had noble buildings and solemn courts. In strict history all you will
discover is that it was the capital of that tribe, the Nervii, against
whom Caesar fought, and whose territory was early conquered for the
Empire. You will find nothing more. There is no living tradition, there
is no voice; the little town is dumb.

The place is a figure, and a striking one, of greatness long dead, and a
man visiting its small domestic interests to-day, and noting its
comfort, its humility, and its sleep, is reminded of many things
attaching to human fame. It would seem as though the ambitions of men,
and that exalted appetite for glory which has produced the chief things
of this world, suffer the effect of time somewhat as the body of an
animal slain will suffer that.

One part of the organism and then another decays and mixes back with
nature. The effect of will has vanished. The thing is a prey to all that
environment which, once alive, it combated, conquered, and transformed
to its own use. One portion after another is lost, until at last only
the most resisting stands--the skeleton and hard framework, the least
expressive, the least personal part of the whole. This also decays and
perishes. Then there remains no more but a score of hardened fragments
that linger in their place, and what has passed away is fortunate if
even the slightest or most fantastic legend of itself survives.

The great dead are first forgotten in their physical habit; we lose the
nature of their voices, we forget their sympathies and their affections.
Bit by bit all that they intended to be eternal slips back into the
common thing around. A blurred image, growing fainter and fainter,
lingers. At last the person vanishes, and in its place some public
raising material things--a monument, a tomb, an ornament, or weapon of