Corsini along the crest of the Janiculum. Then, indeed, the scene thus
changes, the actress is gone and the woman is before him; the capital of
modern Italy sinks like a vision into the earth out of which it was
called up, and the capital of the world rises once more, unchanged,
unchanging and unchangeable, before the wanderer's eyes. The greater
monuments of greater times are there still, majestic and unmoved, the
larger signs of a larger age stand out clear and sharp; the tomb of
Hadrian frowns on the yellow stream, the heavy hemisphere of the
Pantheon turns its single opening to the sky, the enormous dome of the
world's cathedral looks silently down upon the sepulchre of the world's
masters.

Then the sun sets and the wanderer goes down again through the chilly
evening air to the city below, to find it less modern than he had
thought. He has found what he sought and he knows that the real will
outlast the false, that the stone will outlive the stucco and that the
builder of to-day is but a builder of card-houses beside the architects
who made Rome.

So his heart softens a little, or at least grows less resentful, for he
has realised how small the change really is as compared with the first
effect produced. The great house has fallen into new hands and the
latest tenant is furnishing the dwelling to his taste. That is all. He
will not tear down the walls, for his hands are too feeble to build them
again, even if he were not occupied with other matters and hampered by
the disagreeable consciousness of the extravagances he has already
committed.

Other things have been accomplished, some of which may perhaps endure,
and some of which are good in themselves, while some are indifferent and