is so powerful, the scene so surpassingly beautiful and sublime,the hour, the silence, and the colossal ruin have such a mastery over the soul,- that you are disarmed when most upon your guard, and betrayed into an enthusiasm which perhaps you had silently resolved you would not feel. On my way to the Coliseum I crossed the Capitoline Hill, and descended into the Roman Forum by the broad staircase that leads to the triumphal arch of Septimius Severus. Close upon my right hand stood the three remaining columns of the temple of the Thunderer and the beautiful Ionic portico of the temple of Concord, their base in shadow, and the bright moonbeam striking aslant upon the broken entablature above. Before me rose the Phocian column an isolated shaft, like a thin vapor hanging in the air scarce visible—and far to the left the ruins of the temple of Antonio and Faustina and the three colossal arches of the temple of Peace, dim, shadowy, indistinct, seemed to melt away and mingle with the sky. I crossed the Forum to the foot of the Palatine, and, ascending the Via Sacra, passed beneath the Arch of Titus. From this point I saw below me the gigantic outline of the Coliseum, like a cloud resting upon the earth. As I descended the hillside, it grew more broad and high, more definite in its form, and yet more grand in its dimensions, till, from the vale in which it stands encompassed by three of the seven hills of Rome, the Palatine, the Cœlian, and the Esquiline, the majestic ruin in all its solitary grandeur "swelled vast to heaven." A single sentinel was pacing to and fro beneath the arched gateway which leads to the interior, and his measured footsteps were the only sound that broke the breathless silence of the night. What a contrast with the scene which that same midnight hour presented, when, in Domitian's time, the eager populace began to gather at the gates, impatient for the morning sports! Nor was the contrast within less striking. Silence, and the quiet moonbeams, and the broad, deep shadows of the ruined wall! Where were the senators of Rome, her matrons, and her virgins? Where the ferocious populace that rent the air with shouts when in the hundred holidays that marked the dedication of this imperial slaughterhouse, five thousand wild beasts from the Libyan deserts and the forests of Anatolia made the arena sick with blood? Where were the Christian martyrs, that died with prayers upon their lips amid the jeers and imprecations of their fellow men? Where the barbarian gladiators, brought forth to the festival of blood, and "butchered to make a Roman holiday?" The awful silence answered, "They are mine!" The dust beneath me answered, "They are mine!" I crossed to the opposite extremity of the amphitheatre. A lamp was burning in the little chapel which has been formed from what was once a den for the wild beasts of the Roman festivals. Upon the steps sat the old beadsman, the only tenant of the Coliseum, who guides the stranger by night through the long galleries of this vast pile of ruins. I followed him up a narrow wooden staircase, and entered one of the long and majestic corridors which in ancient times ran entirely round the amphitheatre. Huge columns of solid mason work, that seem the labor of Titans, support the flattened arches above; and, though the iron clamps are gone which once fastened the hewn stones together, yet the columns stand majestic and unbroken amid the ruin around them, and seem to defy "the iron tooth of time." Through the arches at the right I could faintly discern the ruins of the Baths of Titus on the Esquiline; and from the left, through every chink and cranny of the wall, poured in the brilliant light of the full moon, casting gigantic shadows around me, and diffusing a soft, silvery twilight through the long arcades. At length I came to an open space where the arches above had crumbled away, leaving the pavement an unroofed terrace high in air. From this point I could see the whole interior of the amphitheatre spread out beneath me, half in shadow, half in light, with such a soft and indefinite outline that it seemed less an earthly reality than a reflection in the bosom of a lake. The figures of several persons below were just perceptible, mingling grotesquely with their foreshortened shadows. The sound of their voices reached me in a whisper; and the cross that stands in the centre of the arena looked like a dagger thrust into the sand. I did not conjure up the past, for the past had already become identified with the present. It was before me in one of its visible and most majestic forms. The arbitrary distinctions of time, years, ages, centuries were annihilated. I was a citizen of Rome! This was the amphitheatre of Flavius Vespasian! Mighty is the spirit of the past amid the ruins of the Eternal City! From "Outre-Mer.» LONGINUS (c. 210-273 A. D.) HE treatise of Longinus "On the Sublime" is second in importance among the critical essays of antiquity only to the "Poetics" of Aristotle. If he cannot claim such strength of intellect as Aristotle possessed, Longinus is unquestionably his superior in taste and appreciation for the subtleties of poetry as well as inherent sympathy for its sublimity. He is, in fine, much more nearly a poet himself than Aristotle, the light from whose intellect is always as dry as it is steady. Longinus frequently flames up into a brilliancy of which there is no trace in the "Poetics." His essay "On the Sublime" has been admired by the greatest intellects of modern times. It was the model of Burke's essay "On the Sublime and Beautiful," and it seems to have been oftener in the hands of Dr. Johnson than any other critical essay. The text which has come down to us is incomplete, but the treatise is made up of essays, which, though connected by a thread of well-sustained argument, have each an individuality which would make any one of them valuable, if all the rest were lost. Longinus Cassius (sometimes called also Dionysius Cassius Longinus) was a Greek, perhaps born at Emesa in Syria, where his nearest relatives are known to have resided. He was a disciple of Plato, and became celebrated not only for his own works in philosophy, but as the tutor of the equally celebrated Porphyry. The date of his birth is not known, but that of his death is fixed by the tragical circumstance that, becoming secretary to the unfortu nate Zenobia, he was put to death by the Roman Emperor Aurelian because his loyalty to his queen made him hostile to Roman supremacy. The question of his authorship of the treatise "On the Sublime" has been disputed by professional critics of the classics, who have found thus some amusement for themselves without discrediting the title of Longinus to this great work, or at least without discrediting it more seriously than the title of Homer to the "Odyssey" and of Shakespeare to "Hamlet" has been discredited by similar recreations in "Higher Criticism." W. V. B. You ON THE SUBLIME know, my dear Terentianus, that when we perused Cecilius's pamphlet "On the Sublime" together, we thought it below a subject of that magnitude, that it was entirely defective in its principal branches, and that its advantage to readers, which ought to be the principal aim of every writer, would prove very small. Besides, though in every scientific treatise two points are required: the first, that the nature of the subject treated of be fully explained; the second, I mean in order of writing, since in importance it is superior that directions be given how and by what methods the object sought may be attained: yet Cecilius, who brings ten thousand instances to show what the sublime is, as if his readers were ignorant of the matter, has somehow or other omitted, as unnecessary, the discipline that might enable us to raise our natural genius in any degree whatever to this sublime. But, perhaps, this writer is not so much to be blamed for his omissions as commended for the mere conception of the idea, and his earnest endeavors. You, indeed, have exhorted me also by all means to set down my thoughts on this sublime, on your own account; let us, then, consider whether anything can be drawn from my private studies, for the service of those who write for the world, or speak in public. But you, my friend, will give me your judgment on whatever I advance with that exactness which is due to truth, and that sincerity which is habitual to you. For well did the sage answer the question, "In what do we most resemble the gods?" when he replied, "In doing good and speaking truth." But since I write, my friend, to you, who are thoroughly versed in polite learning, there will be little occasion to use many previous words in proving that the sublime is a certain excellence and perfection of language, and that the greatest writers, both in verse and prose, have by this alone obtained the prize of glory, and clothed their renown with immortality. For the grand not only persuades, but even transports an audience. And the admirable, by its astounding effect, is always more efficacious than that which merely persuades or delights; for in most cases it rests wholly with ourselves either to resist or yield to persuasion. But these, by the application of a sovereign power and irresist ible might, get the ascendency over every hearer. Again, dex terity of invention, and good order and economy in composition, are not to be discerned from one or two passages, and sometimes hardly from the whole texture of a discourse; but the sublime, when uttered in good season, with the lightning's force scatters all before it in an instant, and shows at once the might of genius in a single stroke. For in these, and truths like these, experimentally conversant as you are with them, you might, my dearest Terentianus, be the instructor of others yourself. But we ought not to advance before we clear the point whether or not there be any art in the sublime or the pathetic. For some are of opinion that they are altogether mistaken who would reduce it to the rules of art. "The sublime [say they] is born with us, and is not to be learned by precept. only art to reach it is to have the power from Nature." as they reason, the productions of Nature are deteriorated and altogether enervated by the emaciating effects of artistic rules. The And, But I maintain that the contrary might easily appear, would they only reflect that, though Nature for the most part challenges a sovereign and uncontrollable power in the pathetic and sublime, yet she is not altogether lawless, but delights in a proper regulation. That again, though she is in every case the foundation, and the primary source, and original pattern of production, yet method is able to determine and adjust the measures, and discriminate the season in each thing, and moreover to teach the cultivation and use of them with the greatest degree of certainty. And further, that flights of grandeur are more exposed to danger when abandoned to themselves, without the aid of science, and having nothing to give them steadiness or equipoise, but left to blind impulse alone and untutored daring. For they often, indeed, want the spur, but they stand as frequently in need. of the curb. Demosthenes somewhere judiciously observes that: "In common life success is the greatest good; that the next, and no less important, is conduct, without which the other must be unavoidably of short continuance." Now the same may be asserted of composition, where Nature supplies the place of success, and art the place of conduct. But there is one consideration which deserves particular attention, for the very fact that there is anything in eloquence. which depends upon Nature alone, could not be known without that light which we receive from art. If, therefore, as I said |