About a score of French drummers were beating a long, loud
roll-call, at the base of the Coliseum, and under its arches; and a score
of trumpeters responded to these, from the rising ground opposite the
Arch of Constantine; and the echoes of the old Roman ruins, especially
those of the Palace of the Caesars, responded to this martial uproar of
the barbarians. There seemed to be no cause for it; but the drummers
beat, and the trumpeters blew, as long as I was within hearing.
I walked along the Appian Way as far as the Baths of Caracalla. The
Palace of the Caesars, which I have never yet explored, appears to be
crowned by the walls of a convent, built, no doubt, out of some of the
fragments that would suffice to build a city; and I think there is
another convent among the baths. The Catholics have taken a peculiar
pleasure in planting themselves in the very citadels of paganism, whether
temples or palaces. There has been a good deal of enjoyment in the
destruction of old Rome. I often think so when I see the elaborate pains
that have been taken to smash and demolish some beautiful column, for no
purpose whatever, except the mere delight of annihilating a noble piece
of work.
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