"In that fortunate land, each generation has only its own sins and sorrows to bear.

Here, it seems as if all the weary and dreary Past were piled upon the back of the Present.

If I were to lose my spirits in this country,--if I were to suffer any heavy misfortune here,--methinks it would be impossible to stand up against it, under such adverse influences." "The sky itself is an old roof, now," answered the Count; "and, no doubt, the sins of mankind have made it gloomier than it used to be." "O, my poor Faun," thought Kenyon to himself, "how art thou changed!" A city, like this of which we speak, seems a sort of stony growth out of the hillside, or a fossilized town; so ancient and strange it looks, without enough of life and juiciness in it to be any longer susceptible of decay.

An earthquake would afford it the only chance of being ruined, beyond its present ruin.
Yet, though dead to all the purposes for which we live to-day, the place has its glorious recollections, and not merely rude and warlike ones, but those of brighter and milder triumphs, the fruits of which we still enjoy.

Italy can count several of these lifeless towns which, four or five hundred years ago, were each the birthplace of its own school of art; nor have they yet forgotten to be proud of the dark old pictures, and the faded frescos, the pristine beauty of which was a light and gladness to the world.