants, or Franciscan friars.

the 25th of June, 1765, I arrived at my father's house; and the five years and a half between my travels and my father's death (1770) are the portion of my life which I passed with the least enjoyment, and which I remember with the least satisfaction. Every spring I attended the monthly meeting and exercise of the militia at Southampton; and by the resignation of my father and the death of Sir Thomas Worsley, I was successively promoted to the rank of major and lieutenant-colonel commandant; but I was each year more disgusted with the inn, the wine, the company, and the tiresome repetition of annual attendance and daily exercise. At home, the economy of the family and farın still maintained the same creditable appearance. My connection with Mrs. Gibbon was mellowed into a warm and solid attachment; my growing years abolished the distance that might yet remain between a parent and a son; and my behavior satisfied my father, who was proud of the success, however imperfect in his own lifetime, of my literary talents.

The renewal, or perhaps the improvement, of my English life was imbittered by the alteration of my own feelings. At the age of twenty-one I was, in my proper station of a youth, delivered from the yoke of education, and delighted with the comparative state of liberty and affluence. My filial obedience was natural and easy; and in the gay prospect of futurity, my ambition did not extend beyond the enjoyment of my books, my leisure, and my patrimonial estate, undisturbed by the cares of a family and the duties of a profession. But in the militia I was armed with power; in my travels I was exempt from control; and as I approached, as I gradually passed my thirtieth year, I began to feel the desire of being master in my own house. The most